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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78779-0.txt b/78779-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a17053d --- /dev/null +++ b/78779-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6476 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78779 *** + + + + + DARK HESTER + + + + + DARK HESTER + + + BY + ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK + (Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt) + + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + 1929 + + + COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY ANNE DOUGLAS DE SÉLINCOURT + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE + THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM + + + The Riverside Press + CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS + PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. + + + + + DARK HESTER + + + + + DARK HESTER + + + + + CHAPTER I + + +‘I suppose I have hated her from the first moment I saw her,’ Monica +Wilmott heard herself saying, and she saw Hester as she had first seen +her, sitting in the open window of the Chelsea drawing-room against the +background of the river; extraordinarily quiet, extraordinarily assured, +with black eyebrows and a thin black cloak lined with red. She had +thought of Hester almost constantly since Clive had married her, but +this habit of thinking aloud had crept upon her only since she had come +to live alone in Essex, and it frightened her a little when she caught +herself at it; it was dangerous, as anything automatic in life might be +dangerous; a thing like that, said aloud, became much more real; more +real than it was; one might shut oneself up in the cell of a +self-suggestion if one listened to it. So now, on this solitary +afternoon, darkened by cold summer rain, she rose from the window-seat +where she had been looking out at the village-green, and walked with a +swift step down the oddly shaped room that turned an angle at the +chimney-piece and fell to a lower level reached by three shallow steps. +The casement windows in the upper portion opened under a thatch, and the +ceiling there was low and crossed by ancient beams; the little house had +been contrived from two old cottages, and the second, loftier room was +modern. + +Monica Wilmott descended to it and looked out on the altered view, as +uneventful as the first had been. There was a touch of romance in the +silhouettes of the hedgerow elms; but it was a tame romance and her own +house made part of it, so comfortably, so consciously picturesque with +its beams and plaster, its eddying thatch and climbing roses. Never +would she have chosen to live in such a house, nor to live in Essex at +all, were it not that Clive lived in London and that here, though parted +from him, she was near him. Oddley Green was almost suburban and the +railway station lay but a mile away; she could hear the whistle of the +trains as they passed all day and night, and she was glad to hear them; +they seemed a link with London and with Clive. + +Turning from the window she glanced at her husband’s Indian +water-colours, hanging in a row round the walls as they had hung in all +her makeshift homes all the thirty years since his death, and then at +the goldfish in their bowl. Clive, from babyhood, had loved goldfish and +she had always had them, too, in her drawing-rooms. Her eyes gathered an +intentness as she watched the glancing fish, seeing herself suddenly +like them, like them bright, rapid, frustrated, and the bitter flicker +of a smile crossed her face as she took ants’ eggs from a little +porcelain box and scattered them on the water. She went back, then, to +the upper room,—‘I am restless,’ she thought. ‘Like the goldfish,’—and, +beside the fireplace, she came to a standstill, putting her foot on the +stone curbing, her hand on the high stone shelf and looking round her—at +the walnut bureau where her mother had sat every day in the spacious +London home of her girlhood; at the French clock that she and her +father, the clever London judge, had bought in Paris; at the portrait of +her Scotch great-grandmother, a girl with bare shoulders above white +satin, pearls in her tawny hair, and blue eyes like her own; not soft, +not gentle blue; intrepid, rather, and ardent with their smile. The +faded chintzes on the chairs and sofas she and Clive had chosen together +seven years ago, for the flat in Chelsea; every rose and pheasant and +carnation brought memories of that one epoch of her life when she had +been aware of a garnered, a conscious happiness. And, as she remembered +it, her eyes fell and in her stillness she might have been standing +there to have her picture painted, a touch of something gracefully +obsolete, for all the modernity of her straight lines and shortened +skirts, in the falling sleeves of her black dress, the loose short +jacket, the bow of velvet at her throat. Resolutely drawn against the +dark background, the lines of her downcast profile were at once gay, +impatient and imperative; the lifted upper lip sweet, the lower lip +stubborn, the nose a little thick, a little clumsy, like a child’s nose, +but with a nostril all delicacy and decision. Her golden hair, twisted +round her head, made a brightness in the room. Clive had said that she +had the hair of Helen of Troy. He had also said, playing at their game +of analogies, that she was like a falcon, a jar of honey, a spray of +rosemary; and there was, indeed, an almost vestal fierceness in Monica +Wilmott; something high, hovering, and perhaps a little ruthless. Her +tresses might be the tresses of Helen, her fair glancing face might +allure like the face of a siren over the sea, but her two distant years +of marriage had left intact something of girlhood that survived into her +middle years, and her maternity had expressed itself not only in +passionate comradeship with her child, but in swift repudiation of all +matrimonial approaches. She was impatient of sentimental predicaments; +averse, even hostile to any display of amorous emotion. + +She was remembering those years after the war as she stood there, that +time of halcyon sweetness when, like two tempest-tossed sea-gulls, she +and Clive had floated side by side in a sunlit harbour; the happiest +time of her life. She had never been inclined to pathos or self-pity. +She had, for all the years of his boyhood, eaten her cold mutton in the +West Kensington lodgings, run the hat shop, written the articles on the +French countryside, since only so could she send him to Winchester and +Oxford; and the road she trod was never dusty to her, since Clive’s +future was its goal. But when, her goal attained, the tidal wave of the +war broke over the world, she had, for a suffocating and swooning +moment, seen herself as a collapsed and falling form with bubbles rising +from its mouth. She remembered now the turmoil of horrifying darkness, +the sensation, while it lasted, of holding her breath and swimming under +water, and then the emergence, tragic, since Clive was brought back to +her almost dying of his wounds, yet ecstatic, for he was in her arms +again and death now was an antagonist that they could face together. His +slow return to life and to her had recalled the trembling sweetness of +her pregnancy, and when he was safe at last it was as if he had been +born again. All the good things had come to her at once; Clive’s +recovery and Aunt Janet’s legacy and the post in the staunch old City +shipping-office to make them in their own eyes opulent. It was true that +she had never thought of a shipping-office as the end of all her +efforts; she had thought of Clive as a soldier, like his father, or a +lawyer, like his grandfather, or the poet that his verses had seemed to +promise; but the shipping-office, when it came, was indeed a harbour and +what wonder, with all the sudden security, that she had been blind to +the change in Clive, the change, she saw so clearly now, that had made +him Hester’s prey. His child face rose before her as she tried to define +to herself in what it had consisted; one day, when very tiny, he had had +little friends to tea and been horribly shy and afraid of them. Fear, +with Clive, never took the form of subterfuge or awkwardness. He had sat +there, very upright in his white suit, at the end of the nursery table, +a pale, golden little boy; and though he could not assume a smile he +could muster a perfect courtesy. The only signs by which his mother had +read his deep distress were the stiffening of his small upper lip and +the way in which he repeatedly raised his eyebrows, opening his eyes +very wide the while. And only to-day did this distant memory supply its +link of association; for Clive, when he came back to life, was +constantly raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes very wide; and if +he as constantly contrived to smile, she saw now that that had been +because of her and because, for love of her, he could dissemble. A +mother might give life; but even a mother could not give the zest for +life. The war had left him a frightened bird huddled under a hedge with +its wing broken. That was the truth of it. That was what Hester must +have felt in him; helplessness; helplessness and beauty. Even her +prosaic eye had been charmed by the bird’s beauty; commonplace young +huntress as she had been, striding through the woods in search of prey. + +But it was unjust; she knew it was unjust. Hatred made one unjust and +horrible. She looked a moment longer at the dark fireplace and then, +taking the matches, stooped and lighted the logs. Let us have more +light, was the instinct within her. Let us face things.—Own up and see +yourself as you are; perhaps the merely jealous mother, unable to endure +that another woman should make your son happy. Did it really come to +that? Or had it been because of Celia that she had seen Hester from the +first with hostile eyes? + +‘How did it all begin?’ said Monica, watching the flames leap up. + +‘Who is Clive’s new friend?’ Margaret Orde had asked. ‘The queer dark +girl who dresses like a boy?’ It was so it had begun, the first hint +brushing lightly yet sharply, like a branch of briar drawn across one’s +face on a woodland ramble. Clive had seemed to share his life to every +jot and tittle with her; and he had told her nothing of a new friend who +was dark and queer. From the very first there had been a sharpness, a +surmise. + +‘Where did you see them? He has so many friends and all girls dress like +boys nowadays,’ she had said. + +Good old Margaret who lived out at Chiswick with her ancient father, +loved these tea-table talks and to hear every detail of Monica and +Clive’s London life. She insisted now, all interest and all innocence, +on her topic. + +‘Boys don’t curl their hair over their ears, or wear pink silk +stockings, and neither did this girl. Her hair was brushed back and she +wore what looked like riding boots; but I expect they were rubber; very +sensible, for it was raining.’ + +‘Could it have been Agatha Milford?—but Agatha would hardly come to +London in riding clothes.’ + +‘Oh, it wasn’t Miss Milford—I remember her perfectly; I met her here at +tea one day, you know. She’s lovely. This girl had very big eyes and +looked rather ill-tempered; but perhaps she was only very intellectual +or artistic. It was at that show of queer pictures in Grafton +Street.—Clive didn’t see me, so I didn’t interrupt them.’ + +Monica asked no further question but she had, already, a sense of +something surreptitious that faintly menaced her. She telephoned to +Celia that evening and asked her to come and dine with them and bring +her violin. Since they had first played together, since Celia’s +childhood, Clive had been their audience, so much at one with them in +his part of listener that they made a trio rather than a duet. But he +had seemed tired that night when he came in and she had felt, all +through the lovely Schubert Sonatina, that he was not really listening, +that he was not thinking of her or Celia or Schubert but of the queer +dark girl. And after that, as the days passed and he said nothing of the +new friend, he suddenly became much older in her eyes; a man as he had +never been before; never again to be her child only. + +‘Wouldn’t it be nice if Celia could come with us to Paris this Easter?’ +It must have been a fortnight later that she had asked him this +question, one evening when he and she had returned together from the +play and were drinking hot bouillon in the drawing-room. He was standing +opposite her, his cup in his hand, and as he looked at her she saw that +his sweet, attentive face was jaded, almost haggard. + +‘Paris? Were we thinking of Paris, Mummy?’ he asked. + +‘Well, wouldn’t it be rather nice for Easter? We have not been there +since before the war, nor has Celia. We could show her everything.’ +France had been one of the family traditions in Monica’s youth and she +had seen to it that Clive inherited it. She was always scraping and +saving in the West Kensington days to give him his holidays in France, +to see cathedrals and follow the course of the great French rivers with +knapsacks on their backs. + +‘That would be delightful,’ said Clive, ‘but what about summer? Isn’t +Easter rather early for Paris?’ + +‘Oh, I always think it a heavenly time then, the horse-chestnuts just +beginning to bud, and violets in the streets.—Had you thought of +anything else?’ + +He was still looking at her, and now he lifted his eyebrows and opened +his eyes very widely; then said: ‘I have been asked to go to Cornwall +for Easter—some new friends of mine.—But of course I could give that up +if you have fixed your heart on Paris, Mummy.’ + +A violent struggle took place within her, but she mastered it. ‘Of +course you mustn’t give it up. Who are the new friends?’ It was +inevitable that she should ask that now; he could feel no pressure in +that. + +‘Rather a nice couple,’ said Clive. ‘He is the editor of “The +Protest”—you know that clever weekly—and she is artistic and does batik +scarves and curtains. Jessup is their name and they have three nice +little children. I am not sure you would care for them though, Mummy. I +shall find out, in Cornwall.’ + +He was now smiling at her quite clearly. He was grateful to her for not +holding him back from Cornwall. + +‘Only those two?’ + +‘And some friends of theirs, two or three friends, who have cottages +near by. It’s on the cliffs near the Lizard; it’s lovely there in early +spring they say.’ + +‘Are the friends artistic too?’ She felt as if she were creeping after a +tiger in the jungle. + +‘Yes, they are all artistic I think,’ said Clive, moving to the +fireplace. ‘Write or paint or act, you know;—all very busy and modern.’ + +‘What form does their modernness take?’ + +‘What form does it take? Well, I don’t quite know. Talk in the main, I +think; they are great talkers; very unshackled,’ and Clive tried to +smile, looking over at her, but his smile was no longer clear. He knew +now that he had something to hide and that she was trying to find it, +and, while bitterness surged in her against the dark girl who made Clive +hide from her, who made them both, suddenly, fear each other—she +contrived to ask, lightly: ‘Is anybody shackled nowadays, my dear?’ + +‘Oh, _we_ all are!’ said Clive, and he laughed. ‘People who dress for +dinner, I mean, and are presented at Court and take in the “Quarterly +Review”——’ He glanced at it lying on his mother’s table. + +Her bitterness found an outlet. ‘I haven’t painted, it’s true, or acted, +or made batik scarves, but I have written, and run an antique shop, and +trimmed hats! It seems to me that I know the dusty arena as well as any +modern woman—that I am as modern in that as any of them;—even though I +_was_ presented at Court in the dark ages!’ + +Clive crossed over to her. She had done what she intended; made herself +real and near to him; bound him to her—but, when he came to her like +that and put his arms around her, she had known that the heavy beating +of his heart was for the secret he hid from her as much as for his love +and retrospective pity. And she had known, with a cruel pain, that she +had asked her son for gratitude. She hardly kept herself from weeping as +she heard him say: ‘Oh, darling Mummy—don’t I know it! Do you think that +you need ever remind me? Do you think that I shall ever forget all that +you have done for me!’ + +So they had clung together—their embrace effacing nothing, and he had +gone to Cornwall for Easter and when he came back was engaged to Hester +Blakeston. + + + + + CHAPTER II + + +It was not Hester’s face that she was seeing now, as she stood, looking +down into the flames; it was her son’s; when he had told her; a face of +fear. It had been because of fear that he had, till now, told her +nothing and she had known that she must hide from him at once, lest he +should guess at hers—and see his own too plainly; and responding to +their peril with an automatic swiftness she had said: ‘My darling! I’m +so glad! Tell me all about it.’ + +Not a word of reproach, but Clive, holding her, his face against her +shoulder, had said: ‘Forgive me, Mummy;—but I cared so desperately; I +was so afraid she wouldn’t have me; I couldn’t bear to speak of it—even +to you—till I was sure.’ + +‘Of course—of course. Of course I understand,’ she said. And she had +understood; but most of all that had he been sure of her liking the +woman he loved he must have confided in her. He was not sure. He was +afraid. But she sustained and reassured him. The lover’s radiance +flowered from him as he told her all about his wonderful Hester. She was +a modern girl, very modern, a product of Girton and post-war London. She +had had a miserable girlhood; her mother was dead and her father a +parson in the Midlands. Hester had made her own living ever since +leaving college. She had done really remarkable work. The Jessups +thought it remarkable. She had travelled through Bolshevik Russia, +risking her life, and written a series of articles for ‘The Protest,’ +and she was tremendously interested in psycho-analysis and social +reform. + +‘A socialist, I suppose?’ Monica had blithely enquired.—And why not? Her +youngest brother had been a provocative socialist, thirty years ago at +Oxford, and had come home to call them all ‘pleasant thieves’—a phrase +that made their father—jovial and caustic—with his rough tawny +head—loudly laugh. But Clive said that Hester followed no isms of any +sort; was completely detached and sane—‘The sanest person I have ever +known, except you, Mummy.’ + +‘I must love her. I cannot keep him unless I can love her,’ Monica had +thought. She remembered that she had knelt down and prayed for strength +and wisdom and selflessness. And when he brought her was it not true +that she had gone to meet her with unhostile, with hopeful eyes? + +And now again she saw her, sitting in the open window on the hot July +day, extraordinarily quiet, extraordinarily assured. Her face was +vehement; childlike yet haggard; with, already, the indication of a line +running along the cheek to the corner of the mouth, and a deeper line +engraved across her forehead, which she showed when she doffed her hat, +unceremoniously, for tea. She showed then, too, a beautifully shaped +head, the dark hair, thick and dense and straight, brushed back from a +meditative arch of brow; and the indignant composure of her large eyes +made Monica think of a Byzantine Madonna. ‘A repellent little face!’ +That had been the involuntary, the irrepressible verdict that had surged +up in Monica’s mind on seeing her fully. In her considering gaze she +read already the relegation of her own standards and significances. +Hester would never trouble to controvert them; she would merely look +away from them, and over them; they were not so much out of date as +irrelevant; and a woman of the Hester type had no time for +irrelevancies. Monica saw her placing her and deciding how to deal with +her as they sat face to face, she herself, as she too well knew, wearing +the smile that her own panic forced from her. Hester did not smile; she +answered questions and asked none, looking now and then about the room, +while Clive sitting a little behind her, radiant perhaps, but still +haggard, watched them with an intentness under which his mother still +seemed to hear that heavy beating of his heart. Meretricious, frivolous, +trivial—that was what Hester was thinking her; the smug, sheltered, +upholstered, late-Victorian woman; reared on obsolete traditions, +sustained by a doomed social system, buttressed by old china and +mezzotints of simpering ancestresses. She could not remember anything +that Hester had said at this first interview; she could only remember +her assessing silence; but never, never to her dying day, would she +forget the minute yet portentous incident that she had witnessed after +they left her. She had gone to the window to watch them as they walked +away in the little slip of garden beneath the flats, and she saw Clive +bend his head to speak to the girl, as though in pleading or reassurance +and that, for all response, not looking at him, she had laid hold of the +hem of his coat, staying herself on him, or staying him on her, as she +walked beside him. Their unity could not have been made more piercingly +apparent to the mother’s fierce eyes watching from above. Hester’s +possessorship of her son was rivetted upon her mind by the unemotional +little gesture. Not only Clive’s subjection was made clear to her, but +Hester’s still, impassive strength. + +And then Celia. Celia who loved Clive; who should have married him. She +had had to tell her that very evening when she came in for a practice. +Standing there in the twilit room, still, gentle, unprotesting, her +violin hanging by her side, she had received the blow.—‘Clive is engaged +to be married, Celia;—to a girl none of us know.’ So she had phrased it, +controlling the trembling of her voice. ‘Her name is Hester Blakeston. +She’s a journalist.—You must come and meet her next Monday, for they are +to be married very soon.’ And then, seeing the girl’s brave smile, +bitterness had broken from her: ‘I’m afraid I shall never forgive her +for taking him from you,’ she had said. + +‘But she hasn’t taken him from me,’ Celia answered quickly. ‘I shall +always care for him more than for anybody;—but he never cared for me in +that way.’ And as Monica stood silent, she added, looking intently at +her:—‘Oh, Monica, don’t start wrong!’ + +Celia had seen her as starting wrong from the very beginning; even after +her own meeting with Hester she had seen her friend as wrong. And, of +course, it had been wrong to have been so aware, on that second hot July +afternoon, of the contrast between Clive’s elect and his bride rejected. +There sat Celia—his affinity in type and tradition, whatever Hester +might be by the dark forces of the blood—with her unflawed gentleness, +her unflawed dignity, ethereal in pearly greys and whites; while Hester +in her black and red, with dust upon her shoulders, was, she knew, +conscious of the contrast, and only just escaped sulkiness by being +surly. And, as they moved to the tea-table, she had asked her—prompted, +perhaps, by malicious subconscious forces of which she was only now +aware: ‘What are you going to wear, Hester?’ + +Hester, after her wont, had taken off her hat and, dropping into the +seat that Clive placed for her, passing her hand over her hair, she +looked across the table at her mother-in-law-to-be, her chin a little +dropped, as though not understanding, or not wishing to understand, the +question. + +‘For your wedding?’ Monica had smiled, perhaps too radiantly. ‘There is +nothing so lovely as white satin, is there?—And I have an old lace veil +of my great-grandmother’s that has been waiting since my wedding for a +bride in the family.’ She had perhaps meant it kindly; really kindly; +she had certainly meant to show Clive her willingness to adorn his +beloved with her most cherished possessions; but even as she spoke she +saw Celia’s flower-like head bent beneath the veil and thought, +swiftly:—‘But _we_ are all so fair!’ + +Hester, after considering what was placed before her +conversationally—Monica had already noticed this—and finding that she +could not agree with it, was capable of making no reply, and for a +moment now Monica feared—or hoped (only it was too late to hope for any +estrangement)—that she would vouchsafe none. But, after a pause, looking +steadily at the tea-pot, she said: + +‘I don’t think a lace veil would look particularly well in a Registrar’s +office.’ + +‘A Registrar’s office!’ Monica still heard the metallic note of her own +voice as she said it. Clive in a Registrar’s office! She stood there, +the caddie in her hand, and she could not pretend to smile. + +‘Clive and I are going to get married in a Registrar’s office,’ said +Hester. ‘I have no religious beliefs and I don’t like being stared at by +a crowd of strangers.’ + +‘But,’ said Monica, carefully, after a moment; ‘there will be no +strangers.’ + +‘Not to you; but they would be strangers to me,’ said Hester, not +provocatively, stating, merely, the fact that concerned her. + +‘There would be your friends as well as ours—and ours will all be +yours.’ + +‘A Registrar’s office is rather small for such a crowd; ask anybody you +please, of course. I shall have one or two only.’ + +‘But a church has nothing to do with religious beliefs.’ + +‘Hasn’t it?’ Hester slightly smiled. ‘It’s that way of looking at a +church—as though it were a wedding-cake—that I don’t like. Perhaps I +take churches more seriously than you do. I am the daughter of a +parson,’ and Hester laughed, unmirthfully. + +‘I only mean’—Monica knew that she had put herself in the wrong—‘that a +church stands for a past and a future; what our ancestors believed, what +our children may believe; it transcends completely any question of +individual feeling. And many of us there would be believing;—quite +enough to justify the occasion.’ + +She, too, smiled; but hers was the forced smile that seemed to reach +down within her and wring her heart-strings as she felt its falsity. +There was nothing forced or false about Hester; helping herself to bread +and butter she replied: + +‘I don’t ask to be justified. Other people’s beliefs don’t concern me. +If it would offend you to come, you know, Clive and I could slip out +quietly some morning and have it done without troubling anybody.’ + +‘Oh—no; no,’ Monica had muttered, feeling her pale cheeks burn suddenly. +‘I must come to my son’s wedding.’ + +She had not dared look at Clive or Celia. She knew that she was worsted. +She knew that they were unhappy and that only Hester preserved the guise +of imperturbability. She and Hester had met and their rapiers had +clashed, in the presence of terribly interested witnesses; but it was +she who had fallen back; her rapier that was splintered. + +Afterwards, when she and Celia were left alone, desperate tears had +risen and she could not conceal them. Celia came to her and put her arms +around her. + +‘But, you know—I _do_ see what she means,’ she had said gently. + +‘So do I!’ Monica rejoined with intense bitterness. + +‘It _is_ to make a wedding-cake out of a church—if you don’t believe +anything,’ Celia said. + +‘Then why refuse to have mere wedding-cake—if it pleases your foolish +mother-in-law?’ + +‘Because she wants to be straight. I do see that about her, Monica.—She +wants to be straight, more than anything.—Please don’t start wrong; it +will make Clive so miserable;—already he’s afraid,’ Celia murmured while +Monica now wept openly. + +She turned now from the fire and went back to the window-seat and again +looked out at the driving rain. Her mind travelled over the past five +years and saw Hester always the same, imperturbably pursuing her own way +and making it Clive’s; but there was no injury to recall, no fault to +record. If Clive’s friends had not cared for his wife and had tended to +fall away, that was not Hester’s fault. If Clive looked a little dimmed +and dumb and out of the picture that Hester put him in, he never looked +unhappy. He never looked unhappy when he was with Hester; it was only +with her, his mother, that Clive was, gently, silently, ill at ease. It +was her relationship with her son that was ruined, or almost ruined; +because she could not like his wife. She had tried to; faithfully, if +desperately. She recalled the parties she had gone to, in the little +Chelsea house that had been her wedding-gift to Clive. Hester and her +friends had furnished it; her own taste and help had not been requested +and she soon observed that the lovely bits of glass, of china, the one +or two really good engravings that she bestowed upon the young ménage +were exiled, in order that they might not disturb a unity of design with +which they jarred. How she disliked Hester’s drawing-room!—so gaunt, so +glaring, so unadjusted to human needs and frailties, so cut off from all +complicity with the past. It seemed to challenge you to disagree with it +as you entered, to nudge you maliciously on its angular chairs, to +suffocate you surreptitiously with the many cushions of its enormous +divan. On the walls, the perspective of the few pictures slanted dizzily +towards you; you wanted to push the knife, the mug, the herring and the +apple back to equilibrium. On the mantelpiece stood three small +sculptured animals, menacing in their solid, misshapen vitality. The +batik curtains of a dramatic purple shade seemed inappropriate as a +background to afternoon tea and London gossip. In Hester’s drawing-room +she had felt herself an anachronism, a half-absurd survival. But +Hester’s friends went well with it. They were often drab and dusty and +often picturesque and brightly coloured, but whether they lounged on the +divan or sat bolt upright on the chairs they were terribly intelligent. +Their laughter ripped up ancient faiths; their gravity undermined +stalwart policies. They seemed to believe in none of the creeds one had +ever heard of, but they held creeds of their own with a fierce +intolerance and could become very angry with each other. Monica enjoyed +seeing them quarrel. She disliked them all intensely and when she saw +that they took Clive lightly she hated them. ‘Hester’s amber +cigarette-holder’ she had heard him called one evening by a jibing young +couple who did not see her on the stairs above them. And indeed Clive +moved among them all, against Mrs. Jessup’s batik curtains, a background +figure. He did not look in the least oppressed—or impressed; neither did +he look ironic. He talked to anyone who seemed to be neglected and +passed the claret-cup and sandwiches. + +It was after this party that Monica decided to leave London and live in +the country. Her gifts to the young couple had depleted her resources +and her London, the London shared with Clive, had ceased to exist; but +to her own consciousness the withdrawal was less of a retreat than a +flight. She could not risk living on near Clive. She had not the +strength to go on hiding from him, at such close quarters, how much she +disliked his wife. There had been every sort of good reason to allege +and Celia had been the chief of them, for Celia’s lungs had been +threatened, and after a winter in Switzerland she had gone to live with +a devoted woman-friend who ran a little chicken-farm in Essex. Every +aspect of recoil was removed by Celia’s presence. ‘I can never be lonely +with you at hand and Celia so near and Jeremy with me day and night—can +I?’ she had said. Clive, perhaps, had been convinced. Even when Jeremy, +the dear West Highland terrier who had grown up with him, died, he had +remained, she felt sure, unaware of her deadly loneliness, though he had +begged her to let him give her another dog. But she could not replace +Jeremy. Another dog would have been a mere effigy. She often felt that +she herself had become an effigy, bearing on its face the waxen smile of +the past, and she often felt that it would be better to be dead. But +that, she suspected, smiling ironically as she leaned her head against +the window-frame and closed her eyes, was only when she was angry. She +still longed too much for Clive to wish to leave a world where he lived. +It was mere sentimentality to say that everything was over when one +could suffer like this and tear one’s heart. Why could she not acquiesce +and be at peace? Why could she not rest in the conviction of his +happiness?—for that he was mended, that Hester made him happy, she felt +sure. Should it not be enough for a mother to know that her son was +happy?—‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ The words +rose in her mind. That was what a mother must be able to say. + +The wicket-gate clicked as she thought it, and opening her eyes she saw +Hester coming up the path holding Robin by the hand. + + + + + CHAPTER III + + +Robin was in his little waterproof hood and cape, all shining in the +rain, and her delight at seeing him was so great that she had not time +for surprise. He was marvellously like Clive at the same +age.—‘Mouse-face,’ she had used to say to her little son, tilting back +the face to kiss it; and Robin’s hood framed the same broad brow and +narrow chin. His eyes were darker than his father’s and his pallor more +golden; but there was the same austerely sweet modelling of the cheek +and lip, the same pale, bright hair. Yes, he, too, was the colour of +amber, exquisite little creature. + +And there went Hester’s rubber boots beside him; she still wore rubber +boots in rainy weather and they certainly became her slender form, her +small foot, her indolent and decisive gait. As she glanced up, behind +her rain-driven pane, at Hester’s face, a phrase from a pitiful little +tale of Maupassant’s came to her mind: ‘_Elle est ben trop noire_’ the +old peasant mother had said of the proposed negress daughter-in-law, +reiteration her only argument. What if, on first seeing Hester, she had +relapsed to the same animal antipathy and said to Clive: ‘_Elle est ben +trop noire_’? Could it possibly have parted him from Hester? But Hester +was not _trop noire_. It was absurd and malicious to say it. She was the +nut-brown maid in type.—‘And as sound as a nut,’ Monica muttered. Her +brooding loneliness set her mind singing to these chimes, but this +involuntary tribute cheered her. She did not hate Hester if she thought +her as sound as a nut. And, keeping her place at the window, she heard +her say: ‘Come on, Robin;—don’t dawdle,’ in her rational, unadmonishing +voice. Hester was a just and careful mother, but his grandmother felt +sure that Robin must miss the ardent, playful improvisation and gaiety +that had shone about his father’s childhood. + +‘How perfectly delightful of you, my dear!’ Thus she heard herself greet +Hester and felt the sane machinery of life close round and sustain her. +Hester was kissing her cheek, she was kissing Hester’s. ‘And you walked +from the station in all this downpour!—Well, Robin darling.’ + +‘We were prepared for the rain, and we enjoy it, don’t we, Robin?’ said +Hester. ‘Robin was delighted to come. He is always glad to have tea with +his Grannie.’ + +Set upon the background of her dark reminiscences, this remark showed +Monica something of which she had not till then been aware. Hester was +changed since that day of their first meeting. She was as assured, as +competent as ever, but she was certainly kinder. Something of her +repellent manner on the first day might be set down to girlish +awkwardness, and perhaps, in spite of the assurance, she had really been +a little frightened. It was possible, if difficult, to believe it. + +‘May I see the goldfish?’ said Robin. He was dressed in a little suit of +green. Monica did not think it became him. Clive, she had always dressed +in blue or white. + +‘You may; but let me have a look at you first; the goldfish will wait.’ +She drew him to her side while Hester leaned to the fire and held out +her hands to the blaze. She had taken off the boots in the hall and +showed slender legs and low-heeled shoes; her dark coat and skirt, +sparse and formal, gave her again the boyish air, though there was +nothing really masculine in Hester’s demeanour. Mingling with the terse +competency, Monica felt always an undertone, repellent to her, of +something soft and smouldering, and over Robin’s head she cast an +oblique glance of the old distaste at her daughter-in-law’s nonchalant +form. + +‘Why doesn’t our room turn round like this, Mummy?’ said Robin. He +leaned against his grandmother’s knee and looked about him. ‘I like it. +You can’t tell what’s on the other side, down the steps.’ + +‘I think I can,’ said Hester. Her reasonableness was only just not a +snub and for a moment Robin was checked by it; but he took up after a +moment: ‘Not if you didn’t know already. If you didn’t know already, +there might be robbers down there; or tigers;—or just a kitten asleep on +a cushion.’ His fancy as it took substance widened his gaze. + +‘Well, I shouldn’t care for robbers in my drawing-room, or tigers either +and you’d be the first to be frightened by them if they were there,’ +Hester rejoined, turning her head to measure her child with a scientific +eye as though hidden meanings might lurk in these images. + +‘But they wouldn’t really be there,’ Robin rejoined, quite as reasonably +as his mother, and without her dryness. ‘That’s what’s so nice; Grannie +might have changed everything and one wouldn’t know.—I do like this +room, Grannie,’ he repeated. ‘It’s like that queer room on the ship you +took me to.’ + +Monica’s one remaining brother was an Indian judge and Robin had gone +with her to see him off that spring. ‘It _is_ rather like the saloon of +a ship, with the windows all round and the low ceiling,’ she said. ‘And +with such a quantity of rain outside one might fancy oneself on the +waves!’ + +‘I should call this the cosiest of suburban rooms and anything more +dismal than the saloon of a ship I can’t conceive of!’ laughed Hester, +taking out her cigarette, while Robin, feeling her not at all in the +game, whispered to his grandmother: ‘Perhaps there’s a whale round the +corner that’s been washed on deck.’ + +‘Let’s go see!’ she said. Hester no more understood a child’s mind than +she understood the drawing-room, which was neither cosy nor suburban. +She was glad she did not; glad that Robin whispered. She took him by the +hand and led him off and as they turned the corner and went down the +steps it seemed to her that she and Robin escaped into fairyland, +leaving Hester behind them. Tranquil, pale, the rain-swept hedgerow elms +outside making it the quieter, the lower room received them as though +with a gentle finger laid on its lips, and in their bowl on the lacquer +table the goldfish glanced and glittered, living so determinedly their +mysterious, circumscribed life. Robin stopped short on seeing them. +‘It’s not a whale:—it’s goldfish,’ he whispered, turning up to her a +face Clive’s to exactitude in its wistful archness. She stooped and +kissed the starry forehead. She felt her love passionately flow over the +little boy, sweeping him and Clive together in its tide, the past and +the present. ‘Much prettier than a whale and much easier to take care +of,’ she said. + +‘_Could_ you take care of a whale?’ Robin questioned, still with the +archness that showed his recognition of fairyland and its code. + +‘Not very well in here;—but you might in the garden—on such a rainy day +as this the poor thing would hardly miss the sea!’ laughed Monica. + +‘But I like these better. There are no whales at the Zoo. There wouldn’t +be room for them.—They’d reach out into the lane if they were in the +garden, Grannie; you couldn’t keep them there.’ And as, absorbed now in +reality he stood beside her, he added: ‘Don’t you think they have dear +little faces? They look so happy as they go round and round and they +open and shut their mouths as though they were singing.’ + +‘If you ask me, I always think they are melancholy mad,’ said Hester’s +voice, devastatingly. She had come to the steps and stood there above +them, her cigarette in her hand, looking down. ‘I don’t like to see them +going round and round. Their cheerfulness doesn’t deceive me.’ + +Monica felt something of a shock as she heard these words. It was almost +as though Hester were reading her thoughts of an hour ago. ‘Aren’t even +the fish to be spared psycho-analysis?’ she asked. + +‘Well, since they are _all_ repression, I think we need hardly waste our +time on them! They offer no problem!’ Hester returned with a slight +laugh. ‘They are melancholy mad, poor things—as anything shut up with +nothing whatever to do must be. I do hate to see animals shut up.’ She +tossed the end of her cigarette into one of Monica’s Chinese bowls, took +out another, tapped it against the back of her hand and lighted it as +she stood there. + +‘If you can call them shut up,’ said Monica. Robin had drawn close to +her and was gazing, very earnestly now, at the ambiguous fish. + +‘They are as shut up as the lions at the Zoo, and those always make me +feel sick,’ said Hester, turning away. + +Monica and the child stood in a stillness curiously shared. + +‘Are they really unhappy, do you think?’ Robin asked, whispering again. + +‘Not one bit, darling,’ she assured him—though not herself. ‘They have +been here for three years and get bigger and fatter all the time. They +would pine if they were unhappy.’ + +‘But why does Mummy think they’re unhappy?—Could they make a noise to +say if they were?’ + +‘No: they couldn’t make a noise—but they could move slowly and look +dull;—that’s the way a fish would show unhappiness;—and not care to eat +ants’ eggs.—They had a splendid feed of ants’ eggs only a little while +ago and you should have seen them snap them up.’ + +Still Robin leaned against her and still he gazed at the fish. ‘But I +sometimes eat my tea when I’m very unhappy,’ he said in the lowest +voice. He trusted her completely; he was hers completely; he would never +have said it to his mother—or why the lowered voice? For a moment the +selfish joy of her proved possessorship filled her heart, then drew away +to give place to apprehension. ‘Unhappy? Are you unhappy, darling? Why? +Tell me why,’ she said and looking up at her with Clive’s eyes he said, +faltering a little, ‘I don’t know.’ + +‘That’s enough about the fish.—Don’t let Robin get sentimental about +them,’ called Hester from above with kindly peremptoriness. ‘I’ve +something to tell you, Monica.’ She had always, from the beginning, +called her mother-in-law by her Christian name, expressing to Monica’s +ear indifference rather than intimacy. + +Holding Robin very tightly by the hand, wondering, as she came, about +acquired and innate instincts and their inheritance; wondering whether a +seed of Clive’s dark time had drifted into the soul of his son—Monica +obeyed the summons, drawing Robin to her knee as she took her chair near +the fireplace and looked up at her daughter-in-law. As a little boy, +Clive, too, had known moods, she remembered, of grief and panic. But she +had been there to shield and soothe and understand. He did not hide from +her when he was a little boy; as Robin—she felt sure of it—would hide +from Hester. + +‘I’ve something to tell you, that will please you,’ Hester was +repeating. She had taken up her position again at the fireplace, but now +she leaned back against the mantelpiece, raising her cigarette to her +lips, drawing at it, then holding it off as if for scrutiny, her eyes +half closed, her brows slightly knitted. She looked at her cigarette as +if its taste disappointed her;—Monica had often noted the trick. She had +never seen anyone smoke so constantly and with so little air of relish. + +‘It’s a very important decision Clive and I have come to,’ Hester went +on, ‘mainly because of you—but because of ourselves as well. We are +tired of London in some ways. I don’t think it’s very good for Robin, or +for Clive either. He still gets those horrid headaches from time to +time.—And since last spring we’ve had our eye on The Crofts—the cottage +on the hill, you know, under the wood:—and now we’ve bought it.—Yes, +actually.—I thought you’d be pleased. We have been very crafty about it +all and said nothing to you lest it should fall through and you should +be disappointed.—There’s been the London house to get rid of and endless +documents to seal and sign. But it’s all done now in law and order, and +you won’t be lonely any more.’ And Hester benevolently surveyed her, +very much, it flashed over Monica, as she might have surveyed the +goldfish, released and making off down stream. She saw the picture of +the hurrying fish, golden and glad, and for a moment felt their +astonished gladness in herself, before she felt a deep drop of dread. It +was not Clive coming back; it was Hester. She had run away; to be safe; +to keep safe with Clive; to hide from Clive; and now Hester followed +her. No; the goldfish were not released; they were drawn out of their +safe retreat in a net. + +‘My dear—what wonderful news,’ she said slowly, looking down at Robin’s +head. + +‘It _is_ rather, isn’t it? We are rather proud of ourselves. Even Robin +didn’t know.’ Hester tapped her cigarette against the mantelpiece and +again frowned at the tip. ‘You are coming to live near Grannie, Robin; +isn’t that rather jolly?’ + +Robin, making no reply, turned his eyes up to his grandmother. It was as +though he felt all the unuttered things in her, all the things Hester +would never feel. + +‘Isn’t it wonderful; you can see the goldfish every day,’ she said to +him softly. She wanted horribly to cry; to be alone so that she could +think. + +‘Not if they’re unhappy,’ said Robin, gazing at her. ‘Not if they’re +going to die.’ + +‘But they’re not going to die. Why should they die? We’ll make a little +pond for them—since Mummy thinks they’re unhappy in the bowl—and have a +fountain to play over them. Wouldn’t you like a fountain to play with? +Like the princess, with the three golden balls?’ + +Robin’s eyes still studied her. ‘But Jeremy died,’ he said. ‘And he was +very happy.—Is it true that he’ll never, never come back—however much we +want him?’ + +‘When things are dead they never come back, Robin; I’ve told you that +already.’ Hester checked the sentimental tendency with decision. ‘It’s +very kind of Grannie to say she’ll make you a pond and a fountain to +play with, and the fish will love it, of course. Jeremy died because he +was old and when things are old it’s much better they should go to +sleep. He had a very happy life and went to sleep. It’s silly, you know, +to go on thinking about things that can’t be helped. Think of all the +nice things that are going to happen instead. You are to have a garden +of your own, as well as Grannie’s, and if you like you shall have a dog +just like Jeremy.’ + +Robin sat, very straight, on his grandmother’s knee, his eyes downcast, +his little face firmly set, and Monica saw that he was frightened. + +‘It’s such a nice garden, The Crofts’s,’ she said, diverting Hester’s +attention from Robin’s case, shielding him, giving him time—with Clive +she had always known that it was merely a question of gently giving him +time.—‘They have done some very funny things to it—the good people who +lived there—but it’s charmingly placed under the hill and almost +anything could be made of it.—You are quite sure it won’t tire Clive to +go up and down every day—or cut you off too much from all your London +occupations?’ + +‘Not a bit more tiring than it is to get from Chelsea to the city; and +we shall be able to afford a car now that will take us to the station in +ten minutes. He will have tennis here, and he loves that so, and I shall +manage perfectly;—but, you know, we were thinking of you even more than +of ourselves. We didn’t like to think of you all alone down here.’ +Hester wanted to make it clear. It was the second time she had said it. + +‘I know. It’s too dear of you both. How soon will you move in?’ + +‘We think we can manage in six weeks’ time; by the end of September. +Eddie and I and Marcia Jessup are coming down on Saturday to go over the +rooms and Beppo Gales, too, perhaps. He says he’ll decorate the +dining-room for us if it’s a possible shape.—We’ll call for you, shall +we?—and have tea here afterwards.’ + +‘Beppo’ Gales was a young painter whose fame, in Monica’s eyes, rested +upon impudence rather than achievement. He dealt with the human form +singularly displayed and distorted and had been one of the young people +on the stairs who had called Clive the cigarette-holder. Grievous to +think that he was to decorate Clive’s dining-room and that to the end of +her days she must see, at every meal she partook of at The Crofts, +visageless, vast-thighed forms bearing grisly fruits and flowers on +their heads. ‘That will be delightful,’ she murmured. + +‘It will be nice for Celia, too, our coming, won’t it?’ said Hester. + +The tea-table was now placed before Monica and she still kept Robin on +her lap, saying to him as she warmed the tea-pot: ‘Will you measure in +the tea for me, Robin?’ Robin, she knew, had been on the verge of tears +but was now master of himself. + +‘Clive can take her and Miss what’s-her-name out in the car for drives,’ +Hester went on. ‘There’s no risk of infection now for Robin, is there?’ + +‘Not the least.’ Monica heard that she spoke dryly. ‘Her lung healed +before she left Switzerland.—Clive mustn’t have her on his mind. Norah +Unwin has an uncle coming to stay who has a car. He is looking for a +place here, too.’ + +‘Oh, well; in that case Clive can certainly have her much less on his +mind. He was very much upset by her breakdown. He’s so fond of her, you +know. Lucky we got The Crofts in time if there’s a competitor in the +field.’ + +‘He wants to rent, not to buy, I gather. He was thinking of the Old +Manor Farm, Norah said.’ + +‘Well, we certainly shouldn’t have competed with him for _that_. It’s a +dismal place,’ said Hester. ‘Now drink your milk and eat your +bread-and-butter, Robin.—We’ve not much time before our train and you +mustn’t be late for bed.’ + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + +But why had it been Hester to come with the news? Why not Clive? This +question, which had lain latent in Monica’s mind during Hester’s visit, +rose to assail her during the long night, as she lay awake and listened +to the rain. Such news as that should have been brought by Clive. He had +sold the little Chelsea house that she had given him. She had given it +to him;—not to Hester. It was their transaction, his and hers; not hers +and Hester’s; and it could be only Hester who had made it so; thrusting +herself, with her bland assurance, between them. + +‘She is straight,’ that phrase of Celia’s returned to her pleadingly +while her thoughts burned and brooded on her wound. But was Hester +straight? Was there not some surreptitious motive smouldering under the +fair appearance of her? She was hounded by the memory of her walking +away in the garden below the flat, leading Clive out of her life, her +hand stayed on the hem of his coat. Now she was leading him back, a +trophy; placing him there, tormentingly near but never to be reached +except on Hester’s terms. And Hester seemed to smile ominously behind +him and to say: ‘Hate me as much as you like:—but touch me at your +peril.’ + +‘But I don’t hate you; you are straight; you mean to be kind; I don’t +hate you,’ she felt herself repeating exorcisingly. And at last a +merciful cloud covered her mind and she fell asleep. + +On waking she found herself thinking of Celia. Her thoughts of Hester +had run themselves dry and the obsessions of the night survived only in +her sense of weight and weariness. It was Celia she must think of now, +and Celia could hardly rejoice at the news she had to tell her. It was +news that had best be broken carefully. So, after her orders were given, +her letters written, she put on her hat and coat and took a stick and +went out, remembering as she always remembered on starting on a walk, +that Jeremy was not here to share it. + +The rain had ceased but the day was blanketed in a thick mist that +might, later on, lift and reveal a summer sky. Monica’s spirits revived +a little as she walked, her feet slipping in mud, the hedgerow trees +pattering down drops on her shoulders. The weight was there, and the +sense of it was like a tendency to sickness underlying her vigour, but +she had an eye for what the day could give and found a certain charm in +the restricted world, seeing herself as a Noah’s Ark figure set on her +little circle of green, the circle moving with her as she went. There +was beauty, too; the glossy branches of the oaks above were like those +she had seen carved in deep relief on a dark, mysteriously lovely old +door in Bourges; in Norah’s field an arabesque of hens were scattered +like a spray of white chrysanthemums in a Chinese picture, and at the +door the old-fashioned little banksia rose, sweet and apricot coloured, +reminded her of her girlhood; one hardly ever saw these roses nowadays, +and she nipped one off, shook out the rain that clogged its tiny petals +and, while she waited for Bowditt, bent her face absently to its +fragrance, a deep, almost a crafty fragrance, overwhelming her in +memories of Aunt Janet and of Lockers, the old Sussex house under the +Downs where she and her brothers and sisters, she and Clive, had spent +so many happy holidays. + +She saw Clive and Celia, the slender boy and girl—Celia, too, was +related to Aunt Janet—playing tennis on the lawn while the downs grew +grave and purple above the garden and Aunt Janet’s white cap appeared at +the French window summoning them all in to dress for dinner. The roses +grew against the wall round the window and she herself was sitting there +on the gravel path, her book on her knee, her thoughts busy with ways +and means, a harassed but happy woman. Little Jemima, Jeremy’s mother, +sat beside her, watching the players with a dog’s disinterested +melancholy. Monica was far, far away, deep in the fragrance of the +banksia rose when Bowditt came to let her in. + +Bowditt had been Celia’s nurse, then her maid, and now with the aid of a +village girl she ran the little house for the two friends. She was a +gaunt, sad-eyed woman and Monica always felt that she held her in some +way responsible for the devastation of her young mistress’s life. All +the same, under the resentment, if that it were, she knew that she could +rely upon a fundamental sympathy in Bowditt, for she and Bowditt both +cherished Celia. + +‘Is Miss Celia in the drawing-room?’ she asked. + +‘She’s gone out, to Chelmsford, with Captain Ingpen,’ said Bowditt +surprisingly and with evident satisfaction. ‘Captain Ingpen said he +would do some shopping for us, and Miss Norah thought the drive would do +Miss Celia good.’ + +Monica now observed the various masculine belongings that altered the +aspect of the apple-green little entry. A faded silk scarf, russet +striped with grey, lay on the table beside the salver of visiting cards; +golf clubs leant beside the umbrella-stand, and a curious square box, +with brass corners and a brass handle in the lid, stood near the foot of +the stairs. She even savoured a new odour on the air; leather? tweed? +tobacco? and something added;—or was it merely her fancy that added +it?—something faintly yet sharply reminiscent of years ago in India; an +aromatic, bitter whiff. She had hated India; she turned her thoughts +away from it now as the pain of an old self-reproach visited her heart. +She had been the romance, the delight of her young husband’s life, yet +she knew that she had not made him happy during the two years they had +spent together. She had loved Charlie, but she had hated India and hated +his acceptance of the life she found so unbearable in its formulas of +empty gaiety, its heavy idle days and convivial nights. It had revealed +her to herself as a rebel, a bohemian. In her girlhood’s home they had +questioned everything; in Charlie’s India they questioned nothing. + +‘Miss Norah’s uncle has come then?’ she said. + +‘He came last night, Ma’am, unexpectedly. They had a wire from Dover to +say. It wasn’t till Saturday they had been looking for him. You will see +Miss Norah, Ma’am? She is just gathering the eggs.’ + +‘Don’t call her. I will wait till she comes in,’ said Monica, and +Bowditt showed her into the drawing-room. + +Celia’s drawing-room was china-blue and white and grey, with touches of +lemon colour in the Iceland poppies set upon the mantelpiece and of +black in the cushions and picture frames. Monica went to the fireplace +where, because of Celia, a little knot of flame glimmered pleasantly, +and looked about her, seeing her own figure reflected in the old French +mirror on the other side of the room, a thickened yet youthful form in +pleated short grey skirt, short jacket, and black straw hat with a +velvet bow. Her figure went with the room and it seemed to her that the +room belonged more to her own past than to Celia’s. The mezzotints from +Reynolds and Gainsborough had been given to Celia’s father and mother as +a wedding-gift from her parents. She remembered the delicate Chippendale +chairs in Celia’s grandmother’s drawing-room and playing as a child +round the old Chesterfield, now covered in blue and white cretonne. This +was the sort of room she understood and loved; that understood and loved +her: here she was herself, her petals all unfolded. + +Norah came trudging in almost at once, drawing off her muddy gloves, a +pleasant-faced young woman, ruddy, with prominent teeth and blue eyes. +She was the daughter of a country parson—as Hester was. Monica had never +seen, or heard of Hester’s father since her relegating allusion to him +on the day when the Registrar’s Office was announced; and the fact that +Hester had cast him off did not make him seem more obscure. + +‘Hello! How jolly of you to come! You have heard of our excitements. +Celia carried off already.’ + +‘Just what Celia needs. She and your uncle have taken to each other, +have they?’ + +‘I don’t know about that; but he doesn’t frighten her and that disposes +him to kindness, I think. He rather frightens _me_.’ + +‘Is he old and sunburnt and crabbed? Has he always lived in India? I +really know nothing about your uncle, Norah.’ + +‘He’s sunburned all right; extraordinarily brown; but not crabbed +exactly, or old either; younger than you are I expect, Mrs. Wilmott. He +is my mother’s youngest brother. Yes, he has spent most of his life in +India; among queer warrior-tribes in wild places.’ + +‘On the Afghan frontier? Soldiering, do you mean?’ + +‘Not soldiering so much as studying; discovering;—their languages, +customs, religions. He’s lived among them in disguise; seen the sheep +sacrificed and worshipped it with them afterwards—or whatever it is they +do. I really don’t know him a bit, but I know his life has been +frightfully hairbreadth and exciting. And because of all his special +knowledge he was very useful during the war. He is rather an impressive +sort of person, but, if you ask me, he has a way of looking at us which +makes me feel as if he saw me as a hen and Celia as a kitten.—Not but +what he is kind enough to hens and kittens.’ + +Norah, laughing and good-humoured, was plumping up a cushion here, +emptying an ash tray there. ‘See what a state he is getting our room +into already,’ she said. ‘He took all the hot water in the bath this +morning.’ + +‘How long will you have this inconsiderate person quartered upon you?’ + +‘Oh, he’s safely in London till the Manor Farm is ready for him. He’s +going to make me useful and help him to furnish it I see. But that will +be rather fun and he’s willing to be useful to us, too. It’s really very +decent his offering to do our shopping this morning, and it _is_ good +for Celia to see outside people. It’s a quiet life here for her, isn’t +it, after the life she was used to in London?’ + +The allusion gave Monica her entry. ‘Yes, it is, but I always feel that +Celia is far more country than I am. I am an old Cockney at heart and to +me the quiet is almost suffocating sometimes.’ + +Norah’s face fell; she was aware of an approaching announcement. ‘Don’t +tell me you are thinking of going back to London? I don’t see how Celia +could get on without you and her music.’ + +‘Going back? No indeed. But London is coming to me. That’s my news, +Norah. I wanted to tell you and Celia at once. Clive and Hester have +been feeling that I must be lonely and they are coming down to be near +me. They have bought The Crofts. They will be here in six weeks’ time.’ + +Norah, sitting on the sofa opposite, stared at her, and slowly the +astonishment on her face gave way to reprobation. + +‘They are coming to live here? All the year round?’ + +‘Yes. They are giving up London.’ + +Norah gazed heavily. ‘Why did they keep it dark?’ + +It was an unpleasant echo of her own thought, but Monica had her reply, +and Hester’s, ready. + +‘They wanted to be sure. And they wanted to surprise me. Hester told me +only yesterday. You do see—don’t you, Norah—that it will be rather +wonderful for me.’ + +‘Yes; of course it will,’ said Norah slowly. ‘It’s only about Celia that +I am thinking.’ + +‘Well, I am too. Do you think, after all this time, that it will in any +way be difficult for her?’ + +‘It’s bound to bring it all back, isn’t it,’ said Norah; ‘seeing him all +the time and seeing that he has forgotten her, in every way; as only men +can forget.—Forgive me, Mrs. Wilmott; I do like Clive most awfully; I +always have, even when I saw that he was breaking Celia’s heart; but +it’s true, isn’t it?’ + +‘He hasn’t forgotten, Norah, it’s only that marriage crowds friendships +so completely out of a man’s life, and what I hope for now is that he +will remember enough for things to be happy again. After all they were +really like brother and sister;—he will remember back to that happy +time.’ + +‘It would be frightfully hard lines if he remembered the time that +wasn’t happy. It would be frightfully hard lines for Celia if he +remembered enough to be sorry for her. Celia, though she looks such a +wisp, is the bravest creature in the world and couldn’t help it if a +microbe _did_ get into her lungs.’ + +‘She’s so brave that no one could be sorry for her.—You mean it will be +a strain for her—showing them that she _is_ brave?’ Monica got up +restlessly. ‘After all, Norah, nobody knew except you and me and +Bowditt.’ + +‘Hester knew all right,’ said Norah with a short laugh. ‘And she knows +that you wanted him to marry Celia and that you are sorry he didn’t.’ + +‘My dear Norah!’ Monica gazed at her. ‘Do I make it so plain?’ she +asked. + +‘How can you help making it plain? One only has to see them all +together—with you. Hester isn’t our sort, is she?’ + +Monica walked to a window as she heard this question. ‘She’s my son’s +wife. That’s all I have to remember,’ she said, standing there looking +out and wondering, if Norah had seen, how much Clive must have seen. + +‘Yes, she’s his wife and he’s devoted to her; but the queer thing is +that if she’d been a man he wouldn’t have made a friend of her. Celia +would have been a friend, always; but not Hester. That’s just the +difference, isn’t it? That’s just where this queer falling in love comes +in; but I can’t help feeling that it’s happier when a man falls in love +with a friend; they do sometimes.’ + +‘I wonder.’ Monica stood looking out. ‘Perhaps difference and the +surprise of difference are needed for falling in love. It’s a different +kind of affinity.—Here they are, Norah.—Celia is looking amused—and +surprised.’ + +‘Celia shan’t fall in love with Uncle Godfrey;—I can promise you that,’ +said Norah; ‘and he won’t fall in love with her. It’s not her kind of +difference that would attract him. He has no taste for paradise,’ and +Norah laughed with a certain grimness as she followed Monica out into +the hall. + +A car, spattered with mud, stood before the door and a gaunt, heavily +built man, with close-cropped hair, was holding out a hand for Celia to +descend. No, Captain Ingpen had no taste for paradise, Monica in a swift +glance at him agreed, feeling something a little brutal in his air of +nonchalant kindness. Celia was more a disembodied spirit than a pretty +woman and Captain Ingpen’s taste would be for pretty women. Again he +recalled India and the men there, who were too stupid, or too busy, to +care for anything but pretty women. + +Celia might not be pretty in the Indian sense, but she was the loveliest +creature, and all her little foibles were dear to Monica; her breathless +way of laughing, her gay yet melancholy inconsequence, even her tendency +to make rather pointless jokes when she was shy. There was something +arctic in her tints—blue and white and gold—but she did not look ill, +only fragile and flower-like; forget-me-nots and cowslips growing +strangely in fields of snow. + +‘But Monica—you’re not going!’ she said, coming to embrace her friend. +Celia’s devotion always gave Monica a sense of establishment, security, +in a world of change. She had always been part of Celia’s world and +Celia understood her, better, she sometimes suspected, than she +understood herself; or perhaps it would be truer to say that she knew of +herself the evil of which she was capable and Celia the good. It was +reconstructing to be with anyone who saw the good—sometimes when one had +forgotten it oneself—and her eyes dwelt fondly on the girl as she said: +‘I only ran in for a moment—I must be back by twelve; Mrs. Fellows is +coming to see me about the nursing committee.—How well you look, my +darling.—Did you enjoy your drive?’ + +‘Ever so much.—I never knew anyone drive so fast as Captain Ingpen. He +was trying to frighten me, I believe;—but I wasn’t frightened. I liked +it!’ laughed Celia. She was seldom shy nowadays and Monica sometimes +grieved over this as a sign that girlhood was over.—She was not in the +least shy now. + +‘This is Norah’s uncle,’ she said presenting him, and Monica found +Captain Ingpen’s eyes on her; light yet hot blue eyes—burned looking, +with a straight line of upper lid—that showed oddly in his dark face. +His stare might express surprise, discomposure, or admiration, and since +so many things to-day reminded her of the past, she now found Captain +Ingpen’s eyes reminding her of pursuing suitors. Yes, it was +unmistakable, though it had been so long since she had seen it, that +arrested, appraising look in a man’s eye; a tribute to her sex that, she +reflected ironically as she walked away, would never have been elicited +had not her close little hat, her upturned collar, so framed her +countenance as to lend it a misleadingly youthful aspect. + + + + + CHAPTER V + + +Anyone looking at Clive—anyone with a discerning eye—would have said +that unless he were a soldier he might well be a poet. So his mother +thought, as she had often thought, on that Saturday afternoon when, +drawing her hand within his arm, he led her away from The Crofts, where +Hester and her friends still computed and measured. He carried himself +like a soldier—that was his inheritance from Charlie, and the little +twist that his injured thigh had given to his gait lent it a jauntiness +that added to rather than detracted from the resolute blitheness of his +bearing. Objectivity was a soldierly quality and Clive’s expression—so +much more aware of you than of himself—was objective. And with these +disciplined and valiant characteristics went the almost unearthly +beauty; eyes bright as clear grey water; hair swept to silver-gilt +ripples, like a young archangel’s; a head with its fragile, forcible +structure, to be bound by the laurels of a Greek fillet or bend from a +background of swift, beneficent pinions. Yes; a beneficent archangel; +but an archangel bearing a sword. There was something about Clive that +frightened her a little at moments. He never yielded to inner, or to +outer, pressure. He could break; but he would not yield. + +‘I must see you alone, Mummy darling,’ he had said. They had had no word +alone as yet. She had been called for and borne off to The Crofts and so +elated had he been with the success of their exploit, so glad in her +imagined gladness, that no shadow of her anxiety must be allowed to +reach his consciousness. There had been, for her, too, a certain +exhilaration in thus taking possession of the new home and looking out +from the comfortable windows at the views which were now to frame his +existence; and even Hester’s friends she had found less annoying than +usual. Never, indeed, had she heard anyone talk so swiftly and so +vehemently as Mr. Gales. He was like a stout weathercock in a summer +storm, veering, glittering, challenging the elements, with never a +suspicion that anyone could find him anything but bewitching. But he had +altered much in his demeanour towards Clive since that far-away evening +of the party. Without pressure, without consciousness, she felt that +Clive had mastered all the elements of Hester’s world. He did not +withdraw and he did not mingle, but they were all aware of him; and to +her they were very kind, even when they bustled her aside and forgot her +presence. A young woman whom they called Oriana, who had come, +unannounced, with Mr. Gales, offered her chocolates with the greatest +affability. + +‘Let’s go round by the hill, Mummy,’ said Clive. ‘It’s so jolly up +there; the hill is the best part of The Crofts.—You’re not too tired +with all the chatter?’ Drawing her hand within his arm he bent his head +to smile at her. + +‘Not a bit too tired. Rather stimulating, I found it. It does one good +to be made aware of all this new life.’ + +‘Yes; I suppose it does. There’s no harm in them,’ said Clive, still +looking at her and smiling a little absently while, from the gate of The +Crofts, they turned up the smooth, turfed hill where a flock of sheep +raised tranquil heads to see them pass. + +It was a hot August day, but the wind blew freshly and the blue +distances fell below them, spreading and receding into the ample, happy +view. They paused to look down at it and as they turned again to the +ascent, Clive said suddenly: ‘You are pleased, aren’t you, Mummy?’ + +She knew then that this had been the question underlying all his +gladness and that he had been longing to ask it; that it was in order to +ask it that he had led her away, and in feeling him thus dependent on +her happiness her fears and darknesses seemed to melt away into the +encompassing sunlight. ‘Pleased! How should I not be pleased?’ she said. +She clasped her hands on his arm and offered him a radiant countenance. + +Clive walked beside her, looking down at her, sounding her radiance as +it were; and for the first time to-day she was aware of an uncertainty +in his. But there had always, since the war, been uncertainty in any +radiance of Clive’s and even as she looked at him she saw anew all that +Hester had done for him; all the things that a mother could never do. +There was still the cold, attentive gravity at the bottom of his gaze, +as though he watched for something; but the strain and lassitude were +gone. He was deeply rooted in life, in the life that Hester had made for +him; and she felt, in seeing it, for all the pain of her own abdication, +a pang of deep, impersonal joy. Hester had given him back his manhood. + +‘Well, that is what we thought; that is what we wanted;—more than +anything;—to please you,’ Clive said. ‘I was never satisfied about your +being here, all alone. From the first I hated your going off to live by +yourself in the country.’ + +‘Did you, dearest? I never guessed that.’ + +Clive was still smiling but now she saw that he lifted his eyebrows and +opened his eyes widely. ‘Did you really think that I felt it natural—our +being separated—after having spent all our lives together?’ he asked. + +It was the first time he had asked such a question; he asked it now when +five years had passed. Did he not know that they had been separated for +more than five years? Time collapsed suddenly; Clive was suddenly near +her again, so near that it was as though she held him against her heart. +Had he really suffered too? The weight upon her heart seemed his +suffering as well as her own. + +‘But, darling child,’ she said, carefully, seeking her words;—‘it was +the most natural thing in the world. It is what must happen, when a man +marries and makes his home;—it is what must happen—to mothers.’ + +‘Not to a mother like you. Not when people have been as much to each +other as you and I. For a time I hardly took it in; you seemed so sure +of its being the right thing, and so contented. And then, little by +little, it became more of a grief, a mystery.—And when Jeremy died——’ +Clive stopped. + +‘When Jeremy died?’ she repeated. ‘Yes? What had that to do with it, +Clive?’ + +‘Why—to see that you were quite alone; not a bit of the old life left to +you.—_Have_ you been contented;—living without me, like this?’ + +She steadied her thoughts and voice. ‘Well—hardly contented, Clive; +except as mothers must learn to be; in your happiness.’ + +‘But how could I be happy if you weren’t!’ said Clive. He had turned his +eyes away from her. + +Strange paradox of the human heart, showing its frailty! A moment before +she had felt the pang of joy in the thought of his happiness; but was it +not now a deeper joy to know that he, too, had suffered? She could find +no word to say to him; no word that might not flaw the beautiful, the +precarious moment. She felt herself cherishing it, and the assurance it +brought her, as though it were a gift of something warm, living and +fragile that Clive had put into her hands. It was their life; their own +shared life; known by nobody else; that she had thought dead. It lived; +and he had given it back to her. She heard herself saying to herself, +deep down under everything: ‘This is one of those moments when it would +be good to die’: and then, suddenly, as they reached the summit of the +hill and stood there, looking away in the sunlight, everything was +shattered; for Clive was saying, with a breathlessness that, she now +recognized, had underlain all his urgency: ‘And it was just what Hester +did see, Mummy.—That you must be missing me and that I couldn’t be +really happy with you buried down here. It was all Hester’s idea, every +bit of it. I’d never have thought it possible to sell the house and +uproot ourselves like this and put it through so that you shouldn’t find +out and stop us. It was Hester who did it all. She is like that when she +makes up her mind to a thing. Nothing stops her. That was why I wanted +her to be the one to tell you;—so that you should understand.’ + +Hester. It was Hester’s idea; or rather—for she did indeed +understand—Hester had made him believe it hers. He loved her, no doubt; +he had, no doubt, suffered in the thought of her loneliness—with even +Jeremy gone; but it was not of her, it was of Hester, he was thinking; +and what he was really longing for was that she should see and +acknowledge and love Hester. He had sent Hester so that she might gain +the full credit for her insight and generosity. Dust. Dust and ashes. +The bright afternoon shrank to a shrivelled snake-skin before Monica’s +eyes. + +‘How dear of Hester!’ she said. Instinct upheld her. She found the +fitting words. She kept her clasp steady on his arm and smiled, looking +before her. + +‘I do hope,’ she said presently, for Clive said nothing and the pause +that fell between them became perceptible, ‘that it is not a real +sacrifice to you both; I hope you are not doing it only on my account.’ + +Clive already felt the change in her. How should he not? What availed +the sweetest words if the voice that spoke them went to a different +tune? And how banish the stiffened rhythm when the night thoughts that +had come to her after Hester’s visit pressed in upon her and she saw +them all—all fulfilled? She had run away from Hester, and Hester +followed her, with generous hands outstretched. Hester accepted her and +it remained for her now to accept Hester. That was what it all came to. +It was a contest between her and Hester in which she was worsted +beforehand; since it was Hester who possessed Clive and was in no peril +of losing him. She remembered now the long glance that she had cast upon +them as he led her away. It had all been rehearsed between them; all +arranged, so that Hester should have the full credit of her magnanimity. + +‘Sacrifice?’ Clive repeated the word a long time after she had spoken +it, as though he had been weighing it and found it heavy. ‘Sacrifice, +Mummy? There’s no question of that. I must have blundered badly to lead +you to think that. Who wants a sacrifice made for them?’ + +Who indeed? ‘I only meant that it is so much to accept from your young +lives.—I must be very worthy of it.’ Monica spoke as carefully as though +picking her way amidst hot ploughshares. + +‘Worthy! Don’t, Mummy!’ + +They had begun to walk, rapidly, down the hill. + +‘But that really is the word, Clive. You show me how much it is the +word. You show me how wonderful Hester has been in it all. I must be +worthy of her; that is what I mean.’ + +Yes; she must heap Hester with garlands, lest he should guess at her +ingratitude. But she saw as she walked so swiftly beside him and heard +the heavy beating of her heart that her bitterness had betrayed her. She +had shown Clive to himself as asking something of her instead of giving +her something. She had spoiled everything for him, as he had for her: +but it was a mother’s part to hide from him what he had done and she had +failed to hide it. Everything was spoiled, unless she could find at once +an issue, and summoning all her resource, all her strength and strategy, +she went on: ‘You know, London means a great deal more to Hester than it +does to you, Clive. You care for all sorts of things that you will get +here in the country; tennis and birds and gardening; while Hester is a +typical London girl—as typical as I used to be; only I have drained my +London cup and she is in the middle of hers. It _is_ wonderful of her, +Clive, and perhaps I realize how wonderful more than you do; and I own, +darling, that it troubles me lest you have not counted the cost of it to +her.’ + +Had she succeeded? She listened to the specious, the perfidious note of +her own voice after it had ceased and wondered if Clive had not heard it +too. She gagged and pinioned and laid herself at Hester’s feet, as he +had forced her to do; and could she really make him believe that she +relished the position? + +‘But she isn’t giving up London, Mummy,’ he said. Gravely, his eyes +turned from her, he accepted her words at their face value. ‘Not in any +way that would mean such cost to her. I did count it all, I promise you, +and I wouldn’t have accepted it from her if it had meant the loss of her +London life. But that’s the good fortune of your being so near. She can +go up to town every day if she likes, and have her friends with her +constantly. Gales will be coming twice a week, you see, to paint the +dining-room;—it’s as easy for him as if we were living in Chelsea. And +Hester is arranging to give a course of lectures this autumn.’ + +‘Splendid. That is splendid. If it’s really so. If Hester hasn’t +deceived you about it in her wish to make us happy.—But I will take your +word for it, dearest. What are the lectures to be about? Excellent, that +Hester should be taking up her own work again.’ + +She must indeed go carefully. Clive knew that she had not cared for the +small book on infant psychology that Hester had published in the second +year of their marriage. It had been easier, when one saw such theories +connected in all their abstract brutality with the dawning life of +little Robin, to smile at them than to resent them; and in order that +she should not show resentment, she had smiled. Clive must have seen her +smile. They had never spoken of the book. + +‘Oh, her special line, you know.—The modern emancipation of women; +psycho-analysis; all that sort of thing.’ His voice was guarded. + +‘Does she feel the emancipation accomplished?—or is there even more to +do?’ + +‘A very great deal more to do; the acceptance of equal standards, all +along the line, is only tacit as yet, isn’t it?’ + +‘Can we hope for more than a tacit acceptance, I wonder?’ She tried to +attain the tone of blithe detachment with which she and Clive, in the +old days, would have discussed such themes. ‘Women are so handicapped by +nature that it’s difficult to imagine a time when equal standards +wouldn’t be really an injury to them.—Where is she to give the lectures? +I might be able to go up for them?’ She must go on talking; but Clive +would know as well as she did that she had no intention of attending +Hester’s lectures. + +‘At Oriana’s;—Mrs. Travers’s—you know,’ said Clive. + +They had reached the bottom of the hill and were now following the +little path that led out to the Green. How terse was Clive’s voice. +Hester was there between them. Monica seemed to see her eyes following +them, and now with reprobation. + +‘Oh, is that little creature married? She looks such a child—with her +bright doll face. I imagined that she and Mr. Gales were engaged.’ + +Clive paused for a moment and then with a resolution not hidden from his +mother’s ear, answered: ‘She’s left her husband and she and Gales live +together. They are modern, artistic people, you know, and don’t believe +in marriage. I hope you don’t mind their coming. Hester was rather upset +when she saw them both, knowing we were to have tea with you.’ + +‘Why, my dear—do you, too, think of me as the prim Victorian dame? Of +course I’ll give them tea. Why should I mind? I don’t mind +irregularities in the least. All I mind is people having theories to +justify their irregularity.—I don’t mind what people do so long as they +don’t talk about it!’ And Monica’s laugh, as she found the aphorism, was +dry. She was sure that Hester had not been in the least upset and she +did mind irregularity. + +‘They don’t talk about it,’ said Clive. He never retorted; he only +withdrew. She felt now that he withdrew. She had failed. He saw that she +was miserable. When one was miserable one could not hide. + +In silence they crossed the Green. Looking out with hot eyes from under +the brim of her summer hat, Monica felt that she hated the Green; she +had never known how much till then. She hated her garden, too, all +opened and exposed to view except at the back where the hedge had grown +high enough to hide it. She hated the beam and plaster and the +clambering roses. Only when they were inside and the dark coolness of +the drawing-room enveloped them, did the flame of hatred die. Here, at +all events, was the past. Here she could remember Clive, as he had been, +before Hester came. He pulled a chair near the window for her. ‘Sit +down, Mummy,’ he said gently. ‘How delicious it is in here.’ + +‘No; you sit down, my dear. We’ll have a little more light for our +tea-party.’ She went to the blinds. She must give herself time to see +where she stood. A horrible dread, cold after the fierceness, crept over +her. Had she not alienated Clive by her perversity? He must see it as +perversity. + +‘Clive,’ she said—a woman when she has shown herself as perverse must +not supplicate, yet she knew that under her light tone there was +supplication:—‘you and Hester will have to come and spend a great many +evenings with me.—Give me an inch, and I’ll take an ell, I’m afraid +you’ll feel! They have been rather lonely;—more lonely than I could have +realized. And even when you can’t come, it will be everything to know +that you are hardly a mile away.—I believe that you could almost hear me +if I called you from my bedroom window.’ + +‘It will be everything to me, too,’ said Clive, still with his +gentleness. ‘I’ve often thought I heard you calling me—since you’ve been +down here.—I’ve waked up suddenly and answered you.—Yes;—isn’t it queer? +Perhaps you were thinking of me, Mummy.’ + +He sat there in his chair, sunken together a little, as though his +gallant pose had failed him, and as she saw his smile and how jaded was +his face, tears almost mastered her. How she had hurt, how disappointed +him! She could have thrown herself in his arms and wept, but that Hester +and her friends would soon be upon them. + +‘Perhaps I was,’ she said, moving to the last blind. ‘That’s very +likely, darling.’ + +Voices were approaching over the Green, Mr. Gales’s voice; Mrs. +Jessup’s. It was fortunate that she had mastered her emotion. Hester and +Mr. Gales walked in front. She carried her hat in her hand and the +breeze blew back her hair. In her blue linen dress and with something +sulky in her demeanour, she had a curiously childlike aspect. Mrs. +Jessup, golden hoops swinging against her ochre-coloured cheeks, +followed with Mrs. Travers. She was a succulent young woman with glossy +black eyes. Mrs. Travers, round-faced and coloured to an apple-blossom +pink and white, tripped beside her on the highest heels, listening with +docility to her authoritative contralto. + +‘Here they come,’ said Monica cheerfully. ‘I feel specially pleased, +Clive, when I see her friends, that Hester doesn’t paint her face.’ + +‘But it suits some women, don’t you think?’ said Clive. He got up with a +little stumble of eagerness and came to look beside her. He could be +grateful even for a negative tribute to Hester. ‘It’s rather too hot a +day for Marcia’s make-up, isn’t it? Her mouth seems rather shifted. But +Mrs. Travers is very crisp and neat.’ + +‘Yes; and it’s an amusing little face, with the straight fringe; like a +Chinese baby, rather. Poor little creature. I’m afraid this venture of +hers will be an uneasy one. Mr. Gales looks to me very unstable.’ + +Clive smiled. ‘They don’t expect stability, I imagine.’ He was loyal to +them, but he did not identify himself with Hester’s friends. + +Now they were all in the room, Mr. Gales still talking. + +‘What a divine room!’ he cried, twirling about to look at +it.—‘Grandmothers;—great-grandmothers;—Hymns Ancient and Modern;—Mudie’s +Circulating Library and bridal wreaths—all the things we’ve raised such +a dust to run away from! here they sit and smile at us!’ + +‘Isn’t it cosy,’ said Hester. She drew her blue linen sleeve across her +forehead. + +‘Cosy, my dear child!—that’s not the word for it! It’s balm!—not down! I +revel in it! Simply revel!’ and snuffing his nostrils, as if assailed by +sweet odours, Mr. Gales plunged himself into the deepest chair and then +plunged out again as Mrs. Travers, perched at the top of the steps, +looked down into the lower room calling out: ‘O Beppo—come and +see!—Goldfish and black-lacquer and—oh the priceless little +water-colours!’ + +‘We shall never look upon their like again,’ said Mr. Gales solemnly, +gazing down, while Hester, at a little distance, surveyed him with +a persistent gloom. ‘Hester, my darling, they give me an +inspiration:—about that rather degraded little dining-hutch of yours at +The Crofts.—I’ll paint you a row of Indian jokes; palanquins; elephants; +ladies in bustles flirting—_pour le bon motif_—with cavalry officers +under the deodars! Kipling, Empire and the Nineties! A wink for every +meal! _Cela vous sourit?_’ + +‘Not at all,’ said Hester, sitting down at Monica’s tea-table. ‘I don’t +like being winked at. Keep to _La Boutique Fantasque_ idea. Robin would +love that.’ She had not liked the reproof of her ‘cosy,’ for which +Monica could not but feel grateful, though Mr. Gales’s encomiums struck +her as singularly impudent. + +Hester sat opposite her, on a straight chair and was evidently bent on +doing her duty by her. ‘I’m rather worried about Robin, Monica. He calls +out in his sleep. There’s some repression, I think, and he cries when I +try to get at it. He says he sees Jeremy in a cage.—I suppose that’s the +goldfish.—You had the same sort of trouble with Vivian, hadn’t you, +Marcia?’ + +‘There was a definite complex in Vivian’s case,’ Mrs. Jessup, from the +easy chair where she already sat smoking, a magazine on her lap, +answered. ‘He’s always tended to Narcissism; moral scruples and general +priggishness when he was little and trying to get religion now at +school. He wants to be like Saint Francis, it seems, and say his +prayers. He may outgrow it, but it’s rather disturbing I own.’ Mrs. +Jessup did not lift her eyes from her magazine as she thus diagnosed her +child. ‘Have you seen these pictures of Malcolm’s, Beppo? Putrid the way +he panders to the public nowadays.’ + +Mr. Gales sat on the arm of her chair to look while Mrs. Travers, +exclaiming that she was _éreintée_, extended herself on the sofa, +lighting a cigarette. + +‘Here’s Celia, Mummy. Did you know she was coming? How delightful!’ +Clive, from his place at the window, had stood looking over them all +with his cool, aerial gaze, very much to his mother’s eye the hovering +archangel, uncertain of where, on an ambiguous planet, to place his +foot, and as he now left the room she suspected that it was with relief. + +‘Celia who?’ Mrs. Jessup raised her eyes to enquire. ‘Will you have any +neighbours you can talk to here?’ + +‘Why shouldn’t we? If we come here to live, why shouldn’t other +intelligent people?’ Hester rejoined. ‘It’s Celia Bowen, a very old +friend of Clive’s. She came to that party when Lionel played—don’t you +remember?—and he evidently found her more worth talking to than any of +us. She plays the violin.’ Hester spoke tersely. + +‘The thin fair girl—who looked like Clive?—But I thought she’d died in +Switzerland long ago! How dreadful of me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Jessup taking +out her lip-stick and equipping her mouth for the new encounter. + +‘Help my mother-in-law with the tea, Beppo,’ said Hester, and Mr. Gales +sprang from the arm of the chair to pass the cups. He was full of +goodwill and though she found him impudent Monica did not dislike him. + +Celia, facing them all with her gentleness, rather as Clive faced them, +made Monica think of Milton’s lady confronted with the Comus rout. She +belonged with Clive, not with the rout, and did not Hester, whose eyes +were on her, feel it? ‘But I _have_ been here all the time, you know!’ +she was saying as she entered. Clive had been asking why he so seldom +saw her. She was cool and gentle, but surprised, and she said, as she +came to kiss her friend and be introduced to the circle: ‘I didn’t know +you had a party, Monica.’ + +‘Do lie down,’ said Hester, indicating the sofa from which Mrs. Travers +had arisen. ‘You must be tired; it’s so hot, isn’t it?’ + +It was evident that Hester intended to be kind, thoughtful and +efficient, but Celia, who would as soon have thought of taking off her +shoes and stockings when she came out to tea as of lying down, laughed a +little nervously as she said: ‘Thanks so much!—But I’m not a bit tired.’ + +‘Well, Oriana is, at all events,’ said Hester, who still stood, rather +gauntly, in the middle of the room in her straight blue dress. ‘We’ve +had a very tiring afternoon, up at The Crofts.—What sort of people owned +it? Their ideas of decoration were absolutely grisly.—We shall have to +scrape it—inside and out—beginning with the rockery!’ + +‘Oh—the rockery! Poor dears!—It was the pride of their lives! They said +to me, when they were going: “At all events we are leaving the new +people a lovely rockery!”’ Celia laughed again, taking the chair that +Clive placed for her. ‘It is bad, of course; but it has some nice things +on it—don’t scrape too ruthlessly:—and they were rather dears, and had a +darling cat!’ Celia was talking with a touch of her headlong girlish +manner. Hester confused her a little, and Mr. Gales’s cheerfully +admiring gaze. ‘A yellow Tom, you know,’ she said, ‘with blue eyes.’ + +Mrs. Jessup was also surveying her, but not admiringly, seeing in her, +Monica imagined, a trivial example of the capitalistic drone. ‘A cat? +And what have they done with it?’ she demanded. ‘People who have a +stained-glass Romeo and Juliet in their lavatory window might have been +capable of turning their cat out to starve, I feel!—I don’t need to be +told what sort of people they were, Hester!’ + +‘Try some of these cakes, Celia.’ Clive placed himself before her and +smiled down upon her as she murmured, disconcerted: ‘Turned it out! Why, +it was their treasure! They carried it away in a hamper.’ + +‘What do these cakes remind you of, Mummy?’ Clive went on, keeping +himself between Celia and Mrs. Jessup. ‘Do you remember that hot day at +Chartres when we stopped at the pastrycook’s and bought wonderful cakes +for tea—cakes like these—on our way back to the hotel?—Do you remember +the ill-tempered _gardien_—and the black kitten we found wandering in +the cathedral?’ + +‘What a tribute to my cakes!—Of course I remember.’ + +‘When did you eat the cakes of Chartres, Hester?’ Mr. Gales inquired, +reclining now above Oriana on the back of the sofa as he fanned her with +a newspaper. + +‘I didn’t eat them. It was Clive; long ago.—Some more tea, please, +Monica.’ + +‘You and Clive must go some day,’ said Monica, filling the cup. ‘It’s +the most beautiful cathedral in the world.’ + +‘We must all four go,’ said Clive. ‘You and I and Mummy and Celia, +Hester.—To think of your never having seen Chartres!’ + +‘But I have seen it.’ Hester drank off her tea and rose as she spoke, +pushing back her chair. ‘During the war. The windows were all muffled +up.’ + +She showed rather flagrantly that Clive’s suggestion of a quartette had +ruffled her and glancing first at her and then at her son, Monica +protested: ‘If you’ve not seen the glass, you’ve only seen it asleep; +with its eyes shut. Clive must take you. You must go again.’ + +‘But I don’t want to go again,’ said Hester. ‘It’s the most beautiful +cathedral in the world, no doubt, but it’s dead and done with; that’s +what I feel about it. It’s like a terrible, beautiful skull, looking +away over those endless plains.’ She walked to the window and pulled up +the blind. ‘When is the taxi coming, Clive? Isn’t it late already?’ + +Clive was scanning his wife’s averted countenance. Was it really his +suggestion about Celia that had so perturbed her? Yet she did not seem +angry with Clive; she smiled round and up at him as he joined her at the +window and said, laying his hand on her shoulder: ‘Not quite time yet. +It’s hot, isn’t it?—I think I could open this a little further—may I, +Mummy?—Yes; that’s better. Sit in the draught, darling. You’re tired.’ + +‘Not a skull, Hester,’ Monica sent the arrested ball rolling again. Mr. +Gales, Oriana, and Mrs. Jessup were now bending their heads with wild +laughter over some further atrocity discovered in the pages of the +magazine and she and Clive and Hester and Celia seemed alone together. +‘More like the moon, as one sees it sometimes in daylight, in a blue +sky.—Do you remember that we saw Chartres once like that, Clive, coming +by train up from Bordeaux? It floated over the plains; from miles away +we saw it; it looked transparent, impalpable; it was heavenly rather +than terrible.’ + +Hester seemed to listen absently. She had not taken the chair Clive put +for her and still stood looking out of the window. ‘Well, the moon _is_ +a skull,’ she said. ‘Here is the taxi, Clive.’ + +For some moments after they were gone Monica and Celia sat in silence. +One might have thought that a much larger party had been there, Monica +thought, looking slowly about her oddly disordered room, where a pile of +magazines sprawled on the floor, the cushions of the sofa lay tossed and +cigarette-ends and ash were scattered freely. + +‘Well, what are you thinking of them?’ she enquired, looking across at +Celia with an ironic lift of the lip. + +Celia was watching her, quietly. ‘Of them? Hester’s friends? They seem +very good-tempered.—But I was thinking about Clive and Hester, and how +happy they are. I was thinking that it’s the greatest success.’ + +‘You mean their marriage? Yes. I suppose it is. Yes. They are very +devoted.’ + +‘One sees it in the way they look—or don’t look—at each other.’ Celia +slightly smiled. ‘They are always aware of each other—and understanding +each other. It’s the greatest success;—and you mustn’t suppose, you must +be sure, Monica.’ + +‘Perhaps I am sure. Perhaps that’s the trouble with me,’ said Monica, +after a moment. ‘It’s a success which shuts me out; because I can’t +understand it.’ + +‘Why not?’ Celia still smiled. + +‘I know you always thought me wrong,’ said Monica. ‘I know you always +thought I didn’t appreciate Hester’s qualities.’ + +‘Wrong? Did I? Anyway—she is different now. Don’t you feel that?’ + +‘She’s happier. She is completely happy; completely satisfied. She has +everything she wants, if that is what you mean.’ + +‘Well, perhaps it does come down to being happy,’ said Celia. ‘And +perhaps nobody who isn’t happy and satisfied, _is_ himself. Being +unhappy and dissatisfied twists people so, doesn’t it? Not that Hester +was twisted, exactly; she was always straight.—But I have a feeling now, +remembering how she was when I first saw her, that she had her back +against a wall. There is no wall now.’ + +‘I don’t think that she had her back against a wall in the very least, +my darling child; I think she was straight—as a ramrod—because she had +spent her life in hitting out against the world—with complete success. I +think she saw me with _my_ back against the wall; and so I was. If there +seems no wall now, it is only because I manage to act as though I could +step away if I wanted to. As a matter of fact, I can’t move an inch. She +is there, close to me—whichever way I stir.’ Tears now came to Monica’s +eyes, the checked tears of her wretched afternoon, and she put her +handkerchief, angrily, to her eyes. ‘I don’t mean that she forces +herself on me; I mean that Clive puts her there, between us, and that +she dares me to forget her for a moment.’ + +‘She can’t help it if he puts her there. It’s his loyalty, don’t you +see?—because he is so afraid that you want to put her out.’ + +‘If he was afraid—of anything connected with my happiness—could he have +brought her down here, set her here, at my door, her and her +friends?—I’m bound and gagged and pinioned, Celia, and laid at Hester’s +feet.’—The scorching simile returned to her.—‘He doesn’t know it, poor +darling;—no man ever knows these things;—but she does; she knows that I +have to swallow anything she presents me with, without a grimace;—like +Mr. Gales and his twittering little mistress!—If Clive had the least bit +of fear for me, for our relationship, his and mine, he would know that I +ran away to hide from him!’ And the hot tears rose and she pressed her +handkerchief angrily against them. + +‘But, then—why did they come? What made them come at all?—if it wasn’t +simply because they thought it would give you pleasure?’ said Celia +after a moment, finding her way, and Monica’s tears were checked as she, +too, tried to think why they had come. + +‘Because Hester wished to display her generosity to Clive; because she +wished to please Clive,’ she found.—‘I don’t know why, unless it’s +that.—Forgive me, Celia; you see me as the tigress mother; the hateful +tigress mother. Perhaps I am.’ She dried her eyes and sat gazing out at +the green. + +‘No; it’s only that you are so different, you and Hester.’ Celia’s +downcast eyes seemed studying a difficult move in chess. ‘He must see +it; Clive must have seen it from the first, and from the first it must +have made him miserable. Only he loves her so much that he feels sure +you would, too, if you could really get to know her.—Perhaps you will, +Monica,’ and Celia raised her eyes showing her friend the only possible +move out of her predicament. ‘Perhaps you will, after all. His love +can’t be so mistaken. There must be so much to love in Hester—if she +makes Clive happy.—Can’t you trust that, Monica, and try?’ + +Monica’s eyes dwelt on the girl’s delicate face. ‘What does it mean to +you, their coming here?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been wondering about that.—I’m +afraid they weren’t thinking of me—or of you either, when they came.’ + +Celia leaned back in her chair and looked across at her. ‘I’m not a +wounded doe, Monica,’ she said, and she smiled. + +‘Not a wounded doe?’ + +‘No.’ Celia returned her gaze with a defiance almost gay; ‘though I am +sure you feel me that, you and Norah! I was awfully miserable when it +all happened, of course; so miserable that I got ill; that couldn’t be +pretended about and I didn’t try to pretend, with you, did I? But I’m +not pretending now. It’s over.’ + +‘You have, really, cut him out of your life?—What queer creatures we +are, Celia.—It almost hurts me to hear you say it.’ + +‘But I don’t mean that. I’ve not cut him out. But it’s over—in the way +of hurting. It’s all become rather like the cathedral floating over the +plains, you know, something rather terrible; but beautiful, and very far +away,’ said Celia. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + +Monica saw Captain Ingpen once again before the summer was over. He came +down seldom, it seemed, leaving most of the ordering of his new home to +Norah’s efficient hands, but on going one afternoon to have a practice +with Celia she found him at the cottage, seated in the window behind +Norah and the tea-table, stretching out one hand to stir the cup of tea +that stood on the window-sill beside him and turning the pages of a book +with the other. He was an inconsiderate person; she had said that of +him, on sufficient evidence, she thought, and his desultory manner as he +sat there now, reading his book and drinking his tea, reinforced the +opinion. He was not surly or discourteous in his withdrawal; but he was +certainly not assiduous, and it vexed Monica a little to see that he +treated her dear Celia with as little ceremony as he did his niece. As +she greeted them all she felt that her smile, though including, passed +him over intentionally, and hoped that he would feel the edge of its +aloofness. He remained standing, dark against the window, for a moment +after she had taken her place, his head bent forward, as though the +ceiling were too low for him, and she saw that he was looking across at +her as he had looked the first time they had met; and recalling her +impression then, a slight feeling of discomfort grew in her as she +became aware that even after resuming his seat he continued to look at +her and not at his book. Perhaps he did not know, sitting against the +light as he was, that she observed this, but she suspected suddenly, as +his silence and his scrutiny persisted, that he did know, and perhaps +expected acquiescence on her part. Again old memories were revived in +her, of pursuing suitors. She remembered even, while she chattered on to +Celia and Norah, all unaware, the man in India, Charlie’s friend and +brother-officer, who had dared one day to make mad love to her in his +absence. She remembered her rage and his folly of despair, and as she +sat there before Captain Ingpen a little flame of angry colour rose up +to her cheek, anger with herself that this stranger should have the +power of awakening such memories in her. He sat crouched a little +forward, a finger between the pages of his book, raising his cup to his +lips now and then, and reaching it out once over Norah’s shoulder, to +ask in the coolest tone for a fresh one, and, as the flame of the old +memory sank, Monica was able to ask herself, whether it was that he +admired her and was willing that she should know it, or whether it was +that he was sorry for her. The one was almost as absurd and incensing as +the other, yet, as she talked and laughed, making Celia and Norah laugh +with her, she grew more and more aware of her unhappiness. It was as if +something passed between her and the silent stranger; as if she could +not keep something from him. He heard, as well as she, that her laughter +rang false; he as well as she knew that grief burned in her heart. There +was a complicity of consciousness between them, for he, too, was unhappy +and he, too, knew that she knew it. + +She would have liked to escape, to evade the practice, when tea was +over, but Celia had brought out her violin and when Norah said: ‘I must +be about my work;—will you stay and listen, Uncle Godfrey?—Do you mind +his listening?’ it was settled, with no word said, that he was to stay +and she not to mind playing the Brahms sonata to him. He changed his +seat as she and Celia took their places. He moved into Celia’s vacated +corner of the sofa, where it was true that he could listen more +comfortably but where, also, he could continue to look at her as she sat +in profile to him at the piano. But, when they began to play, she saw +that he was no longer looking. He clasped his hands behind his head and +stretched out his long legs, and sat, absorbed, brooding, his heart +enfranchised and appeased, she knew, as was her own heart, by the +splendour and magnanimity of the music. She played her part well. And +Celia played well. Captain Ingpen did not look up at them when they had +finished. He remained sitting in his corner, his hands clasped behind +his head, his eyes fixed before him. Only when she was definitely moving +towards the door, did he rise to go to open it for her and Celia to pass +through, and as she gave him her hand in farewell, she could no longer +interpret the cold dark glance that floated, from far away it seemed, to +rest as if with a bitter physical pressure upon her. ‘He cares for +music, that speechless person,’ she said to Celia at the door. And Celia +said: ‘It’s difficult to be sure of anything he cares for; but I feel +that, too. He always sits and listens when I play.’ + +And after this meeting six weeks passed; Clive and Hester had been +settled in The Crofts for ten days, the summer was over, before she saw +Captain Ingpen again. On the October afternoon she had turned her steps +in the direction of the woods that lay, across the fields, behind her +cottage; not that the woods were a favourite walk of hers; her favourite +walk took her in the opposite direction, up past The Crofts to the +hilltop; but she knew that Mr. Gales was at work in the dining-room and +did not care to risk encounters. She foresaw, indeed, that she would now +seldom walk past The Crofts. Clive would be in town, Robin at his little +local Montessori school; if Hester saw her from the house or garden, she +would feel constrained to greet her, and one of the conversations that +Hester seemed to find easy but that Monica felt laborious, would ensue; +so the dull woods would be her frequent portion. + +They were singularly dull woods, she thought, as she approached them +this afternoon, drawn in duns and russets on a linen-grey sky. It was a +windless, heavy day, and when she stepped in among the closely serried +ashes and alders—all untended and unthinned so that they grew poorly, +the dense underbrush rising about them—she was aware of a slight feeling +of stupefaction, as if she entered a dream. + +The woods were crossed by sluggish streams—or, rather, ditches—choked +with the fallen leaves of a rainy summer, and in passing over each one, +on its narrow plank, she felt as if she sank still further into the +dream and left each time more of the past behind her. Everything was +still, except when once, from a high branch, a jay screamed loudly. +Suddenly, at a little distance, she saw the figure of a man approaching +her. + +She had come to one of the streams to find the plank which lay across it +half eaten away by the damp, and she had paused, about to turn back, +when she recognized Captain Ingpen. She remembered then that the woods +belonged to the Old Manor Farm and that he must be in possession. He had +seen her, that was evident; and since she wore her grey dress and black +hat he probably recognized her, too. It would seem uncivil to turn away, +and she did not want to stand and wait for him; so, summoning +resolution, she crossed the plank with wary footsteps and went forward, +noting, as she approached him, Captain Ingpen’s heavy shoulders and +narrow hips; so heavy above and so spare below was he, that, with the +something prowling in his gait now perceptible, he made her think of a +gaunt strong forest animal. + +Curious, lonely creature, wandering as solitary as herself. He went with +the damp tawny woods and with the harsh cry of the jay and she was glad +to see him, so she told herself. He offered surmise, significance to her +cramped and troubled mind. + +‘How do you do?’ she said, smiling upon him with a smile consciously +kept unconscious. ‘Do you remember me? We’ve never spoken, I think, +though we have met.—These are your woods, aren’t they? I must be +trespassing.’ + +He did not reply for a moment, standing still in the narrow path and +resting his curious gaze upon her; hard, empty, yet assessing. And if +she were starved for people and events, what was he? So she asked +herself, to escape the feeling of discomfort and uncertainty the pause +evoked. They had never spoken; and to speak like this, with the light +dismissal of all that had, indubitably, passed between them, had in it, +she knew, something of a definite rebuff. But a rebuff was necessary in +dealing with a man like Captain Ingpen. One must either rebuff him, or +seem to accept what he might mean. So she spoke lightly, while thinking +of his loneliness and of how inadequate for his needs would be the +delicate viands her hunger craved. Distant memories crossed her mind; +strange, perilous names; of tribes and mountains: Hindu Kush: the +Duránis; the Ghilzáis; adventure, danger glimmered behind them. Meat; +freshly killed meat, was what those tiger eyes were asking. Why was he +here in these dank English woods? So she kept her discomfort at bay, +scanning him with her well-equipped gaze, and he answered her at last. +‘Yes; I remember you. Very well. You played Brahms. Yes; these are my +woods, I believe. I have hardly found my way about the place yet.’ + +He turned, and as, after a moment’s hesitation, she went forward, he +walked beside her in the narrow path. After all, Monica said to herself, +she had intended to go to the end of the woods. + +‘Do you really think of settling here?’ she asked, pursuing her own +train of thought, for he said nothing and she knew that he was still +looking at her. ‘Have you given up India?’ + +‘India has given me up,’ said Captain Ingpen. ‘I can’t go on there. I +have been too ill and I am getting too old for the sort of life I like. +I can’t stand being scorched or frozen any longer.’ His voice was as +curious as his gaze; so low that one would expect it to be soft; yet so +harsh that it startled one. + +‘And you think that you will be able to stand being rained on? England’s +a very damp place, a very sodden place, after India.’ + +‘I think it’s getting old that’s sodden—everywhere,’ said Captain +Ingpen. + +‘You can hardly speak of getting old yet in that sense.’ + +‘You are always old when you are past your work,’ he said. + +She did not intend to enter upon personal expostulations or +encouragements, yet since, as Norah’s uncle and as country neighbour, +Captain Ingpen could not remain a stranger, she was willing to listen to +whatever confidences he might feel impelled to impart. And indeed after +a moment he went on: + +‘The only reason I am here is because it is near London and the India +Office, and I have some writing to occupy me. One of those atrocious +books that one spends the evening of one’s days perpetrating and that no +one ever reads—except a few jealous contemporaries. Maps and statistics, +you know, and photographs of oneself standing among one’s native +friends. Norah being here was something of a reason too; her mother is +the only one of my relatives I could ever endure; I can’t be near her as +she lives in Shropshire and is married to a poisonous parson; but Norah +is a good girl and would see after one if one were ill.’ + +‘How do you like your house?’ asked Monica. + +He was making no definite appeal for sympathy yet how clearly she +recognized the vanity in him and the something pathetic that went with a +manly man’s vanity; something boyish and endearing. Still, she would not +gratify it. She asked no question about the relations he could not +endure, and made no protest about the atrocious book. ‘How do you like +your house?’ was all that she vouchsafed him. + +‘Well, here it is.—How do _you_ like it? Come and look at it,’ said +Captain Ingpen. + +They had reached the end of the wood and there indeed, beyond a hedge, +stood the low, ochre-coloured Old Manor Farm, a very plain and not +unpleasing dwelling, long lapsed—or risen—from its original utilitarian +purposes, with a trellised arch over the doorway and three plots of +dilapidated snapdragons on the lawn before it. Monica had only seen it +from the road, and, standing still to survey it, found herself placing +it with some surprise in its new aspect. + +‘I had no idea one came upon it like this,’ she said. ‘It’s not so bad, +is it?—I should take down that trellis if I were you, and do away with +those flower beds.’ + +‘Would you? I know nothing about gardening. I am a perfect savage about +all that sort of thing. Norah intends a border under the wall, I +believe. Come and look at it,’ he repeated, opening a small wicket-gate +in the hedge. + +Monica hesitated, a strange apprehension seizing her mind as she stood +beside Captain Ingpen in the sombre wood and looked at the +ochre-coloured house. Those sluggish streams had been Lethes; to pass +through the hedge would be to forget the past; and though Clive was +taken from her irretrievably, memory was precious; she had come to the +end of everything except memory—was not that always the fate of the old? +And if she passed through the wicket with Captain Ingpen, would she not +jeopardize her one possession? It would be like entering a new life. And +she had nothing to do with new lives. + +His eyes were on her, and as she raised her own she thought that she +detected in their narrow scrutiny a mocking challenge: ‘Are you afraid?’ +did they not say? ‘of me? and of the difference that I may make?’ It was +childish to harbour such fancies. Her courage, her sense of humour rose +to answer him. ‘Yes, I must look at it,’ she said, and she went through +the hedge and walked beside him up the gravel path. + +The side of the house that gave on the wood was patched with damp +stains. A jug stood inside a grated larder window. She wondered if his +servants took care of him. He was the sort of man who would make his own +coffee, with a machine, on the breakfast-table. Yes, he would have good +coffee, thought Monica, her competence reassuringly asserting itself as +he ushered her into a bare, flagged passage and then into a brightly +furnished drawing-room. + +‘The dining-room is opposite,’ he said, ‘and there are six bedrooms +upstairs. I am going to turn two into a big study and get a view. It’s +too God-forsaken to sit here with nothing to look out at except that +grass-plot.—Here is a comfortable chair. My man will bring us some tea.’ + +‘Tea? Oh, no, thanks, it’s far too early;—I must get back for tea.’—He +did take things for granted.—‘If you look at the room, and not out of +the window, it’s rather nice in here, all the same.’ + +‘It’s not bad, is it? Norah helped me with it. Big chairs and cheerful +colours, and the latest things in art.’ + +On the walls indeed there hung some very vigorous landscapes, and on the +mantelpiece were two or three carved animals that reminded Monica of +those that Hester domiciled. + +‘It’s a very unexpected sort of room to find in a house like this,’ she +said. + +‘Is it? Is anything unexpected nowadays?’ + +‘Well—I should not have expected Norah or Celia Bowen to have chosen +those pictures:—they are very modern girls in some ways, no doubt; but +their taste has never developed further than Sickert or Wilson Steer.’ + +‘Oh, they didn’t choose those.—I picked those up, just after the war, in +London and Paris.—Will you have a cigarette?—They are not what I call +modern girls, those two; they seem to me survivals.’ He held a match to +light her cigarette. + +‘Of the fittest? I hope you think so.’ + +‘I don’t know that I think so,’ Captain Ingpen was no longer being vain +and boyish; his massive maturity glanced at her dispassionately: ‘They +will take what is given to them; they won’t take what they want.—I like +the modern girl for doing that;—or trying to.’ + +‘Perhaps my two are wise enough to know that you can rarely keep what +you take. It is what is given that we really keep, I think.’ + +Captain Ingpen’s eye rested on her; his odd, light, hot eye. ‘That +sounds rather religious, you know,’ he observed after a moment, and +Monica, who had not thought of it in this light, who had only thought, +instinctively, of defending her two against the other sort of modern +girl (Hester, of course, was the other sort) said: ‘Perhaps it is. Most +things come to religion in the end.’ + +‘Well, I’m not religious,’ Captain Ingpen remarked. He certainly was +not. He had no need to tell her that, Monica reflected, feeling a stir +of pity for him, the ageing, stiffening creature, prowling about the +bright cage with its easy chairs and irrelevant modernities. She liked +feeling a stir of pity. It was pleasanter to feel pity than fear; +though, now that she came to look at him in his cage, she could tell +herself that the fear amounted only to a sense of wariness. One kept +one’s eye on him, that was all; one was wary; as one might be with even +a caged lion. + +‘I’ve seen too many religions to be religious,’ he went on after a +moment. ‘If I’m anything I’m a Buddhist;—an admirable solvent of all +religions. But though I accept the metaphysics of Buddhism I prefer life +to Nirvana. The only bother about life is that it doesn’t prefer us.—It +leaves us in the lurch!’ And Captain Ingpen gave a laugh that was like +the jay’s discordant cry. + +Yes: it did indeed. He was at the other end of the room, smoking, +walking up and down, his hands behind his back, and in her chair by the +fire Monica forgot him, utterly forgot him for a moment, as she sat and +pondered this echo of her thoughts. Was that not exactly what life had +done to her—after all the hopes and strivings? It had done worse than +merely leave her; it had left her in the lurch. She saw the +posture;—bent; arrested; passive and painful.—The lurch, in which one +was fixed and tormented. Yet she, too, perhaps, like Captain Ingpen, +preferred even the lurch to Nirvana. ‘I suppose because one goes on +hoping,’ she heard herself say. + +It was the insidious, dangerous habit, and she had not known till now +that it would carry her so far. She rose, disconcerted, as she heard +that she had spoken the words aloud. ‘I really must be going,’ she said. +‘You must let me come for tea some day.—I shall have some plants for +your border if you care for them.—I like your house, inside; better +inside than out. It is rather dreary out, I think. But that can be +helped, too.’ She had picked up her gloves and stood buttoning her coat +at throat and hip, and, making no comment on the suddenness of her +decision, Captain Ingpen led her out into the hall, only saying: ‘I will +walk back with you, then. I’ve not begun the book yet. I’ve all my +time.—Wait a moment.’ He left her on the threshold. + +She stood in the doorway looking at the snapdragons and wondering anew +at the things he took for granted. She had not expected to have him +beside her on the way back. She had, perhaps, been intending to escape +him. Then she heard his footstep sounding along the stone passages and +as he appeared before her she saw with surprise that he carried a +hatchet in his hand. ‘I follow Norah’s counsels with regard to chairs +and borders,’ he remarked, stepping out before her, ‘and I will now +follow yours about the trellis. Stand a little inside;—it might fall on +you.—It’s a farmer’s house with the trellis, isn’t it? Now we will +transform it into a gentlemanly residence,’ and, the surprise warming to +amazement, Monica saw him lay the hatchet with fell strokes about the +base of the harmless structure. + +‘Oh!—Wait!—Do wait and think it over first!’ She did not know what to +say. The flimsy supports came crashing down; the poor old tattered +crimson-rambler drooped on its fastenings. ‘Really this is reckless!’ +she cried, half amused, half indignant. + +‘Not the least reckless,’ said Captain Ingpen, wielding his weapon with +a sort of indolent enjoyment. ‘I accept your judgment. Nothing could be +less reckless.—Now there is a mess! Can you step through it?’ + +‘You _are_ reckless. You enjoy destruction,’ Monica said, still with her +startled laugh. + +‘Well, that’s true enough; when it’s of rubbish.’ He held out his hand. +She steadied herself on it and sprang; but her ankle struck against a +spar of splintered wood and she found herself precipitated into Captain +Ingpen’s arms. For a moment of confusion and anger, anger against +him—and against herself for suspecting him—she did suspect that they +closed about her. ‘My fault,’ she heard him say, calmly:—or was it +calmly? ‘You are not hurt?’—He placed her on the path. + +‘My ankle is a little hurt, I think.’ She hoped that she, too, spoke +calmly, or seemed to: and her tumble would explain her hurried breath, +her heightened colour. He was observing her colour, and then he looked +down at her ankle. ‘Yes; your stocking is torn. Are you angry with me?’ +he asked, and his ambiguous smile rested on her; ‘I only meant to +satisfy your taste about the trellis; I didn’t mean you to hurt your +ankle.’ + +‘Of course I’m not angry. It’s not really hurt.’ Monica moved along the +path. But she was angry, and the more for his having asked it; and she +suspected him now of knowing what she felt and of enjoying her +predicament and of inwardly jibing at the embraced Victorian lady. + +‘Now, do look at the house before you go,’ he said. He had moved beside +her. ‘And tell me that you think it improved.’ He was completely master +of the situation. + +She looked up at the bare façade. ‘Yes; it is much better. You might +have a rose there, trained over the door. Not a crimson-rambler. I am +glad that’s gone. Some nice old-fashioned yellowish rose to go with the +colour of the house. Yes; it’s really very nice like that. Recklessness +has its uses.’ + +The breeze had risen and the wood rustled at hand, darker now and more +melancholy. ‘I will go back by the road,’ said Monica. ‘There are too +many insecure planks to cross in the wood.’ + +‘I was just thinking when I met you,’ said Captain Ingpen, ‘how easy it +would be—if one managed to break one’s neck in a tumble—to disappear in +the mud of one of those ditches and never be heard of again.’ + +‘They _are_ rather grisly streams,’ Monica admitted. + +They walked in silence then between the hedgerows. A sense of excitement +remained from her anger with Monica. Her thoughts were no longer +occupied with Captain Ingpen and his daring; they had turned to Clive; +not dreamlike now, not far away or forgotten. On the contrary, he stood +out sharply in her mind; sharp, small and near, and, for the first time +in her life, it felt to her as if she looked at her son coldly. Was he +not weak? even a little fatuous? Was it not fatuous to thrust his wife +on her as he had now done, imagining that the enforced intimacy would +compel affection? The pain of the summer day when he had shattered all +her joy returned to her, deepened by this strange sense of alienation. +He had said that it was Hester’s idea, not his; he had said that Hester +made him see her loneliness; he had understood her joy so little as to +tell her that, and look for response and gratitude. + +Captain Ingpen’s voice broke in strangely on her thoughts. ‘But what do +you suppose one goes on hoping _for_?’ + +So far had she drifted on the dark current of her mood that she looked +up at him almost with astonishment. + +‘You said one went on hoping. You were thinking about preferring life to +Nirvana.—What does one go on hoping for?—At our age? Do you know?’ + +Was this dark tumult life? And the sluggish dream of the wood Nirvana? +She felt herself struggle, with herself, and, it seemed, against Captain +Ingpen. But she would not attempt to evade him. That might involve her +in some undignified mishap. She armed herself with what she could secure +of cool sincerity. ‘One hopes to feel again the things one has felt; the +things that have given life its value.’ She heard the words and they +were lifeless; yet she had believed in them. + +‘Ah. Yes; just so. But at our age—for you are as old as I am, I +suppose—it’s rather idiotic, isn’t it?’ + +‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not idiotic. There are always the grandchildren,’ +her bitterness found. How much good, indeed, was Robin going to do +her;—since Hester would never believe that she could do him any? + +‘Grandchildren? Have you grandchildren?’ + +‘Yes. I have a grandson; four years old.’ + +‘Really. That surprises me. You are not grandmotherly. But one forgets +how obsolete the grandmother type has become. Grandchildren?’ he +repeated. ‘Are they really worth hoping about?’ + +‘I think so.’ + +‘No you don’t. I can’t believe it.’ He did not look at her. He walked +beside her, his cigarette hanging at the edge of his lower lip, giving +it a disdainful projection. ‘Why not face it? Why not own that life is +an illusion? We get nothing that we hope to get. Or if we get it, we +never keep it.’ + +‘Never?’ She, too, looked before her. Was this what he had seen in her +face that afternoon at Norah’s? + +‘Never. You know it as well as I do, since you are a brave woman. You +often say it to yourself. No love lasts. That is what we want, of +course. Not only to get it, but to keep it. It doesn’t last.’ + +‘No love?’ + +‘Not one. Haven’t you watched it in your own life? In other people’s? +There may be a perfect time, a perfect relation; but hardly is it +grasped and realized before it begins to change. It is swept away; or +broken. Everything fades, Mrs. Wilmott. Everything.’ + +It was horrible to hear him riveting her chains upon her. His words +seemed to knock great iron nails into her heart and, as she heard them, +Charlie’s face flickered, remote, unsubstantial, to the tune of an old +waltz of the nineties. And there went Clive, looking down at Hester, who +held him by the hem of his coat. Something cried out in her then and +rose up and wrenched itself free of the manacles. Of course she loved +Clive. Even if he forgot her. Even if she could do nothing for him. It +was only in a nightmare that she could hold him off and watch him. + +‘One goes on loving,’ she said. ‘It is the love we give we keep.’ She +was speaking more to herself than to Captain Ingpen. But he too needed +help, and she was sorry for him. + +‘So one flatters oneself. One goes on as long as one has hopes of +receiving something back. I don’t count myself more stable than the rest +of the phantasmagoria. Perhaps what we go on hoping for is God;—the +thread the beads are strung on. I suspect that the thread is even more +of an illusion than the beads.’ + +‘All the same, we do prefer life to Nirvana. Our preference may have a +meaning.’ + +‘Don’t look for the thread,’ he jibed. ‘It’s not there.’ + +‘It’s as much there as the beads. There is something we care for, call +it beads or thread.—Are you trying to frighten me?’ she asked, and her +glance, with its kindness, had recovered its integrity. + +‘I am trying to make you own you are a companion in misfortune. One +likes to have a companion. One likes to feel one isn’t alone, you know.’ + +‘Yes, I know,’ said Monica. And the strange fact was that she and +Captain Ingpen were together and not alone. Let it rest at that for the +moment. ‘And now, what do you think of _my_ house?’ she said. Oddley +Green was reached and they were approaching her cottage. ‘It’s very +cheerful, isn’t it?’ + +‘Damnably cheerful,’ said Ingpen, with a laugh almost boyish. ‘I think I +like mine better. It keeps up no pretences at all events.’ + +‘But I live up to my pretences,’ said Monica, also laughing. ‘I _am_ +cheerful, you know.’ + +‘Yes. I know about your cheerfulness.’ His eye rested on her with the +glint of its challenge. ‘You’re not going to ask me into it, I suppose, +lonely as I am? You’ve had enough of me.’ + +‘For the moment I have: but I am going to ask you if you care to dine on +Saturday night—and play bridge afterwards. My son and his wife are +coming.’ + +‘The father and mother of the grandchild?’ + +‘Yes; my only son.’ + +‘Very dear, then, I suppose? And are you fond of your daughter-in-law? +Mothers never are, are they?’ He was not impudent, but she did not know +why not. She must accept him, if she accepted him at all, on his own +terms. She felt that she accepted him yet kept him at the distance she +intended as she said: ‘Very fond. She is a charming young woman: very +clever and interesting.’ + +‘Does she take what she wants, or what she is given?’ Captain Ingpen +enquired, and Monica said: ‘Oh—she’s quite modern; you will approve of +her.’ + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + +Monica went up to London on Saturday, making the cheerless railway +journey that plunged one so soon from the menaced countryside into the +sordid suburbs. One might pass all one’s life snugly ensconced in the +heart of London and remain almost unaware of this encompassing +wilderness. She returned to the heart, now, as an outsider, and there +was almost a sense of adventure in taking a taxi at the underground +station, after the added journey from Liverpool Street. She looked at +London and was aware of London, now, as an outsider is aware; just as +she looked at and was aware of Clive. A large luncheon-party in Hyde +Park Gardens restored to her some of the old sense of adequacy. She saw +herself there as a still significant woman to whom black was always +becoming, and a friend said over coffee: ‘My dear, you are a marvel.—You +look ten years younger than any of us.’ + +‘Living in the country puts one into cold storage,’ Monica answered. And +keeping one’s face set to a ready brightness was preserving, +doubtlessly. + +After lunch she bought some salted almonds—of which both Clive and +Hester were fond—and fruit for her dinner, had tea with Margaret Orde, +whose father was now dead and who had come to live in Bloomsbury, and on +the Liverpool Street Station platform met Norah, also returning from a +day in town. + +‘It’s such a dismal extension of one’s life—this station—isn’t it, +Norah?’ she said, greeting her young friend. + +‘I always rather like it. I always think it’s rather exciting,’ said +Norah. ‘It makes the country all the nicer.’ + +‘But it becomes part of the country in one’s thoughts.’ + +‘But that’s a very wrong way of looking at it,’ said Norah laughing; and +she was right of course. + +When they were established in their third-class carriage, their parcels +disposed in the rack above them, Monica said: ‘Your uncle is coming to +dine to-night with Clive and Hester. I didn’t know that he was settled +in until the other day. I met him and saw his house. You have done it +all charmingly, Norah, but it looks rather desolate all the same.’ + +‘It _is_ a desolate place,’ said Norah, ‘and I can’t quite see him +there; but it seems to suit him all right, and he’s got an awfully nice +oldish couple to take care of him.—His servants are fond of him. He is +that sort of person. I begin to see what mother used to mean when she +said he was endearing, in spite of everything.’ + +‘In spite of what?’ Monica asked. + +‘Well, I’m afraid Uncle Godfrey has been rather a bad lot. It’s just as +well you should know it if you are going to be kind to him,’ said Norah. +‘And anyway you are almost sure to hear about it—since he had to leave +the army because of it.’ + +‘Because of it! Oh, poor man!—In what sense a bad lot?’ She could not +associate Captain Ingpen with anything disgraceful; only with things +dangerous and difficult. Norah’s words inflicted an odd blow on her +heart. + +‘Oh—just in the usual sense; about women. He started his career by a +love affair with his Colonel’s wife in India, years ago; and it all came +out and there was an awful row and he was permitted to retire;—that’s +the proper expression I think. Of course I was too young to hear +anything about it; it’s only from what mother has said; because Mrs. +Ingpen was a friend of hers. They got married after her husband divorced +her. I remember great family wrangles because father wouldn’t let mother +ask her to stay. You know what a darling mother would be about things +like that. She used to brave father and go to stay with Mrs. Ingpen, in +Sussex, and once when I was in London at a concert with mother I saw +her. Very pretty; too pretty; very much made up and very peevish; but, +as mother said, one couldn’t wonder at that; Uncle Godfrey led her such +a life.’ + +‘Oh, dear!—He was not faithful to her—after all that she had braved for +him?’ + +‘Anything but faithful. I will say, from my glimpse of her, that she +struck me as the sort of woman a man might make love to but not at all +the sort he would care to marry. The wistful siren type, you know; I +can’t stand them. I don’t think mother was really very fond of her:—only +very sorry. Anyway he made her miserable and she wouldn’t divorce him.’ + +‘Swept away: broken: everything fades,’ thought Monica. ‘Did she go on +caring for him, then?’ she asked. + +‘I suppose she did. Mother said she always believed he would come back +if she held on. But he never did come back and she died a year or two +ago, still holding.’ + +‘Poor woman,’ said Monica. + +‘Yes, poor woman; but it’s rather mean all the same, don’t you think?’ +said Norah, ‘to hold a man if he wants to be free?’ + +‘Does a man like that want any further freedom than he takes?’ + +‘Well—if there was someone whom he couldn’t get unless he married them, +he would want it, wouldn’t he? And it’s rather revengeful to keep a man +against his will I think.’ + +‘But it must be rather difficult not to be revengeful under her +particular circumstances,’ said Monica. She seemed to feel the rusty cut +in the heart of Captain Ingpen’s peevish wife. + +It was late when she reached home and she had only time to arrange her +fruit and flowers before dressing for dinner. The parlour-maid announced +Captain Ingpen as she tied the last knot of her tea-gown and she stood +for a moment feeling a sudden reluctance that recalled to her, not so +much Captain Ingpen and his ambiguities, as her own girlhood when, all +dressed before a dance, she had used to stand at the head of the +staircase in her father’s house and feel afraid, but rather deliciously +afraid, of all that might befall below. The old waltz tune of the +nineties surged into her mind again and she remembered that Charlie had +befallen her at a dance. She had worn a tight pink satin bodice and a +full tulle skirt and her great-grandmother’s pearls—pearls sold long ago +during the hard years. How Charlie would have grieved could he have +known of all her struggles. She was glad he had never known, and as she +went down the stairs she kept her heart fixed in pity and tenderness on +Clive, so full of hope and anxious happiness; on Charlie, lying far away +in his Indian grave. + +Captain Ingpen was in the lower room, bending his massive head to one of +Charlie’s water-colours, and as he turned and looked up at her standing +on the steps above him, she saw that he found her beautiful. She +preferred not to think of Captain Ingpen’s capacity for appreciation. If +it had been fear she had felt just now, it had not been the delicious +fear of girlhood and there was almost a sense of anger in her as she +asked: ‘Do you know my India?’ + +‘Yes, slightly. I know most of India I imagine.’ He was looking at her +with a faintly provocative touch of amusement, rather as he had looked +when she hurt her ankle.—‘Beautiful; that is what you are; and I don’t +care how many grandchildren you have,’ was what his eyes were saying, +though he asked, with a sort of indulgent acquiescence, as though he +accepted her terms: ‘Did you care about India?—what you saw of it? Were +you there for long?’ + +‘Only two years. No, I didn’t care for it at all;—but my India was only +an extension of South Kensington, with all the defects of that type of +society and none of its virtues. I didn’t like Indian architecture—those +nasty teeming temples;—and I didn’t like the Indian landscape, or the +climate; it oppressed me.—And all those mysterious dark servants; the +impossibility of personal relations with the herds of people who took +care of one.—No; I hated it.’ She felt that she chattered a little. + +‘Are these your work?’ + +‘No; they are my husband’s.’ + +‘I didn’t think them yours somehow.’ + +It was wonderful indeed to see how much of South Kensington and its +standards dear Charlie had put into his water-colours. They were very +guileless, very conscientious and disastrously picturesque. It had made +him very happy—thank goodness—to paint them and give them to her. Yet +glancing at them for a moment she saw, as she had never paused to do +before, that the pictures that Hester’s friends painted had indeed +performed a useful function. They, like Captain Ingpen, had swept away +rubbish. + +‘I hear my young people,’ she said. + +He did not follow her to the upper room. He paused to glance at the +books on a shelf and the goldfish in their bowl. + +‘Well, darling.’ Clive had come in first and taking each other’s hands +they kissed each other. + +‘Well, Mummy,’ he returned, and he held her off and surveyed her. ‘How +lovely!’ + +‘You remember this dress?’ + +‘Rather! It’s my favourite.—Hester has a lovely dress to-night, too; put +on for the first time, specially for you.—Lovely!’ he repeated looking +her up and down. And gently lifting her hands, so that the long, black, +transparent sleeves slid back, he said: ‘The arms of Helen as well as +the tresses, Mummy.’ + +‘Don’t be absurd, Clive!’ Captain Ingpen was behind them. She had heard +his step and Clive, startled, evidently saw him over her shoulder. + +‘This is my son, Captain Ingpen. Clive, this is Norah Unwin’s +uncle.—Where is Hester?’ + +‘She’s just coming.’ + +Captain Ingpen, though not taller than Clive, seemed to tower above him +in bulk and darkness and maturity. He bent his head to him rather as he +had bent it to Charlie’s water-colours. ‘I’m afraid it’s a hopelessly +dismal place; woods and house,’ he said, as Clive made some comment on +the Manor Farm.—‘You found the woods specially dismal, didn’t you, Mrs. +Wilmott?’ + +‘But you could do a great deal with them,’ said Monica. + +‘What, for instance?’ asked Ingpen. + +‘Well, you could have those ditches dug out and drained. And you could +plant blue anemones—and primroses—in the clearings. I think primroses +would grow there. I only wish I had a wood to play with.’ + +‘That little wood behind us is full of primroses in the spring, you +know,’ said Clive. ‘And that _is_ yours now, Mummy.’ + +Hester appeared in the doorway as he spoke and Monica saw at once from +her aspect, as she paused there, her eyes turning to her husband, that +the evening, to her, had some special significance. If Clive was hoping +that Hester would please his mother, Hester was hoping—was not that +it?—to please him. Or rather was it not that, sure of pleasing him, she +displayed for him her equipped readiness to do all that was requested of +her. The new dress, Monica recognized it at once, had been requested, +and as a tribute to her own taste for pretty clothes. Hester had never, +in Monica’s sense, dressed at all; and this dress was fashionable; +almost, to her fastidious eye, absurdly so; yet it strangely became the +young woman; Monica had never seen her look so nearly beautiful. Her +throat was set in a thick circle of red coral beads; her figure wrapped +in fringed red and silver; and so naked was she in her modishness that +she made Monica think, with her high dark head and gleaming liquid +surfaces, of an Indian princess, standing beside some pool from whose +waters she had just arisen. Her eyes were turned on Clive and Clive was +smiling at her with the tender reticent radiance of some secret code. + +‘Yes; they are happy: yes—they understand each other,’ thought Monica, +and for a moment her heart was glad, seeing that unity. + +And now Hester’s eyes rested on the stranger who stood behind her +husband. + +‘Captain Ingpen, Hester; our neighbour; Norah’s uncle you know.’ Monica +took her hands in hers murmuring as she kissed her: ‘It’s lovely, the +dress; quite lovely, my dear.’ + +Hester was still standing on the threshold and Captain Ingpen had +advanced into the light. ‘We have met before, I think,’ he said smiling. +‘Isn’t it—wasn’t it—Hester Blakeston?’ + +‘How do you do,’ said Hester. She was not smiling. + +‘I heard you were married, but I never heard to whom. This is +delightful,’ said Captain Ingpen, and, though he did not look delighted, +he continued to smile at the young woman. + +‘How amusing that you should know each other,’ said Monica, while Hester +moved slowly forward and came to stand beside her husband. ‘And that you +should be neighbours without yet having found each other out.—When was +it that you met?’ + +‘In London; after the war.—Whom did not one meet in those days?—eh, Mrs. +Wilmott?’ smiled Ingpen. ‘You have every right to forget me if you +choose.’ + +‘Oh—I don’t forget you at all,’ said Hester. ‘Where is my shawl, Clive?’ + +‘Have you left it upstairs—or in the hall?’—Clive was going to look but +Hester checked him; ‘It’s in the car. I remember. How tiresome of me. +Will you get it?’ She walked away to the fireplace at the other end of +the room. + +‘Wasn’t she interested in Russia? Didn’t she perform great feats for +such a young creature—just fresh from Girton if I remember—and write +some very remarkable articles about Dostoievsky and the Bolsheviks?’ +Captain Ingpen at their distance enquired, politely and with lowered +voice, casting a glance upon the silvery form of the Indian princess, +her slender limbs outlined against the flames. Strange, thought Monica, +that Hester should first have been presented to her awareness as boyish +and in rubber boots. She could imagine nothing more feminine or more +alluring than the translucent figure drooping before the fire. Captain +Ingpen did not look allured, however; he looked rather ironic, as though +the memory of the young creature and the Bolsheviks made him smile +inwardly. + +‘That was in the past before I knew Hester. She still performs feats, or +is quite ready to do so: she is wonderfully equipped; wonderfully +secure.’ + +‘Almost frighteningly so, eh? She always frightened me, I remember, so +very young and so very fierce she was, and believed that every problem +was just about to be solved—by the Girton young—here and now, in +England’s green and pleasant land.’ + +‘I never thought of Hester as harbouring illusions.’ Monica smiled a +little dryly, for she could admit no confidences with regard to Hester. +‘And they have solved a good many problems, the believing young—haven’t +they?—Are you cold, Hester?’ she went forward and joined her +daughter-in-law at the fireplace. + +‘I haven’t enough clothes on,’ said Hester, still leaning her hands on +the mantelshelf above her head and still looking down at the flames. +‘That is the bother of these smart dresses;—one can wear only one layer +under them and that a thin one. I do feel a little chilly. Thanks, +Clive.—Yes; I will put it on.’ + +Clive had returned with the folds of a coral shawl dripping from his arm +and as he put it round her he said: ‘You haven’t caught cold, have you?’ + +‘Not in the least. It’s only this silly dress of yours,’ said Hester, +holding the shawl against her breast as she moved to a table, took a +cigarette and leant to light it at the lamp chimney, her small, +illumined face cold and concentrated. + +‘You have only time for three whiffs,’ said Monica. ‘Dinner will be +ready in half a minute.’ And Clive said, smiling at his wife: ‘Hester is +horribly wasteful of her cigarettes; it’s her only extravagance.’ + +Monica had always loved to look at her son across the dinner-table, +their own little table for four in the Chelsea flat, when he had been +the most dependable of hosts, and she had not so seen him for years. The +contrast between his face and Captain Ingpen’s struck her anew as they +sat round the candles and crystal and white napery, and it was not so +much now between youth and maturity as between two different kinds of +life. Clive’s face was like a high taper burning upward; Captain +Ingpen’s like a half-consumed log, charred, jagged, a sullen red +smouldering along its edge. How could she, even for a nightmare moment, +have thought of Clive as weak, she wondered, looking across at him and +noting the pure, meditative hollow cast by the reflected candlelight +above the bow of his upper lip. + +He and Ingpen were talking about the new book on India. ‘Things quite as +grim and equally true could be written about us, couldn’t they?’ Ingpen +was saying, eating his soup and glancing sideways at Clive, a hard, +appraising glance. ‘I know all those festering Hindus too well, though +my time has been mainly spent among the people who were destined by +nature to be their destroyers—the people we prevent from preying on +them.’ + +He was very affable, very suave, and Clive was very courteous, but +already, as she listened to them, Monica felt that they were not going +to like each other. Neither was Hester going to like Captain Ingpen. +Wrapped in a stubborn silence, she had refused soup and was crunching +salted almonds, her elbows on the table. + +‘It’s very perverse to say that things as grim and as true could be +written about us; I don’t accept that for a moment,’ she said, since +Clive did not seem inclined to take up the challenge. + +‘Don’t you?’ Ingpen turned his eyes on her and she felt a new edge in +their raillery. ‘And what do you know about it? What does any woman know +about our civilization? All you see is the tidied-up world we men +present to you.’ + +‘Good Heavens! Where have you been living during the last twenty years! +Do you really imagine that we don’t do as much tidying up as you +do!—You’ve been a Rip van Winkle among the warrior-tribes!’ laughed +Monica. ‘And indeed, even before we gained all our modern freedoms, our +function has always been to tidy up after you!—Hasn’t it, Hester?’ and +she appealed for support to the avowed feminist. But, closely enveloped +in her rosy shawl, Hester crunched her almonds and made no reply. + +‘But exactly;—exactly,’ Ingpen was softly and rather disagreeably +laughing. ‘You tidy up after us. It’s what you’ve always done, what you +always will do—and very creditable it is to you. After we’ve finished +with all the dirty, discreditable, necessary work that underlies every +civilization, you’ll bring your mops and pails and tidy up! You do, I +grant you, keep us much cleaner on the surface, here in Europe; but just +as much foulness and iniquity seethes underneath as in India; and +there’s no hope of a warrior-tribe to wipe us out.’ + +‘Are the warrior-tribes so just and upright?’ Monica was a little +disconcerted. There was a snarl perceptible beneath the supple surfaces +of her tiger’s good manners and she wondered if he might become, in his +hostility towards life, a little unmanageable. + +‘They are clean in comparison with us; there’s that to be said for +them,’ said Ingpen, while Clive, helping himself to fish, glanced at him +coldly. ‘They have evolved no sewers and no sewer-rats. The moment you +get civilization—or, in other words, sewers—you get sewer-rats. What +happens to our civilization, I suppose, is not the warrior-tribes, but +the sewer-rat;—as we see in Russia.’ + +‘Our rats will find us a more difficult mouthful,’ Clive commented, +frostily smiling, and at that Hester spoke, raising her head and fixing +her eyes upon her husband: ‘And who do you mean by rat?’ she enquired. +‘Oppressed people? Exploited people? The English working classes? I can +assure you that there is quite as much civilization to be found among +them as among their so-called betters, and very much more hope for the +future. I think it is they who are going to do most of the tidying +up;—and I agree that there’s a great deal to be done.—But they won’t +devour anybody, as the wretched Russians had to do; it is uneducated to +draw any comparison between the Russian despotism and our +democracy;—they will be perfectly decent and kind through all the +reorganization, you may be sure of it; as they always have been.’ + +Clive remained, looking quietly at his wife while she delivered herself +of this homily, which was not, it was evident, directed against him. +When she had finished he said, smiling with just a touch of quizzical +reassurance; as though he calmed and sustained her: ‘Quite right, dear.’ + +‘Yes; quite right, Mrs. Wilmott!’ Ingpen echoed, bowing across the table +towards her. Had she touched him in her youth and ardour? He, too, +smiled, and his smile was not sardonic. ‘We all agree that the British +working man is the best of good fellows—if also one of the stupidest. No +doubt he will evolve a very tidy world for us; all garden-cities, +greyhound-racing, cinemas and cheap beer. Fortunately I shall be in my +grave before it arrives.’ + +‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ said Hester, flashing a fiery glance upon +him. + +When Monica was alone with her daughter-in-law in the drawing-room, she +prepared herself for trenchant comment on the reactionary guest, but, +saying not a word of Captain Ingpen, Hester extended herself on the +sofa, remarking, as she stretched out a nonchalant hand for a cigarette: + +‘Monica, I’d rather you told Robin no more fairy-tales when he is with +you. He came home the other day very much over-excited, with his head +full of captive princesses and dragons. He’s a nervous child; I’m +anxious about him already; and it doesn’t make my task the easier.’ + +Monica had been but too well aware during the meal from which they had +just come that her dinner was far from a success, but not till she heard +this request did she know how much ill-temper had seethed beneath +Hester’s composure. So unexpected, so unprovoked were her words, that +she felt herself struck suddenly upon the cheek and tears almost rose to +her eyes with the sense of tingling aggression. + +‘My dear Hester, what nonsense!’ she exclaimed. + +‘I was quite aware that you would think it so,’ said Hester, drawing at +her cigarette and watching a ring of smoke float above her head. ‘But I +must insist upon my own point of view nevertheless.’ + +‘A child who has heard no fairy-tales is illiterate,’ said Monica, +standing across the room near a table and resting her finger-tips on it +as she surveyed the languid form of her daughter-in-law. She kept +herself from trembling. ‘Fairy-tales are as much a part of a child’s +heritage as Shakespeare and the Gospel of Saint John!’ + +‘Our modern ideas of a child’s heritage are very different from those of +your generation,’ Hester returned. ‘We understand children’s minds in a +way you had no opportunity of doing. You were as ignorant of psychology +as your grandparents were of evolution.’ + +‘A great deal of your modern psychology will prove as obsolete in a +generation as a great deal of Darwinian evolution has already proved, my +dear Hester.’ + +‘I don’t imagine that anything essential in either will become +obsolete,’ said Hester. ‘Jibes at psycho-analysis will be forgotten as +completely as jibes at our monkey ancestry.—Of course people try to make +fun of what belittles and frightens them.’ And, waiving the general +question, she went on. ‘Shakespeare comes at his own time to a maturing +child; I shall begin to read the historical plays to Robin as soon as he +starts English history; and the Gospel of Saint John, no doubt, when he +is old enough to take an interest in religious myths. But for a nervous, +imaginative boy like him, fairy-tales are definitely harmful. I’ve no +theory against them; that would be silly and pedantic; but from my study +of Robin’s reactions I’ve come to suspect that they put a child’s mind +into the attitude of panic and credulity that is at the root of all +human superstitions. It’s only a step, after all, from Beauty and the +Beast to the Three Wise Men and the Star.—We have a great deal of +useless and harmful lumber to rid ourselves of, my dear Monica.’ + +Never had Hester so displayed her arrogant assurance. Never, Monica +realized it in the midst of her anger, had she heard her make so long a +speech. Anger was flaming up, though she tried to stifle it, and it was +shot through by all sorts of fiery memories:—The black eyebrows and the +dusty black cloak lined with red; the Registrar’s office; the jibing +friend sitting with Mr. Gales on the stair—flashed and crackled on the +upward flame. + +‘We differ in our definition of lumber. It’s a step from Beauty and the +Beast, if you will, to the Three Wise Men and the Star, but a step a +child’s mind distinguishes quite as quickly as ours;—superstition +doesn’t come into the question at all.—What a bleak, ungarnished world +you seem to inhabit, Hester.’ + +‘I’m not justifying my world to you,’ said Hester. ‘I’m only asking you +not to take my child into the world of fairy-tales.’ She rose as she +spoke. Clive and Ingpen were entering and Clive was saying, with a +somewhat tightened utterance: ‘What about fairy-tales, Hester?’ He was +glad to be done with Captain Ingpen. + +Hester made no reply. She walked away to the fireplace and, again +leaning her hands on the mantelshelf, smoked on, her back turned to +them. + +‘It’s only that Hester has been forbidding me to tell them to Robin,’ +said Monica. She could not help it. It was the untamed girlhood in her +and the impulse of vengeance flamed up as her anger had done. She smiled +as she spoke, moving forward to the card-table and seeing reflected from +Clive’s face how white and flashing was her own aspect. ‘They aren’t +allowed to modern children, it seems.—Are you sorry you used to hear +about Saint George and the Dragon and Puss in Boots, Clive? Do you think +they did you harm?’ She glanced again at her son as she placed the packs +of cards. + +His face had taken on the stiffened, watchful look that it broke her +heart to see. And Hester said no word. Hester the aggressor was wise and +crafty; she said no word in accusation or self-exculpation. She stood +there smoking in her coral-red shawl. + +‘I adored fairy-tales,’ said Clive, looking from her to Hester and back +again. He spoke carefully and his mother felt his care as a sword in her +heart. Oh, no, he would never take her part against Hester, however +Hester misused her! ‘Only;—Hester thinks Robin rather unusually nervous, +you see.’ + +‘Yes; I do see. I think there may be other reasons for his nervousness. +He is never nervous when he is with me.—But I’m not dreaming of +rebellion.—It would be useless to do that, I know.—Shall we cut for +partners?—Will you come, Hester?—It’s a dreadful privation for a +grandmother, Captain Ingpen. Fairy-tales are the only function left to a +grandmother really.’ + +‘Everything is changed since our young days, isn’t it?’ said Ingpen. He +had joined her at the table and as she met his eyes she had a strange +sense that he and she were united against Clive and Hester. He +understood and sustained her as Clive understood and sustained Hester. +His massive strength upheld and quieted her. ‘You gave your child +sweetmeats and the modern mother gives hers antiseptics,’ he smiled. +‘You were very naughty and self-indulgent, no doubt; but we have still +to see which method produces the best results.’ + +Hester had now come forward. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll play with Clive,’ +she said. ‘I’m not good at bridge and he understands my game.’ She spoke +with perfect self-possession. In contrast to Hester’s composure Monica +was aware that her own outburst appeared as undignified. She had behaved +like a fool. She had put Hester in the wrong before a stranger. Clive +could not feel any sympathy for her, seeing her do that. She had been a +fool and her heart burned with the consciousness of folly as they sat +down and shuffled and dealt. + +It was true that Hester was not good at bridge. At all events she was +not good to-night. She was perhaps not as composed as she pretended to +be. ‘Our trick, I think,’ said Ingpen when, at the end of the first +round, she put out her hand; and, drawing it back quickly, she muttered: +‘Sorry.’ But she held her head high and kept her eyes on her cards and +if at last she and Clive were beaten, it was not a shameful defeat. +Clive indeed was playing very well. ‘He is sustaining her,’ thought +Monica. + +‘We are well matched,’ Ingpen commented at the end of the next round. +‘He understands her game and I already understand yours.’ He glanced at +her, slightly smiling, and Monica saw that Clive observed the glance. + +Now they were bidding for the next lead. Clive had dealt and went one +spade. Imperturbably Ingpen said: ‘Three hearts.’ + +‘Three spades,’ said Hester instantly, and Clive smiled across at her, +thanking her for her promptitude and courage. But Monica, astonished out +of her anger, looked round at the girl. She herself held an excellent +hand of spades. Clive had the lead and Hester laid down her hand, black +with disastrous clubs. There was a moment’s silence; then Monica said: +‘It was a mistake, Hester. Take it back.’ She was even sorry for Hester, +seeing the look of wild fury that swept across her face as she stared +down at the cards. ‘What did I say?’ she asked. + +‘You said three spades. Take it back, my dear.’ + +‘If course I won’t take it back.’ She rose to her feet, leaving the hand +lying and pushing back her chair. ‘I’m sorry, Clive. I’ve been an ass +and you must pay the penalty.’ Walking away to the steps, she descended +to the lower room. + +‘Shall we really go on, Clive?’ said Monica. ‘It was a mere slip of the +tongue.’ + +He had been looking after his wife and as his eyes came back to his +mother she saw that they were hardly aware of her. ‘Of course we’ll go +on.’ So they went on and Monica and Ingpen swept up twelve tricks. + +When the slaughter was accomplished, Clive jumped up and went to the +steps. ‘It’s all over! Come back!’ He stood smiling down at his wife, +again almost quizzically. So united were they that he could venture to +tease Hester out of her bad temper. + +And indeed, from where she sat, Monica saw that, as she appeared from +below, she lifted her face to her husband, as if with a murmur of +compunction. + +‘Better luck this time,’ said Ingpen. He was shuffling now, with lean, +skilful hands. He wore an odd ring, a little too large for him; it +slipped forward when he dealt and Monica fastened her eyes upon it so +that she need not look at Hester and Clive; a flat gold ring circled by +two broad bands of black enamel. + +‘You mean, I think, better play,’ said Hester. + +‘No, no,’ smiled Ingpen. ‘You were wool-gathering. That’s bad luck.’ + +‘I beg your pardon. I was not wool-gathering,’ Hester retorted, her head +high, her eyes on her traducer, while a deep colour rose to her cheek. +‘It was a slip of the tongue.’ + +‘Come, I can’t believe that,’ said Ingpen, tossing the cards to their +places; ‘because you would hardly have meant to say three clubs, eh? +That wouldn’t have done you any good, would it?’ He spoke benignly, +almost paternally, as if to a forward child who must not be left in +possession of an illusory triumph. Hester bit her lip, drew hard at her +breath, and fixed her eyes upon her cards while Clive cast a glance of +cold repudiation upon his mother’s guest. + +They played in almost unbroken silence after that. Monica and Ingpen +exchanged a word once or twice but neither Hester nor Clive spoke, and +she understood too well their withdrawal. + +‘And now I think we must go, Mummy,’ Clive said when the rubber was +played and he and Hester beaten. ‘Hester has a rather full day before +her to-morrow and oughtn’t to be late.’ + +‘Oh—don’t go on my account, I beg,’ said Hester, tossing the end of her +shawl over her shoulder. ‘I’m not in the least tired.’ + +‘I am, then,’ said Clive, and Monica wondered, hearing the note of +dryness in his voice, if even his patience had worn thin. + +She did not press them to stay. Beset by bitter fears and bitterer +self-reproaches, she only prayed that they would go before Ingpen so +that she might not be left alone with them. Clive in that case might +attempt some strained reconciliation and she knew that she could bear no +more. + +They all went to the table where whiskey and soda and barley-water were +set out and now, as they drank, it was Clive who contrived a few +utterances. ‘How’s Robin’s fountain getting on, Mummy?’ he asked, and he +politely enquired of Ingpen if there was a good garage at the Old Manor +Farm. Dear Clive; he would always try, at least, to help her out. Then +they were gone, both kissing her good-night, and for a moment, as she +stood by the table looking after them, her mind was filled with the +imagination of what they would be saying as they sped away from the +evening she had offered them: ‘Rather grisly, wasn’t it?’ That might +well be Hester’s sober comment. And Clive might reply: ‘And what an +odious man Mummy has picked up. I hope he didn’t utterly enrage you.’ +She gazed for a moment at these visions with a bitter heart and then, +looking round, saw that Captain Ingpen was gazing at her. But, whatever +his ambiguities the other day, there was to-night no failure in his +understanding. He did not conceal from her that he saw and pondered on +her plight; but he made no comment on it, only saying, kindly and +gravely, as he looked about him—rather as Robin had done: ‘I like this +room. I like it much better than mine.’ + +‘Well;—it’s a growth; it’s all my life.’ + +‘Yes. I know. That’s just it.—I like your life,’ he said, moving to the +door, and bending his head to a picture here, a book there, as he +went:—it reminded her again of something feline; but endearingly feline; +the kindly interest a cat may take in a new environment. ‘How peaceful +you’ve been,’ he said. + +‘Well; I don’t know about that.’ Monica went beside him. ‘I haven’t had +an easy life in some ways. I worked very hard for a great many years, +and had anxieties.’ + +‘Yes. I know. Norah told me. All the same you’ve been peaceful.’ They +were in the hall now, and again he paused, to look at a row of +engravings that hung there:—French cathedrals; Amiens, Rheims, Beauvais, +Chartres, Bourges and Vézelay;—all the cathedrals she and Clive had +visited together. + +‘Isn’t that lovely of the interior of Amiens,’ she said. ‘It’s like a +white foxglove, I always think; all rising lightness and grace.—You’ve +seen them?’ + +‘Only Chartres.’ + +‘There’s nothing to compare to Chartres, of course.—You remember this +view from below?—And this of the West front?’ + +‘Pretty well. Unfortunately I didn’t see the windows. It was during the +war and they were covered up.’ + +‘I should rather like to see it quite dark like that. It would be +another sort of sublimity.—You ought to go to all the French cathedrals +one day.’ + +‘I must,’ said Ingpen; ‘I must take Norah and your fragile young friend +and see them all.’ He looked round at her from the pictures. ‘Will you +come, too? Why not all four of us go and live in France and see +cathedrals?’ + +Was it a covert recognition of her plight? She smiled it away. ‘One +might find a worse way of spending the evening of one’s days.’ + +‘I mean it, you know.’ He scrutinized her. ‘You were right about this +climate. It’s sodden. Why,—after one’s done one’s work, married off +one’s children, kept the warrior-tribes from devouring the Indians—why +not loaf and enjoy oneself in a country where there are good beds and +good cooking?—and these for an object? The four of us would find plenty +of occupation. We would constitute a perambulatory colony in ourselves +and the young people would take care of us if we fell ill,’ and Ingpen +smiled upon her. ‘Let’s run away,’ he said. + +‘That’s just what one can’t do,’ said Monica. Whether he were serious or +not she could not tell. + +‘Why not?’ + +‘I don’t quite know why not;—but it can’t be done;—because of this, I +suppose.’ She indicated the room behind them. ‘The growth; the life. It +has its roots; it holds one down;—one would soon wither if one left it.’ + +‘Well—I have no roots; nowhere in all the world have I any roots,’ said +Ingpen, ‘and I’m withered already.’ + +‘So that you can run whenever it becomes too sodden.’ She gave him her +hand, smiling. + +‘Yes; I can run. It remains to be seen whether I shall,’ said Ingpen. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + +She did not see Clive or Hester for the next two days. Clive had already +made a habit—she had hoped he would feel it so—of stopping to see her on +his way to and from the station; light, unemphatic, but reviving +moments, allowing no time for any sense of pressure. But he did not come +either of those days and she had no glimpse of Hester; who was, no +doubt, deeply engaged in feminism at Mrs. Travers’s. + +From her windows she always watched for Robin being led to and from his +school. His shortest way lay on the other side of the green and she had +suppressed the desire to call out to him and have him stop; Hester, she +felt sure, would not approve of that; but every day the sight of his +little figure was a sad solace to her. + +She was returning from her afternoon walk on the Tuesday when she saw +Robin on the other side of the green with his nurse and she paused for a +moment debating whether she might not justifiably cross over and walk +beside him to the turning up to The Crofts; and as she told herself that +abstention was still her wisest course, since the recent storm had +centred round Robin, she saw that he had seen her and heard his silvery +little voice call out: ‘Grannie! Grannie!’ And leaving his nurse’s hand +he came running to her across the short thick grass where geese grazed +and a group of village dogs wrestled together in the sunlight. + +Monica stooped and held out her arms to him. It seemed to her as she +enfolded his eager little form that he was far more hers than Hester’s. +What right had dark Hester to this golden little boy? Only the shape of +his eyes reminded her of his mother; the white showing under the iris, +as hers did;—the shape of his eyes and the faint tone of olive colour +where the gold of his cheek merged into his neck. + +‘Can’t I come and see the fountain, Grannie?’ he said, while Nurse +followed him smiling. Nurse was a great friend of Monica’s, whose +attitude towards servants was untheoretic and spontaneous. Hester’s +relations with hers, she had observed, were not very successful. Hester +thought, perhaps, too much of their rights and too little of their +happiness; and Nurse, she suspected, was old-fashioned and ignorant like +herself and did not like to have Robin made to tell his dreams. ‘Can he +come in for a moment, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is Mrs. Wilmott +expecting you back immediately?’ It was grievous to her, bitterly +grievous, that she must ask leave to see Robin. + +‘I’m sure he can come in for a little, Ma’am,’ said Nurse. + +Fountains on a lawn, especially on a lawn as small as hers, were very +distasteful to Monica, but the cement basin had already been made at the +side of the house, where cook and Miriam could see it from the kitchen +window, and already the pipes were laid and the sods with which the +devastation was to be repaired, piled in readiness. ‘We can’t make the +water play quite yet, I think,’ she said, leading Robin by the hand, +‘and there’s a good deal to do to it still, you see. We must have plants +growing round the edge, and some more, perhaps, at the bottom, for the +fish to hide in. It will all need consideration. But there’s plenty of +time; we shan’t want to put them in till spring. I only wish we could +tell them what is going to happen. It would make the winter pass more +quickly for them.—It’s lovely looking forward to things, isn’t it?’ + +‘Yes; it will make the winter pass much more quickly for us, too, won’t +it?’ He gazed down into the basin. ‘What are their names?’ he asked. + +‘The fishes? Well I never thought of naming them. Can you think of any +good names?’ + +‘I’d like you to think,’ said Robin. + +‘Shall we call them Milly, Tilly, and Lacey, then?’ Robin had loved +reading ‘Alice.’ ‘Alice,’ she trusted, would not be forbidden, though +what the psychological difference between the White Knight and Saint +George might be she did not know. + +‘Milly, Tilly, and Lacey—who were in the well. Yes,’ said Robin whose +pleasure was always gentle. He gazed thoughtfully down into the empty +basin. ‘And we’ll give them ants’ eggs instead of treacle.—Can’t we put +in some of the plants now, Grannie?’ + +He had on a little dark blue hat and coat; the shade was not quite +right; it was in a softer, more Japanese blue that she had dressed Clive +at the same age. Still, in any colour he looked adorable. He stood +beside her holding her hand. + +‘Certainly we can put in a few. There they are, in the pots. I’ll get a +trowel and fork, and wouldn’t you like to cut some flowers for your +room, Nurse, while we work? The Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums +are still lovely.’ + +It was like being back in Clive’s childhood again; it reminded her of +Aunt Janet’s, where they had worked together in the garden. Perhaps +Hester would allow gardening as her perquisite. Hope was flowering in +her once more, with a sense of excitement, of elation, as she went into +the little lobby and found the gardening utensils. ‘She can’t say that +gardening and goldfish make him nervous,’ she thought. ‘His eyes are the +same shape as hers, but not in the least the same colour; golden-brown +at deepest: while hers are almost black.’ + +When she returned, drawing on her gardening-gloves, the basket on her +arm, she saw that Captain Ingpen was leaning on the gate looking over at +Robin, who, all unaware, was earnestly setting the plants in their pots +upright around the edge of the basin. She saw him with no faltering in +her elation. His presence had lost its element of fear. He had been only +kind the other evening, and understanding. She was glad to see him, she +knew that, even as she told herself that she must not ask him to stay to +tea since Clive, to-day, might stop to see her. But she could ask him in +for a little while and going to the gate she opened it, smiling at him +and saying: ‘Come and help us, won’t you? We are making a home for our +goldfish.’ + +Ingpen remained for a moment standing outside. ‘Is that the grandchild?’ +he asked. + +‘Yes. That is the grandchild. Do come in.—Or are you busy?’ + +‘I’m never busy nowadays. I never shall be busy again. But I didn’t stop +to get myself invited. I was only passing and saw the little boy, and +that he had a look of you.—Not much though. He’s more like your +son.—It’s your fault if I stopped—for having such pleasant things to +look at in your garden.’ + +‘But do come in, if you find it pleasant. Robin, this is Captain Ingpen. +He is going to help us. Here is your basket, Nurse. Pick anything you +like.’ + +The day was lovely. The pale, high October sky arched benignantly above +them; a robin sang and across the green a bonfire was sending up +indolent curls of smoke and the spicy scent went with that of the +chrysanthemums. Monica, making Robin known to Captain Ingpen, felt a +lightness of heart to which she had long been a stranger. This might +indeed have been her youth again and this child Clive. It was just so +that Clive would have gone forward, shy but courteous, to put out his +little hand and say: ‘How do you do.’ + +‘But why,’ said Ingpen, after shaking hands with Robin, ‘if it’s a +fountain, is there no water?’ His worn tweeds touched with leather went +with the day; his cap was the colour of old thatch and cast a shadow, +like thatch, over eyes bent on the basin but observant of Robin. ‘I want +to see the water, don’t you?’ he said. + +Robin answered, ‘Yes,’ and came to stand beside him, attentive to what +might result from this potent presence. + +‘I hadn’t thought of water till everything was finished and the fish +installed,’ said Monica. ‘But I don’t see why it shouldn’t be turned on +now. There must be a tap ready.’ + +‘Of course there must. Everything essential is ready as far as I can +see. All that’s needed are the fountain and the fish. I remember the +fish. Shall I go and fetch them, and find the tap on my way back? Your +maid will show me,’ and Captain Ingpen, on whom nothing, apparently, was +lost, turned his eyes on Miriam and cook watching at the window. + +‘Shall we really put in the fish? Isn’t it rather cold for them?’ Monica +asked, while Robin, between them, turned his gaze from one to the other. + +‘Not at all too cold; and by the time winter comes they’ll be +acclimatized. Your basin is too deep for freezing. Let’s set them free +by all means. I don’t like waiting, do you?’ he addressed Robin. + +‘No;—but not if the fish will catch cold,’ Robin said, apprehensive yet +trustful, and Ingpen, on his way to the house, replied: ‘I understand +fish. They won’t catch cold.’ + +‘He looks as if he understood, doesn’t he, Grannie?’ said Robin, when +Ingpen had disappeared. ‘It will be nicer than waiting for spring, won’t +it? And you know we might be dead before spring.’ Robin certainly had an +anxious mind. Monica smiled reassurance at him as she answered: ‘We +might, though it’s not likely; I’m so strong and you’re so young.—But it +will be much nicer not to wait.—Oh, see!—Isn’t it lovely, Robin!’ A jet +of silver had leaped high into the air. + +‘There. That’s better, isn’t it?’ said Ingpen. He came from the house +carrying the globe of goldfish in his hands and stood beside them to +look. The slender silver lance wavered and sprang against the blue and +in the basin the water crept higher and higher, reflecting sky and +cloud. Robin stood in an astonishment of gladness and over his uplifted +face the eyes of Monica and Ingpen met in a look of peace and +understanding. Yes; strange, scarred man; his heart was not ungentle. He +understood a child. He understood the day and the fountain’s beauty. +Monica smiled at him. She would never fear him again. + +Now he was giving the globe into Robin’s keeping and helping him to tip +the goldfish into the water. Their hands, the small and the large, +dipped slowly beneath the surface and the dark head and the fair bent +together as the fish, amazed, paused at the entrance of their prison and +then sped forth. Round and round they went, and, wildly it seemed, from +side to side, emblems of happiness, and, looking up at her, Robin +whispered: ‘Which is which, Grannie? Which is Milly and which is Tilly +and Lacey?’ + +‘Robin!’ called an icy voice behind them. ‘Robin! Come at once! You +ought not to be here at this hour!’ Icy. Like a sword; cutting down +happiness. Monica turned to see Hester looking at them over the hedge. +She had come down in haste, for she wore no hat, and she was pale, very +pale; and angry; her eyes were the eyes of the indignant Byzantine +Madonna. ‘Come at once!’ she repeated, looking at her child and setting +the gate open, adding as she just glanced at her mother-in-law: ‘Let me +know, please, when you think of keeping him another time.’ + +Monica stood silent, gazing at her daughter-in-law. Hester’s tone and +manner so astonished her that she could find no words. + +Ingpen had risen to his feet and in the midst of her disarray Monica +noticed that Robin looked up at him, as if for reassurance or +protection. + +‘I met him, Hester.—I thought he might come in for a moment and see the +fountain,’ said Monica now. She felt her heart throbbing violently in +her side. She could not apologize to Hester before Captain Ingpen, yet +she was ready to do almost anything rather than display explicit +warfare. + +‘I know. So I see. But you ought to have sent Nurse to tell me. I must +always know where he is. Come Robin, do you hear me?—at once.’ And +Hester, standing still outside it, opened the gate more widely. She had +not yet acknowledged Ingpen’s presence; now she nodded, coldly, curtly, +and muttered: ‘How do you do.’ + +‘Run along then, darling. Good-bye for to-day.’ Monica kissed the +distressed little face. + +‘Good-bye,’ Robin murmured. ‘Good-bye,’ he repeated, turning to Ingpen +and lifting his face to be kissed by him also. + +Nurse, alarmed, had come running with her flowers, and saying no further +word, Hester took her child by the hand and walked away. + +A silence followed this departure. Monica slowly turned and walked down +the garden beside her herbaceous border and, after a hesitation, Ingpen +followed her. She had come to a standstill at the foot of the lawn when +he joined her and was looking out at the fields and hedgerow elms. + +‘Shall I go?’ he said. ‘Or may I say I am sorry for grandmothers?’ + +Half an hour ago it would have been impossible for Monica to imagine +herself allowing Captain Ingpen to say he was sorry. But now their eyes +had met in that look of peace. ‘My little grandson is nervous;—do you +wonder at it?’ she said. ‘Though I own that I never saw Hester lose her +temper with him before.’ She tried to speak quietly, but her voice shook +with shame and fury. + +‘She was angry because you had kept him without asking leave,’ said +Ingpen. ‘Isn’t it always so—between a woman and her mother-in-law? I +don’t know anything about these domesticities, but such antagonism seems +to me to be inherent in the relationship.’ + +‘And what ought mothers-in-law to do?’ Monica questioned, leaning over +to her border and nipping off here and there a withered flower. ‘If they +don’t die when their sons marry—what are they to do?’ + +‘Withdraw, I suppose,’ said Ingpen after a pause, watching her. + +‘Yes, withdraw; that’s what I did. That’s why I am here, in the country. +Only they followed me.’ + +‘Ah, yes; Norah was telling me yesterday that they had just come.—Was +that against her will? Your son doesn’t look to me a person to force his +will on a recalcitrant wife.’ + +‘It was by her will.—It was her idea.—It was on my account they came,’ +said Monica, and as she broke and broke the withered flowers with +fingers in which she felt her anger still thrilling, she wondered at +circumstance that had brought her to such confidences. ‘I don’t +understand; I can’t understand.—I have never understood her. Perhaps it +is my fault. I never saw her lose her temper before.—Perhaps it’s my +fault. She feels that I don’t care for her.’ + +Ingpen said nothing to that. He remained, taking a few steps here and +there on the lawn, watching her while she picked the dead flowers, +filling her hand, pressing them together, tossing them out of sight +under the densely growing autumnal plants, and she felt herself quieted +by his silent comprehending presence. + +‘Give up hope; that’s your trouble,’ it seemed to be saying to her. ‘You +were foolish enough, my poor friend, to allow yourself hope a little +while ago. There’s no place for it, at our age. If you didn’t go on +hoping you would not suffer so.’ But he himself said nothing. + +Presently they walked back towards the house together. The fountain +still held its quivering silver lance against the sky. ‘And you think +the fish are all right?’ said Monica in a deadened voice. ‘Robin is a +sad little boy. He expects things to die. I don’t want to run any risks +with the fish.’ + +‘They won’t die. They’re all right,’ said Ingpen absently, his eyes on +her. ‘He’s not like you, the little boy, is he? You expect things to go +on.’ + +‘I want them to go on;—something of them to go on—desperately,’ said +Monica in a low voice. She was betraying herself to Captain Ingpen. She +was saying exactly what he expected her to say. But he would not mock +her now. He was suffering with her. He walked on with her to the gate. +‘Yes. He’s sad; but you’re desperate,’ was what he said. And looking +round at her, with a twist of his bitter smile, he added: ‘That’s why we +understand one another, you and I. Think over what I said. I mean it. +Come to France.’ + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + +Perhaps that was really the best thing she could do, Monica thought, +sitting at her solitary tea-table in the still room afterwards. +Hopelessness was flowing over her, hopelessness of herself, now, more +than of the predicament; she herself, she saw it plainly, was, as much +as Hester, the predicament. She was too young, too fierce, too +unsubmissive to life. She could not give up Clive or Robin, that +extension of Clive. As long as they were there and she loved them, she +must suffer from the lack of them; and as long as Hester was there she +must lack them. Why not make some excuse of health or purse—and go to +France;—not with Norah and Celia and Captain Ingpen, that was a friendly +absurdity;—but go;—far away; so that she might be removed, and finally +removed from Clive’s life. Then she could remember him; as if he were +dead. + +As she was thinking these thoughts—half believing them, but only +half—she saw his car drive up. She rose to her feet, pressing her +forefinger hard against her lip, and, as she stood there, it was Robin’s +face that came to her; Robin startled, frightened, his happiness all +broken. That was what Hester had done to Robin; and she must not do it +to Clive again. She was always breaking Clive’s happiness. It grew up; +it sought the light—and she broke it off. It was cruel; she must not be +cruel. ‘Help me not to be cruel,’ she muttered, with the child habit of +prayer that had never left her. And, as he came in, she saw that Clive, +too, had equipped himself. He was pale, but he was smiling, and he came +towards her almost as little Robin had done, almost as if he was calling +out to her and wanted her. Then, as he took her hands, his face altered: +‘Why, Mummy,’ he faltered, ‘you’ve been crying.’ + +She had not known it. She was unaware of tears in her eyes and on her +cheeks. Was it not only that her hot parched gaze betrayed her? + +‘Crying, Clive?’ she, too, faltered. + +‘Yes—what is it? Oh, Mummy—are you so unhappy?’ + +They were back, mother and son, in the past; but she now seemed the +child, for she was in his arms and the tears had come indeed and though +she still heard herself saying, far away, ‘Help me not to be cruel,’ she +was sobbing helplessly. + +‘What is it?—Oh, Mummy, what is it?’ Clive murmured; and his face was +full of fear. + +‘I am foolish.—I mind things so foolishly.—It’s only that Hester has +been here——’ + +As she named his wife she felt that Clive’s flesh contracted, contracted +and shrank from her; as though she laid hot iron on it, and as she felt +him shrink from her the lava flood of her misery heaved and overflowed. + +‘Hester was angry with me.—Because I kept Robin for a little. I didn’t +ask him to come.—I knew better than that!—I am well trained.—He called +to me and wanted to see the fountain. And Hester came for him and found +him with me—and was very angry.’ + +Stillness was about them. His arms had slipped down from her but he held +her hands—tightly—as he intently thought. + +‘There must have been a misunderstanding,’ was what he said. + +‘I am afraid not. No, there was no misunderstanding.’ She drew her hands +from his and dried her eyes. Her tears were checked and thoughts—cold, +fiery, rapid—sped through her mind, as she scrutinized her peril and the +relief of truth; and under her thoughts her heart seemed sinking from +her. + +‘Tell me what happened, will you?’ Clive spoke in a dry, deadened voice. +He remained standing in front of her, but he looked away; he, too, was +taking counsel with himself. ‘You have every right to see Robin, of +course,’ he said. ‘That was one of the reasons why we came here;—so that +you should see him.—That was one of the reasons Hester wanted to come.’ + +‘How much Hester wants me to see Robin was displayed the other night, +wasn’t it? She takes away with one hand what she makes a parade of +giving with the other.’ + +‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he glanced at her askance; but he pleaded with her; he +would not face the truth. ‘Truly you misunderstood; I promise you did. I +asked her about it—about the fairy-tales, you know, at once. I told her +I did not agree with her. Of course she was miserable. She had not meant +to hurt you. It’s only that she cares so about her ideas;—and she’s been +worried about Robin.’ + +‘She may well be worried about him. He was happy with me this afternoon +and when he saw her she frightened him.—It’s frightening to a little +child to see his mother insult his grandmother.’ + +‘Mother, you are very unfair.’ + +She had walked away from him in the dusky room and stood at the window +looking out, and his voice, trembling yet austere, followed her. ‘You +are unfair to Hester. She is not capable of what you think. I +mean—Hester may have lost her temper; but she could not have insulted +you.’ + +‘I am sorry, Clive. I felt it so; and so did the stranger who, +unfortunately, was present—and whose presence did not restrain Hester. +Captain Ingpen was there and saw it all.’ + +‘Ingpen! What had he to do with it!’ Clive stood where she had left him +but his voice was altered and as she turned she saw the frosty anger of +his face. + +‘What had he to do with it?—Your manner is very strange, very +unbecoming, Clive. He had nothing to do with it except that he was +there.’ + +‘And how did you know what he felt? What right had he to feel anything +about you and Hester? I begin to see. I begin to understand. Hester +doesn’t like him. She came for Robin and found him with that man—and it +made her lose her temper. She doesn’t like him,’ Clive repeated, ‘and I +wonder you do, Mummy, I do indeed.’ + +Was it Clive who spoke such words? Clive who thus inconceivably +arraigned her, seizing the specious pretext so that he might shield +Hester? + +‘You forget yourself, Clive.’ She tried to speak quietly; she was right +and Clive wrong; she had the advantage and she must speak quietly. ‘Your +solicitude for your wife makes you forget yourself. I cannot consent to +have my friendships proscribed by you and Hester.’ + +‘Your friendships? Why, you don’t know the man! You saw him for the +first time the other day!’ + +‘What is that to you, if it was so? One may like a person very much in a +day. I have met Captain Ingpen three times and feel him almost a +friend.’ + +‘So I see. So I saw the other night. Please remember, then, that he +isn’t our friend and don’t discuss Hester with him—as I gather you have +been doing.’ + +‘Very well, Clive; very well. All I have to say, then, is this—and then +I will ask you to go:—I have not discussed Hester with him. Hester +insulted me in his presence and I saw that he felt it an insult.—But he +said not a word against her. It was I who said, to explain, to +exculpate—that she had lost her temper:—that is all. I insist on your +understanding what passed between me and Captain Ingpen. I have not +discussed Hester with him.’ + +‘Very well. Have it as you wish. I will go.’ + +‘One moment more.—Since you and Hester object to my friends—I have a +right to ask you why. What are Hester’s objections to Captain Ingpen? +and yours?’ + +Clive had turned on his heel, and now paused, not looking at her: ‘Mine +were based entirely on what I saw of him. I don’t like his manners.—I +thought him too—easy.’ + +‘I see. And Hester? You object to his manners and she to his morals, I +suppose. I did not know that the modern woman kept our old scruples. I +certainly imagined none in Hester. If she has heard stories about his +love affairs, or saw irregularities in his past, let me tell you that I +am perfectly aware of all that can be said against him.’ + +‘Love affairs?’ Clive had now completely turned and was staring bitterly +at her. ‘Who cares about his love affairs? Hester hardly knew the man. +But can’t you see for yourself how a reactionary cynic of his type would +antagonize her? He sneers at everything she believes in.’ + +‘So I am to be insulted by Hester because my friends are not Socialists +and feminists.—What I feel about hers—about Mrs. Jessup and her +sister—and Mr. Gales and his mistress—and all the others—I won’t go +into.—What I have had to put up with at their hands!—If you talk about +manners;—about easy manners!—However—. All that I have to say to you, +then, is, that I cannot satisfy you and Hester and forbid Captain Ingpen +the house.’ + +‘We won’t go on wrangling, Mother. You are talking extravagantly. You +know I have not asked you to forbid him the house. All I have asked is +that you should not discuss Hester’s shortcomings with him. And now I +had better be going. Good-bye.’ + +‘Good-bye,’ said Monica. She turned to the window. She held back wild +tears. If only death would take her! He could leave her like this. If +only she could die!—But Clive was not gone. He still stood there, behind +her. ‘Mummy.’ That was what she heard. She turned and looked at him. +‘Mummy,’ he repeated; and she saw the supplication of his face. + +‘Clive—Clive——’ she faltered, holding out her arms. He came into them. +He put his head down on her shoulder. And suddenly she felt that he had +broken into sobs. Never, never since his childhood, had she seen Clive +weep. He had hidden from her, during those years after the war. The +abysses of his suffering were revealed to her as, aghast, yet melted to +an ecstasy of tenderness, she heard the dry, rending sobs. +‘Oh—Clive—Clive!’—she murmured. He was in her arms. They had sunken on +the window-seat and his face was pressed against her breast;—‘Oh, +Clive—what have we been saying to each other—you and I?—Forgive me!’ + +‘No.—It’s I.—It’s I who have been wrong,’ he uttered with difficulty. + +‘No! No!—I am your mother. It is for me to understand.’ + +‘It’s I!’ Clive repeated. ‘If I were stronger I could make you see.’ + +‘But I do see.—I see that you must be loyal.—I see that you must love +your wife.—I should not have spoken as I did. I have been very +wrong.—Wrong and disingenuous.—Yes, Clive, disingenuous. It was not as +bad as I said.—Not as bad as I felt it to be.’ + +‘Bless you, Mummy.—Bless you for saying it.—She hurt you. She startled +you.—I understand what happened. It was because she was hurt and +startled.—She is fierce, like you, when she is hurt.—It was only because +of him.—She didn’t mean to insult you.—Oh, please see that, Mummy.’ + +‘Of course I see it. I saw it when I said it. It was almost a lie when I +said it. Words are so dreadful, Clive.—They pin us down to what we do +not really mean.—No; Hester was harsh, peremptory; that was all.’ +Ardently, with a passionate tenderness, she unravelled the past, +forgetting all but her need for unity. ‘And—I wish you didn’t dislike +him—but what you say of Captain Ingpen is true;—I felt that, too, about +his manners. I see what you see in him—although I like him so much that +when you attacked him it made me angry.’ + +‘Of course it did,’ said Clive. ‘Of course I see why you like him.’ His +weeping had ceased. He spoke with utter weariness, his head still +leaning against her breast. ‘We always see alike. That’s the trouble, +isn’t it?’ + +‘Do we? Always see alike?—Why is it the trouble, Clive?’ But, feeling a +sudden stillness in him, feeling that she must not probe the avowal of +his exhaustion, she said: ‘You haven’t seen the side of him that I have. +He doesn’t show it easily. But he is strong and kind. There is something +almost beautiful in him, Clive;—though of course he is a bad man.’ + +‘Bad! Darling Mummy!’ Clive actually laughed, faintly. It was like wine +upon her lips to hear him. ‘What a funny Victorian word!’ + +‘I know. But it’s true. He has been bad, poor fellow; perhaps is bad +still.—But when one is as old as I am one has a right to like the bad. +Oh, Clive—you have made me so happy!’ + +‘Have I, darling?—That’s beautiful of you,’ said Clive in his exhausted +voice. + +Yes; she was happy. So long as she could hide herself with him, in him, +there could still be happiness; the happiness of closed eyes, stopped +ears. Everything was shut out but their nearness. Hester was forgotten. +Clive allowed her to forget Hester;—was it because he was so tired? He +was so tired that it might have been as if she were to gather him up in +her arms and carry him to bed, her little child again. + +They sat in silence for what seemed to Monica a long time, a silence so +profound that she felt it, at last, lapping insidiously at the ramparts +of her contentment. If they were silent for too long they might remember +too much and Clive felt that, too, perhaps, for he raised his head, not +looking at her, and, lifting her hands, kissed them gently, first one +and then the other, holding them clasped in his as he said, finding his +words with such care that it was as if he sifted them out and laid them +in a symbolic mosaic before her: ‘You see, you’ve always been so much +more than a mother.’ + +‘Can one be more, Clive?’ + +‘Yes. Mothers take advantage. You have never taken advantage.’ + +‘Till just now, you mean?’ + +He sat for a moment longer, holding her hands, then rose, still holding +them and looking at her with his gentleness that could be almost stern. +‘Perhaps. But it was my fault, too. We put it behind us, don’t we? It’s +forgotten and wiped out. Or, if we must remember—only that because of it +we understand each other better. You will help my weakness—that’s what I +mean, Mummy; because you are my friend as well as my mother.’ + +‘You are not weak, Clive. You are the strongest person I know.’ She felt +it indeed as she sat looking up at the archangel face, intent with its +demand that she should be worthy of his faith in her. + +‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m weak because I can’t bear things. I lose my footing. +It’s as if the tide bore me out, or as if my breath gave way.—Perhaps it +was the war.—If I could only be tough;—grow another skin;—not feel so +much more than there’s any good in feeling——’ He broke off. ‘All a sort +of weakness, you see.—Mummy, I’ll go now. Hester will be wondering what +has become of me.—Bless you.’ He leaned to her and kissed her. It was as +if in leaving her he placed a gift in her hand and closed her fingers +upon it, whispering: ‘Don’t look.’ + +The moon had risen and the stars come out. She went to the dim clock and +saw that it was past seven. Clive had had no tea. Up there at The Crofts +Hester must indeed have waited for him, wondering. First the child and +then the husband:—Would that be what she would be saying to herself? It +was so women’s minds moved; poor, wretched women, dramatizing their +griefs. To see Hester, with herself, as one of them, brought a pang of +actual pity for her. It was good to be able to pity Hester and the balm +of her contentment still breathed upon her as she stepped out into the +quiet evening, delicious with its smell of darkened earth and fading +smoke. She walked up and down the lawn, looking at the stars. What +sorrow and what happiness were hers. For the first time she knew the +unity brought by shared suffering, and in securing her insight, under +the illumined sky, she felt herself, if only for a moment, lay hold of +some deep secret of life. Only through such sorrow was such happiness +distilled. She must be worthy of it; worthy, or it would melt from her +grasp; and it fell like a thick dew upon her heart while she walked +there in the darkness. + +Miriam had turned off the fountain but the basin was still brimmed with +water and, when she came back to the house, she bent to peer at the +goldfish, drowsing, it seemed, three motionless little shadows, among +the reflected moon and stars. All would be well with Milly, Tilly and +Lacey. Captain Ingpen had promised her and Robin that they should come +to no harm and he was a man to be trusted. Robin trusted him. And, +thinking now of Robin and of her friend, she turned away and her eye was +drawn to a sharp, small glint of light lying on the ground; not a +glow-worm at this season, too small, too bright for a glow-worm. She +stooped and found Captain Ingpen’s ring half embedded in the sods and +remembered how he had held the globe under the water with Robin. The +ring must have slipped from his finger when he raised himself. She wiped +the mud from it and put it on and went into the house, closing her hand +upon it, for even for her middle finger it was too large, and to feel it +thus recovered and protected warmed her kindliness towards the owner; it +was like a piece of his life that she held. He would miss it, for it was +a ring he cherished; he was not a man to wear a ring unless it had +meaning for him and he would certainly have felt its loss at once had it +not been for Hester’s eruption on their halcyon hour. She still thought +of him as she went upstairs to dress, remembering that Clive had laughed +when she called him a bad man, and taking comfort from the remembrance. +Clive had said that he understood her kindness; but that had been a +concession to their need of unity. He did not understand it; and he +would never like Captain Ingpen. But Clive had not repudiated him, and +she must find what comfort she could in that fact, for though she had +said in her anger that he should not proscribe her friendships, it had +been of Hester, not of Clive, that she had been thinking; she knew that +she would find little savour in a friendship repudiated by Clive. + +The lamp and candles were waiting for her in her room and she took off +the ring and laid it with her own rings on the dressing-table while she +washed and changed. And, while she sat between her candles, dressing her +hair, she glanced at it once or twice, lying there in the little tumbled +heap of pearls and diamonds. It looked old, a mourning-ring perhaps, +that had, perhaps, belonged to some ancestor; a sorrowful ring somehow; +but then Captain Ingpen was a sorrowful man. That was one reason why she +liked him; he understood sorrow. Perhaps—her thoughts flowed on while +she twisted and bound her hair—the reason one felt him bad was because +he had never been worthy of sorrow. ‘That’s the difficulty;—for all of +us,’ Monica said aloud, and she took up the ring and held it to the +light and examined it, and, seeing that it was engraved inside, put on +her glasses to look more closely at what might be some quaint posy. But +there were only four initials and a date;—not an old date—she bent her +head and turned the ring to the light to read:—not 1718 or even 1818;—it +was only the other day; only ten years ago:—G. I. from H. B. 1918.—‘G. +I. from H. B. 1918,’ she repeated slowly, looking up at the +candle-flame. + + + + + CHAPTER X + + +Captain Ingpen called next morning while she was at her letters after +breakfast. She had felt sure that he would call early. He would miss his +ring and he would hope that no one else would find it, and as she rose +to meet him she wondered if yesterday’s episode could cover the pallor +and fixity of her face; for her sleepless night had ravaged it. It had +been with more than a hateful surmise that she had battled; there had +been a hope as hateful. She had seen the vast form of a tidal wave rear +itself on the horizon and had lain all night wondering whether its crash +and engulfing was to sweep Hester out of their lives;—fearing, hoping, +hating herself for the hope, yet not knowing whether to fear most or +hope most that what seemed a wave was a mere cloud that a word with her +friend would dissolve into thin air. If Hester was swept away, Godfrey +Ingpen would be swept too; and Clive would be shattered. And as she saw +Captain Ingpen and went forward in the bright morning light and smiled +upon him, her integrity was restored to her; it was the cloud she hoped +for; the cloud that he was to disperse. She waited for him to speak +first. + +‘I hope I am not being tiresome, coming so early,’ he said, and he +looked exceedingly affable and easy, yet, her perception sharpened to a +razor edge, she imagined that he was watching her as she watched him. +‘I’ve lost a ring, an old ring I’ve worn for years. It occurred to me +that it might have slipped off in the fountain yesterday. May I go and +have a look?’ + +Still smiling and still silent, Monica went to the mantelpiece and took +the ring from a little porcelain box that stood there. She held it out +to him on the palm of her hand: ‘I thought it might be yours,’ she said. + +Ingpen as he came forward was looking not at the ring, but at her. Did +she still only imagine that he sounded her dexterity and her +disingenuousness? ‘Was it in the fountain?’ he asked.—‘Thanks, most +awfully.’ He slipped it on his finger, not taking his eyes from hers. + +‘No; on the ground, and found by the merest chance. I was walking in the +dark and the moonlight struck it. It was half buried already. It’s quite +possible that by daylight you would not have seen it at all. You might +have trodden it under foot and it would have been lost for ever.’ + +Was he not wishing, with all his heart, that it had been? For a moment +she saw, clearly and horribly, that he did not know what to do; that she +baffled him. And she went on, marvelling at her own resource, ‘It +doesn’t look like a man’s ring, somehow; it looks like a +great-grandmother’s ring.’ She stood with her back to the mantelpiece +facing him, her hands locked behind her. + +Ingpen now looked down at the ring and turned it on his finger and +smiled, still very easily. ‘You are not far wrong,’ he said. ‘It isn’t a +man’s ring and it belonged to a great-aunt, a racy old lady, very much +of a figure in my boyhood.—My mother was brought up by her and she was +fond of me. She left me the ring when she died. Harriet Beaton was her +name.’ + +Monica met his eye; his eye with its straight upper lid cutting across +the pupil; his eye so candid and so calculating, and as she met it she +remembered that he had spent his life dealing with warrior-tribes. +Calculating candour had been his frequent weapon. And suddenly she was +sick at heart—seeing the tidal wave glide forward, and a trail of fiery +mockery sped through her as she thought: ‘Ah, my friend, you are as +swift, as adroit as I am;—but your memory has played you false. You +should have looked, again, at your ring before you said that. You have +forgotten that there is a date engraved inside it.’—Yet—was it just +possible that Aunt Harriet Beaton had lived to a great age and died in +1918? + +‘Well, I must be off.—You are busy,’ said Ingpen. There had been a +pause, a heavy suspended pause, like a weight held in the air between +them, and it seemed to come down with a thud and crash as his voice +broke into it. ‘There is nothing worse than losing things, is there?’ + +‘No; there’s not,’ said Monica. She had remained standing on the stone +kerb of the fireplace, a little lifted above the floor, so that their +eyes were on a level as they looked across at each other. + +‘I never minded anything so much in my life, I think,’ said Ingpen, who +had not moved to go and who still turned his ring while he looked at +her, ‘as losing a dog once, in Marseilles. It was my fault. I had just +landed; and there was a great crowd; and I ought to have had him on a +lead. I looked for him all day and all night.’ + +‘And you never found him?’ Monica asked, after another pause, in which +she wondered whether there were some symbolic intention in this +reminiscence. + +‘Yes. I found him. The heat was terrific and he had run all day, half +demented I suppose. And he had been stoned to death. They thought he was +mad. A West Highland terrier he was; such a pretty little fellow. They +spoiled him horribly.’ + +Suddenly, while he spoke, thus dryly, Monica saw that strange hot tears +had sprung to his eyes. She put her hands before her face, ‘Oh. +Don’t.—Don’t.’ She did not know what it was she begged him not to do. ‘I +can’t bear it,’ she murmured. ‘There can’t be anything worse.’ + +‘No; there can’t, can there?’ said Ingpen. ‘And I ought to have had him +on a lead. It happened twenty years ago, but I wake up in the night and +think of it.—Well, good-bye.’ + +He was gone and she had not uncovered her face. Trembling suddenly, +spent, she went to her writing-bureau, sank on the chair and leant her +forehead on her hands. What did it mean? What was she to do? Must their +friendship be stoned to death? She sat there, for how long? motionless, +except that from time to time she moved the papers on her desk—glancing +at them from under her hand: Edith’s letter about the invalid child;—she +must answer that; it had to be sent to the sea: the coal bill;—it must +be cut down; the kitchen range was very wasteful; it might save money to +get a new one: the tickets for the English Association lecture and the +long envelope from the Bank with the certificates to be signed. + +But was it possible, really possible, that for all these years Hester +had lived a lie? Must she choose between stoning the poor lost dog and +tacitly sheltering Hester and her former lover, assenting to the +deception, making part of it? She, too, to lie to Clive and keep him in +his fool’s paradise? Oh, loathsome, hateful girl, creeping +surreptitiously into their lives like a hidden fire, sitting there in +her black cloak, extraordinarily quiet—like an octopus in the dark, +holding its prey. And as the memory came, half suffocating her with the +horrible old sense of hatred, it lighted a sudden shape unseen till +then, yet evident, substantial, once made visible. How far did the +betrayal go? Was it not only in the past but in the present too? Was the +contempt, the hostility displayed by Hester towards Ingpen and expressed +to Clive, merely a blind and subterfuge, merely part of the murky +artifice? Was it all planned and plotted between them? His coming, and +theirs, at the same time?—Their coming down Hester’s idea, as Clive had +assured her.—How impossible, now that she saw it, to think +otherwise;—though the thought tore at her heart as she saw it sweeping +Ingpen, too, into the murk and foulness.—Oh, this could not be borne! +This was too much to bear! And it might still not be true; for there was +Aunt Harriet and, her arms laid out before her on the desk, her hands +clenched, Monica stared at Aunt Harriet—the racy old lady with grey side +curls and stiffly flowered silk dress. Even if Aunt Harriet were +fiction—even if she were fiction, he would be justified in dexterity to +shield a friendship innocent, passionate and shattered. ‘It still may +not be true,’ Monica muttered, rising to her feet. ‘They may have been +friends, great friends.’ And she stared out of the window and saw now, +not the nebulous figure of Aunt Harriet, but Ingpen’s eyes fixed upon +her, measuring her suspicion, measuring her knowledge, asking himself: +‘Has she read the inscription?’ Oh, no! No! The ring had its history. +1918. During the war. What did the phrase bring back? Chartres and the +muffled windows; Ingpen’s head bent to the engravings in the hall; +Hester’s repudiating, sullen eyes as she said it was like a skull. They +had been at Chartres together and Ingpen, ten years ago, would have been +engaged in no platonic friendship with a girl of twenty-two, a girl who +could look as Hester looked the other night;—and she flashed on Monica’s +eye naked and silver and rose, in the new dress chosen for the old +lover. How wonderfully they had acted. How marvellously. She was a +loathsome girl, and she had known it from the first; and he a +conscienceless, a crafty man; and she had known that from the +first;—although he had smiled at her over little Robin’s head, with the +released fountain shining above them;—although the strange, hot tears +had come to his eyes in telling of his little dog.—‘It’s not to stone +him.—What did he mean by that?—It’s not to stone him—if I must see the +truth.’ She pressed her hand to her forehead standing in the sunlight +that flowed warmly about her.—‘I must see the truth: because of Clive. +Then I can judge. If they are here together—betraying Clive—they must +go; they must both go.’ And still the tearing was at her heart, and she +remembered his tears and saw, not his dog now but her own little Jeremy, +who had died so quietly with his head laid in her hand.—Was that not all +that he had asked of her? + +She felt now that her tears were trickling from beneath her fingers and +that they brought a lassitude, almost an appeasement.—Death, peaceful +death; the thought of death, of rest, had often of late come to her +mind. All that there was to do, all that remained of life, was to think +of Clive, to secure him. And she was to see Norah that afternoon;—the +memory had come with the tears and the sense of appeasement; she could +find out from Norah whether Aunt Harriet had ever existed. That was the +first step. But she must lie down; for she felt as though she had passed +through a long illness. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + +It was only half-past three when she started, and she would be half an +hour too early for Celia and Norah’s tea-party, but they would be glad +to see her and there would be thus an opportunity to make some casual +enquiry about Aunt Harriet. Clive and Hester were to come, and Captain +Ingpen would surely be there: more surely because of this morning; his +was the task of nonchalance and unawareness; all that was left him to do +was to watch her and to hold his hand, hoping that by some stroke of +fortune she would be baffled and perhaps satisfied. Her heart was sick +and heavy in her side as she thought of him, and with him now came the +thought of Jeremy and of the other little dog;—but the lassitude that +had fallen upon her tumult was in itself a strength. What she needed was +stillness and calm; and it gave her this. She could promise herself that +even the sight of the three together, Hester, Ingpen and Clive,—would +not make her quail, and as she stepped out into the sunlight, the heavy +beating of her heart, the bright hot sun, brought back, by some odd +trick of association, just such another day in London, twenty-five years +ago, when she had set forth down the dusty little street in West +Kensington to make her way to the unknown London of the City and +publishers’ offices for her first business interview. She had been +horribly frightened, no doubt, though not until this minute had she +known it—so armed had she been with Clive and Winchester and Oxford—and +looking back, really understanding at last that girl of twenty-five +years ago, she saw her as incredibly ignorant of herself and of life. +Until then she had only seen life from the deck of a ship, her father’s +gallant craft, with its stout engine throbbing beneath one, its pennons +flying above. But now her father was dead, and she was to know what it +was to swim in the open sea alone, and the first intimation of the +contrast had come to her from the manner of the editors who received +her. Until then, in her relations with men, she had met with implicit +homage, with deference or assiduity, and had taken them for granted as a +woman’s due. It was revealed to her, now, in the cool jocose eye, the +note of familiarity that greeted her, that to the employing male a woman +in search of work was in a very different category from a woman secure +and independent. The editor was kind and had agreed to take her series +of articles on the French countryside; but her cheek had oddly burned +as, not waiting for the lift, she had run down the steep, echoing stone +staircase. Things, perhaps, were better for women now;—because of Hester +and her kind. And as she paused thus, looking back into the past, she +saw Hester approaching her from across the green. + +Hester had just come down from The Crofts and was evidently arrayed for +the tea-party in her best dark blue coat and skirt. She wore a red silk +jumper and a small red hat, and, among the geese and ducks and care-free +dogs, advanced with steady deliberation. Monica stood still at her gate, +fixing her with a guarded eye. Her instinct that morning in meeting +Captain Ingpen had been well justified; she had waited for him to speak +first. She would wait for Hester to speak first now. + +There was no hesitation in Hester’s demeanour and, as far as Monica +could perceive, no calculation. Her eyes were set in mauve circles, +almost as though she had wept—but Monica could not imagine that Hester +had been weeping—and the ageing lines that ran along her cheeks were +apparent and seemed to drag at the corners of her mouth with a bitter +savour. And what she said at once—what she had come to say—was: ‘I am +very sorry about yesterday, Monica. Clive told me that you felt I had +been rude. I didn’t mean to be and I beg your pardon.’ + +So unexpected were these words, so astonishing to Monica’s ear, that for +a moment she felt that Hester had struck her between the eyes. She stood +there stunned. Then, as the singing in her head subsided, she saw a clue +given into her hand. Hester suspected nothing and, because she was +unsuspicious, might reveal everything. Her apology was part of her plot. +How little it could cost her to apologize to Clive’s mother when she had +everything to gain by keeping him quiet. It was of Clive she was +thinking. She would never dream, Monica was sure of that as she looked +at her, of casting him off. She intended to keep husband and lover. +Monica felt herself armed and she seized her opportunity. ‘That’s very +nice of you, Hester, very nice indeed,’ she said; ‘I _was_ rather +startled.’ And she went on, not too casually—for of course Hester would +see that she intended to make herself disagreeable: ‘But really—after +what Clive told me, I perfectly understand. It wasn’t really me you were +angry with at all, was it?—though of course at the moment I could not be +expected to see that.’ + +Hester’s eye lighted from its brooding calm. It fixed itself on her +mother-in-law and the sullen, dragging line in her cheek deepened. ‘What +Clive told you? What has Clive got to do with it?’ she questioned +haughtily. + +‘Why—he has everything to do with it. He found me very much upset; and +he was upset, too. He was as much at sea as I was really—to account for +your temper, though he felt sure that I misunderstood you;—but when I +told him that Captain Ingpen was there, everything became clear. Your +dislike of him—because of the past—was so intense.’ + +Ah. That did draw the blood! Not a shred of doubt—or of hope—survived in +Monica as she seemed to see it trickle, as though from a dagger blow. +This was to taste, in one sharp moment, knowledge and hatred and +vengeance. For Hester was white to the lips. White, with the gauntly +circled eyes, as she stood there and as she said: ‘Because of the past? +What do you mean? I don’t understand you.’ + +No; she did not; nor should she. Hester should be left to grope, irate, +perplexed and meshed, until she tumbled into the pit dug for her. + +‘Why, you had known him—very well, I suppose,’ said Monica. ‘And I +suppose you had quarrelled with him, since the sight of him could +discompose you as much as it did yesterday, and the other night. I +understood the other night, too, and your behaviour to me then, after +what Clive said.’ + +Hester carried a small, stumpy sunshade—a red sunshade that matched her +hat and jumper (all was very nicely thought out)—and now her hands +grasped it tightly and fiercely, as fiercely as though she restrained +herself from hurling it at her mother-in-law’s head.—‘Clive never said +it! Clive could not have said such a thing! I never spoke of him to +Clive!’ she exclaimed, and her lip lifted from her teeth as she clenched +them in what was almost a snarl of fury. The blaze of the conflagration +was indeed revealing. A wide landscape, till then unseen, leaped into +view. Clive had not dared to tell his wife of his surmise. His mother +remembered now how deep had been his discomposure. Clive, too, had his +intuitions. And through it all—all that she was seeing—Monica was aware +that Hester, at all events, was telling no lies and that, illumined by +the lurid moment, she was looking almost beautiful. + +She could not pause for Hester’s beauty. She held her thought steady, +like a sword in her hand, and its edge was in her voice as she said: +‘That’s very strange: That shows Clive’s insight. I did not gather from +him how long or how well you had known Captain Ingpen, but what he made +me see was that you disliked him so bitterly that you could not control +yourself in his presence. If you had said nothing at all of him to +Clive, it only shows us how deeply he felt it for himself. He +understands you through and through, doesn’t he, Hester? You are +touched, I am sure, by such devotion and such insight.’ + +The eyes of the Byzantine Madonna were on her as she uttered these +penetrating phrases; the old image reasserted itself and Monica found +herself wondering at them, the great irises almost encircled with white, +so wide, so fixed was their ominous stare; down at her; across at her; +as if from high up, as if through the half-pagan, half-sacred darkness +of a vast basilica. Stonily, repudiatingly, Hester stared at her and, in +all her cruel security, Monica felt as if a rigid hand had been thrust +out from hieratic vestments to push her away, to strike her down, to +annihilate her. ‘You know nothing about Clive and me,’ said Hester, +‘absolutely nothing. You never have. I am not touched. He had no right +to say such things to you and not to me.’ + +‘No right to defend you? No right to tell his mother that he understood +his wife?’ Monica found the words with difficulty. Her sword had been +turned in her hand. + +‘I don’t need defences,’ said Hester, moving now away. ‘When I want +Clive to defend me with you, I’ll tell him so. He has no right to make +up stories about his wife in order to placate his mother and then to +conceal from her what he has been doing.—But that side of it concerns +him and me;—not you.—That is all I have to say.’ She walked off towards +the station-road. + +‘You remember, perhaps, that Celia and Norah expect you to tea?’ Monica +slightly raised her voice to follow her with an icy conciseness. ‘I +understood that you and Clive were coming.’ + +Hester paused to listen, her back to her. ‘I perfectly remember,’ she +said, not turning her head. ‘I don’t care to come. I don’t care to smile +and pretend after this scene; you give me too much of it to do as it is. +I shall take the train to town and not get back until after dinner:—you +may tell Clive so if you see him. I am not such an actress as you are.’ +She walked rapidly away. + +‘Well, there’s that.’ Monica heard herself utter the absurd comment as +she stood still and watched Hester disappearing round the corner of the +road. ‘There’s that,’ she repeated and, slowly turning, she walked in +the opposite direction. She felt struck, stunned, rather than enraged; +and after she had walked for a little while it came over her that a sick +admiration for Hester coloured her detestation. Yes, Hester undoubtedly +was guilty, and had been her victim, or, rather, her trapped quarry; +yet, without insolence, without retort, could any creature have +contrived more indubitably to preserve dignity in overthrow? She had +avowed nothing; she had denied nothing. ‘She hasn’t a fibre of weakness +in her; or of meanness,’ Monica thought, hardly aware of the strangeness +of such a tribute at such a moment. ‘I almost understand why they both +fell in love with her.’ Something inviolate, unconquerable in herself +recognized and did homage to the strength of her mortal enemy. + +It was already half-past four when she reached Norah’s, and she saw +Celia in the garden, bareheaded, in a very lovely little grey dress. +Here was Celia and Hester was walking away to the station. It almost +seemed to Monica, as she opened the gate and went in, that Hester was +walking out of their lives. After her anguish, her lassitude, her +stupefaction, it was now an oblivious blitheness that overtook her; the +reckless mood of a fairy-tale make-believe. Here was Celia; Clive would +soon be here and everything was to end happily as it ought to have done +years and years ago. + +‘Well, my dear child,’ she said, going up to her. ‘What delicious +weather—and you match it.—That darling dress.—Where is Norah? Are you +expecting anyone except just ourselves?’ + +‘Only the tiniest little tea-party—for Clive and Hester;—Captain Ingpen, +Mr. and Mrs. Fellows, Rosemary Dixon and Lady Tyler. Norah is in the +drawing-room with Lady Tyler now. She came early so that she could go +early. She has a meeting at the other side of the county, as usual, and +she’s talking Women’s Institutes, as usual. I’m afraid poor Norah will +have to be Secretary after all. Her hens won’t exonerate her,’ laughed +Celia, who was merry to-day. ‘Your dress is a darling, too, Monica,’ she +went on, clasping her hands on her friend’s arm. ‘You are dazzling in +black and white,—only that’s too violent a word for anything so soft and +bright.—You are like Helen of Troy, as Clive always said—there’s +something so ageless, so “is this the face” about you, and you always +smell of violets,’ Celia sniffed at her cheek.—‘I’m sure Helen did +too—fresh violets out of the wood.—Oh, Monica, isn’t it your doing that +Captain Ingpen is going to plant all sorts of lovely things in his +wood—for the spring? I am sure it is; it’s such a dull wood now; nothing +grows there you know except a few bluebells. Won’t it be too wonderful +to pick anemones and primroses? He says we shall.—Norah thinks he is +really settling in and beginning to like it here, and if he is it must +be because of you.’ + +A pang shot through Monica’s heart as she heard the happy babble. Was it +possible—even yet—that it was because of her? Was it the tired dog +laying its head in her hand? But for Clive, how little power the past +would have had to harm the present, if that were so. A dark confusion +hung before her eyes, obscuring Celia and the light fairy-tale, bringing +back the thoughts of the wood;—that apprehension of leaving Clive behind +her if she went on with Captain Ingpen. To stay her hand now would be to +leave Clive behind; it would be to betray Clive if she paused to listen +to the voices of pity and tenderness that whispered in her heart. He was +a crafty, an ambiguous, an unscrupulous man, and she remembered +suddenly—Celia’s fond words of praise brought it back, placing her in a +category where beauty still had power—that a thread of flame had passed +between them, quenched from all rising, as if by a pressure from her +foot, yet, perhaps, leaving her not unscathed. ‘Yes; look deep into your +complicity,’ she told herself, while she walked so calmly, held by +Celia, and seemed to listen to her; for was it not complicity to +understand, even though she had quenched the thread of flame, why Hester +had loved him desperately and loved him, perhaps, as desperately now?—to +understand, even, why she loved him more than Clive? + +There was no flame in Clive, was that it? He was light, not fire; he +illumined, he did not burn; and did she not understand the deep craving +to perish, if need be, in the flame? She felt herself tremble inwardly +as her thought, so coldly it seemed, gazed at Captain Ingpen’s ambiguous +homage. Yes; he was an unscrupulous man, for he had come seeking the old +passion and had dared to pause and offer homage on his way. + +‘Did Clive tell you that he took me for a drive on Saturday?’ Celia +said. ‘Robin came too and sat on my lap and we had a dear talk. It made +me feel,’ Celia smiled round at her with unclouded candour, ‘that +everything might come back again. I had tea with him and Hester +afterwards and she was so sweet to me, in her funny, terse way. I know +that Clive hopes very much we are to be friends.’ + +It would satisfy Celia to be illumined. She craved no flame. Monica’s +mind still followed the probing simile while she asked, schooling her +voice: ‘Do you feel that possible?’ + +‘Perfectly possible. I feel as if it had begun already,’ said Celia. ‘We +might never have made friends in London, but we may be friends here in +the country. Her London, I mean, could never be mine, but her country +may be. It’s quite different, isn’t it? One wants such different things +in the country.’ + +‘One always wants affinity, I think.’ + +‘But affinity grows, Monica. And funny little things can make it +grow.—I’ve never really seen Hester in her own home before,’ said Celia, +her eyes on her friend. ‘And she showed me her new dress, that red and +silver dress she got for your dinner; I never imagined Hester showing +her dresses or caring about them, but she ran up to fetch it, when Clive +asked her to—so eager and pleased—and she looked at me with such an +earnest, wistful look, and said: “Do you think she’ll like it?” as +though she were outside and wanted to come in. And I felt such a queer +little pang, Monica, for I knew you wouldn’t really like it;—that it +wasn’t a bit your sort of dress. And when you feel pangs for people, it +makes you fond of them.’ + +‘So you are already fond of Hester. That is indeed a great step towards +friendship.’ Monica could not quell the irony of her voice. The emotion +with which she heard Celia’s guileless recital, touched with the +breathless, headlong quality as it was—brought a sudden heat to her +cheek. ‘I certainly didn’t like the dress; it was a dress suitable to +the stage rather than to my little drawing-room; but I very much admired +Hester in it; as did everyone present.’ + +Celia, arrested in her advocacy, looked at her askance. It reminded her +of Clive’s look the day before. + +Norah called them in to tea. The Fellows had arrived and Rosemary Dixon +who bred Angora rabbits and read French memoirs. Monica sat down by Lady +Tyler, a lean-faced woman harassed yet stimulated by unnecessary public +cares. Her garden was her relaxation and Monica asked her at once about +her gladioli so that there should be no danger of hearing about some new +committee, and as she talked, her thought passed to and fro over the +pictures Celia had put before it; Hester displaying her dress and +pretending that it had been bought to please her:—Clive and Celia +driving with Robin. Perhaps, on that Saturday, Hester and Ingpen had +already met and laid their plans. It would be part of their plan that +Clive should often take Celia out for drives; with Robin. + +Mr. Fellows, the rector—a devout, submissive man who had lost three sons +in the war—was passing the tea and as Lady Tyler hastily quaffed her cup +and rose, saying she must fly to her meeting, Monica saw Clive’s face +appear in the doorway, Clive’s radiant face. She remembered, as she met +his eager eyes, that they had parted in love and trust only yesterday +and with painful effort her mind constructed the full meaning of his +radiance. He had sent Hester to her with her apology. He believed that +it had been understood and accepted, reconcilingly. He expected to find +Hester with her now and as his smile, sharp and shining, found and +rested on her, her eyes dropped before it. + +‘You’re late, Clive,’ said Celia, ‘and so is Captain Ingpen.—Is Hester +with you?’ + +She had joined him and already his smile was stiffened to the cold +attentiveness. + +‘She was coming with Mummy,’ he said. ‘No tea, thanks; I had some in the +city before starting.—Is she following you, Mummy?—You _have_ seen +Hester?’ + +‘Yes; I’ve seen her.’ They were standing there before her. What could +she do for Clive? What could she do for herself? Until she could see him +alone all that she could do was to present him with a clear surface. She +prayed that she kept it clear as she looked up at the two before her and +went on: ‘She didn’t come with me and asked me to tell you that she was +going to town and wouldn’t be back till after dinner.—Perhaps you and +Celia will come and dine with me—since you’ll be alone.—Robin will be +all right with Nurse, won’t he?’ + +And now, as she felt the intentness of their gaze, she remembered that +she had said no word to Celia of Hester’s defection and knew that Celia +as well as Clive scented disaster. + +‘But—didn’t she?—I mean——Hadn’t Hester anything to say to you?’ Clive’s +light was all extinguished. ‘Don’t go, Celia.’ He laid a hand on the +girl’s shoulder as she made a movement to leave them. He took refuge in +Celia, who understood him and Hester; who, already, was fond of Hester. + +‘Yes; stay, Celia,’ said Monica, glancing at the girl’s pale face. ‘It +was dear of you to send her, Clive, and we had quite a little talk. +Perhaps she had some message calling her to town? She seemed quite +decided about it.—Though I reminded her of the tea.’ + +To see Celia standing there under Clive’s hand gave her a cutting +comfort. It put her out, but it kept them, and the future, together. It +was well, even if it put her out, that he had Celia to turn to. + +‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered. + +‘It’s bad of Hester,’ Celia tried to help them both as best she could, +‘because the tea-party is really given for her; but we know what a busy +person she is. Probably it was a message. Mrs. Travers may have sent for +her, Clive. You know she said on Saturday that Mrs. Travers was in some +difficulty.’ + +‘Yes. Perhaps it is Mrs. Travers.’ Clive looked at her unseeingly. ‘But +I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll dine, Mother’ (he called her +‘Mother’)—‘I think I’d rather wait for Hester at home. Shall we have a +little turn in the garden, Celia? Isn’t it rather hot in here?’ + +‘May I come—alone?’ Celia stooped to her to ask it. But it was less to +ask than to look her tenderness, to implore her to take heart. + +‘The truth is that my heart is broken, Celia’—that was what Monica felt +she would have liked to reply. Even if Clive were to understand all and +to forgive all, how was she to forget that he could look at her like +that, with that pallid alienation? He saw her as cruel; he believed her +vindictive. She had driven his beloved to strange, uncharacteristic +stratagems, and as he and Celia left her Monica heard an echo of her own +specious voice as it had found the prevarications which were all that +she could give him. + +She sat now alone in the drawing-room. The evening was marvellously warm +and still and all the others were in the garden. It was part of old age, +Monica thought, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the piano, +that one could never tell anybody that one’s heart was broken. No one +cared if old hearts broke; it was taken for granted that they must +break; and in silence. + +She was suddenly aware that somebody was looking at her. It was as if a +presence had, soundlessly, entered the room, and opening her eyes she +saw Ingpen’s face outside the window. The sky behind his head was like +the sky in an early Italian picture; pale yet deep in tone, still, +remote and merciful; his head was dark against it and his face +featureless. She only felt his intent gaze and knew that it had searched +and summoned her. It was so a ghost might look in on one and she must +look like a ghost to him, gazing back, with her sorrowful face, from the +dusky room. So they might always remember each other, the future, not +the past, thus taking spectral shape between them. ‘Everything fades,’ +she thought. But this would not fade, for it had never lived. They had +never meant more to each other than this interchange could give them. +This was their reality. + +He was gone. He would not come in. He would not obtrude the jarring +world of time on the moment of possessed eternity. It was strange to +know of this man whom she must judge, condemn, and thrust forth, how +deeply, where eternity was concerned, she could trust him. + +Voices of farewell were passing along the little path that led to the +garden gate and in a moment Norah entered, exclaiming: ‘Why, are you all +alone, Mrs. Wilmott? I thought Uncle Godfrey was with you. He must have +gone as soon as he came;—what’s the matter with him? My tea-party was +rather a failure, I feel, with him and Hester away. Clive has driven +Celia off to see the sunset from the hill and she’s dining with you, she +says. They asked me to say they’d come back for you.’ + +Her heart might be broken but it could still rouse itself and even feel +again a stir of the fairy-tale as she heard Norah’s cheerful tones. +After all, why not? Without phantasy, was not everything moving in that +direction? All her standards, all her tastes and traditions, shrank from +hateful public rendings; but Hester had walked away; and that ghost at +the window had no power over the present. Why should not beautiful +things grow up where old things had been blasted? + +‘I won’t wait for them,’ she said. ‘I would really rather walk back on +this lovely evening, and I must tell the maids that Celia is +dining.—Won’t you come too, Norah?—The hill over The Crofts, you mean?’ + +‘Yes. The sunset is lovely from up there. No; I won’t dine, thank you so +much.—I’ve masses of letters to write and Celia loves a _tête-à-tête_ +with you.—It’s rather wonderful to see everything turning out so well, +isn’t it? You were right and I was wrong about that, do you remember? +Celia and Hester seem really to have taken a fancy to one another,’ said +Norah. ‘And little Robin calls her Aunt Celia.—She was very much +touched.’ + +‘Darling Celia.—Do you remember Sonia, in “War and Peace”? Like Celia +rather. The destined aunt type. Perhaps that is what we must resign +ourselves to for her.’ Monica got up as she spoke and moved about the +room, remembering as though from far away that there were still steps to +be taken and clues to follow before the key was in her hand; the key to +set Clive free. + +‘I don’t find it in the least mournful to be an aunt!’ Norah laughed. +‘All this talk about frustrated maternity amuses me. Some of the +jolliest people I’ve ever known have been aunts.—It all depends, like +everything else, on whether you have any money of your own.’ + +The clue was given into her hand and Monica heard her own voice saying: +‘Speaking of aunts, hadn’t you a rather wonderful one in your family?—An +old Aunt Harriet Beaton? This picture isn’t of her by any chance?—I was +hearing about her the other day.’ She had stopped before a faint pencil +drawing of an old lady in a cap. + +‘Well—how did you hear of Aunt Harriet!’ said Norah, and Monica’s heart +gave a great throb as she heard her—whether of hope or fear she did not +know: ‘No; that’s not she. I’ve no picture of Aunt Harriet. She _was_ +rather wonderful; but her name was Allington, not Beaton; we have no +Beatons in the family. Mother used to tell us stories about her. She +travelled all over the world and made botanical paintings of flowers in +every quarter of the globe. Mother has portfolios full of them.’ + +Monica heard her own weak voice again. ‘A great traveller?—Perhaps your +uncle inherits the taste from her. Yes; that is she. I muddled the name. +Was she very old when she died? Did you ever see her?’ + +‘I? See her? How could I? She was mother’s great-aunt and died before I +was born,’ said Norah. + +So the key was in her hand and heavy was its weight. If only he had said +nothing, nothing at all, she thought, as she walked along the darkened +lanes, there might still have been a loophole; but not now. One did not +lie like that without a reason. + +It was dark when she reached home. The curtains had been drawn and +chinks of light showed between them. Wondering at the foolhardiness that +had impelled her to ask Clive and Celia to dine, she paused at the gate +to draw breath. Now she had Celia to face for the evening and she did +not know how she was to bear it. + +As she dressed she heard the car drive up and then drive off again, in +the direction of The Crofts; Clive returning to wait for Hester. And in +the drawing-room Celia waited for her, holding her violin, and Monica +understood in a moment all that had happened as she said, not able to +control the breathlessness: ‘Hester was up there, Monica. She had come +back and was up there on the hill: looking at the sunset, too.—And, oh, +Monica—please forgive me—but did anything happen, between you and +Hester, I mean?—Because they are very unhappy; she and Clive are +unhappy. She is angry with him, I’m afraid;—because of what +happened.—Could you tell me, do you think? Do you think I could help a +little?—Because I feel as if I understood you all and could, perhaps, +make things clearer.’ + +For one moment, as she looked at her, Monica knew the wild impulse to +break down before Celia, to tell her all, to ask, indeed, her help and +sympathy: but, steadying her mind, as if over a whirlpool vortex, she +said, in a cold voice: ‘Yes; I think something did happen, Celia, and +perhaps, some day, I shall be able to explain what seems strange to you. +But I can’t talk about Hester and Clive now. Not till I’ve seen Clive +again, alone. We must find other topics.—Only this I’ll say:—Hester had +no right, not the shadow of a right to be angry with him. Nothing passed +between Hester and me that gave her a right to be angry with Clive. +Don’t try to intercede for her, my dear. When I tell you my story you +will feel, I think, that it is Clive and I, not Hester, who are in need +of pity.’ + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + +Monica knew when she waked next morning that her ordeal was close at +hand. Last night had been a foretaste of it, though she and Celia had +taken refuge in music and had played persistently for an hour after +their silent dinner. There was now the long day to be got through before +she could see Clive, and her bruised and trembling heart shrank from the +heavy hours. She wrote letters all morning; sprightly letters, wondering +at herself as she turned the crisp sentences and made the merry quips. +She sat down to her piano and doggedly practised the passages where she +had failed last night. And after lunch she started for a long walk, +telling Miriam that she would not be back till after tea-time. Clive +might stop to see her on his way from the station. If he did not come +she would send for him. She was fixed on that. She would not pass +another night with this spectre between them. To-night, before they +slept, she and Hester and Clive should know all. And meanwhile she could +walk and walk. + +The afternoon lights were slanting over the quiet stubble fields when +she came, after a round that had led her through miles of country, to +the little wood behind The Crofts where the primroses grew in spring. +She had walked blindly, not caring where she went, and when she found +herself now so near Hester, she knew a moment of panic. Not for anything +must Hester see her. + +She left the wood and climbed the hill with hurrying footsteps, +following a sheep-track that led to the summit, where Clive and Celia +had come last night, and sitting down to rest for a moment she retraced +the scene; Hester’s dark form reclining here, her angry eyes as she had +raised herself and watched the two approach her. What had Hester felt on +seeing them there, so confidently together? Had not a dim presage +crossed her mind of her own dispossession? And how had she dared show +anger towards Clive? + +From where she sat she could see Oddley Green below her, her little +house with its curling smoke and the thin line of the fountain on the +lawn; all the roads laid out and the railway line with its bordering +copses; and then her eye was drawn suddenly near; for there, appearing +over the crest of the hill, was little Robin in his blue linen smock, +walking slowly towards her, as if in sad meditation. Robin was a sad +little boy; she thought it again as she watched him. The deep flaw in +his parents’ union revealed itself, perhaps, in the child’s gravity. It +was as if he felt a lack in the very air he breathed. He did not see her +until he was quite near, and then, after looking at her in amazement, he +ran forward and threw himself into her arms. + +‘My darling,’ said Monica, enfolding him and looking into the troubled +little face—‘what are you doing up here all by yourself?’ + +‘Mummy lets me come here by myself sometimes,’ said Robin after a +moment; ‘we often come up here together. It’s Nannie’s afternoon out +to-day, you see.’ + +‘Yes.—But does Mummy know you are up here now—alone?’ Monica smoothed +back the fair hair from his forehead. + +‘No,’ said Robin, after a hesitation, ‘she doesn’t know. But she told me +to run away. She’s crying.’ + +‘Crying!’ Monica’s voice could not control its sharpness. ‘Why?’ + +Again Robin hesitated, as though inhibitions too mature for his years +strove with the childish hungering for comfort. Then his own eyes filled +with tears and he lifted them to his grandmother, saying: ‘I liked that +Captain; he made the fountain go and put in the fish, and I liked him. +But why does he make Mummy cry?—He’s with her down there now.’ + +Monica felt her blood stand still. With her down there now: and Hester +was crying. + +‘Well, you see,’ she said, finding calm words among blazing thoughts, +‘Captain Ingpen and Mummy are old friends and old friends often have sad +things to talk of.—If I were you, darling’—she was thinking intently and +while she thought she still stroked Robin’s hair and looked into his +eyes, ‘I would run back home now and go quietly into the nursery, and +wait for Mummy there. She would not like to think of you wandering about +like this.’ + +‘But I’m not wandering. I’m with you,’ said Robin. + +What truth was this, uttered by the innocent lips? With her. Her arm +held him more closely, while her blazing thoughts paused and scorched +her and her mind, so girlish still, so inexperienced, shrank from the +visions that Robin’s words had set before her. She rose to her feet +involuntarily and keeping Robin’s hand stood gazing down at the fading +October day. Hester had no right to Robin. + +‘Darling, I think you had better come back with me,’ she said. ‘Mummy is +busy with her friend and Daddy would rather you were with me, I feel +sure. Perhaps you could spend the night with me.—Wouldn’t you like that, +Robin?’ + +He gazed up at her with his pure eyes. ‘But I can’t leave Mummy,’ he +said. + +A flush rose to Monica’s cheek. She felt herself rebuked. ‘Of course +not,’ she said. ‘Only till Daddy comes. He will fetch you.’ + +‘Won’t you come home with me?’ said Robin after a moment. ‘Won’t you +come to the nursery and sit with me and wait for Mummy, too?’ + +‘No. I can’t do that!’ Monica exclaimed, to herself, rather than to the +child. ‘You come with me till Daddy fetches you.’ + +‘Mummy wouldn’t like it,’ said Robin, still eyeing her; and as she +looked down at his firm sad face she saw Clive in him; Clive’s strength. +‘She doesn’t like me to go unless she knows.’ + +‘But she told you to run away.’ + +‘She didn’t mean so far away. She meant the nursery. Perhaps she’ll be +there now, Grannie. I think I’ll go back and see.’ + +Little angel; little faithful, trusting angel; loyal like his father, +and betrayed like him. What was there to do but yield to such innocence? +She stooped and kissed his forehead. ‘Very well, darling; if you feel +that. Yes; run home.’ + +When she had seen him disappear over the brow of the hill she turned and +walked swiftly down to Oddley Green. She was trembling, shuddering with +fury and as she went her walk insensibly became a run. She felt like a +hare with the hounds at its heels, and a terror was upon her that before +she reached safety she might see Ingpen. + +Clive’s car stood before her cottage. He was waiting for her. He was +there, standing at the window, watching her, as she came up the path. + +She stood for a moment in the hall and put her stick very softly into +the stand, as though afraid of waking someone. As she entered the +drawing-room Clive turned to her from the window but he did not move +towards her. Miriam had set the tea-table in readiness; the kettle +whispered on its stand. Absurdly, grotesquely, she heard herself saying, +as she paused by the door and glanced at her son: ‘Will you have some +tea?’ + +‘No, thanks,’ said Clive. He did not move. He watched her as she sank +down on a chair beside the door. ‘I want to talk to you, Mother,’ he +said. ‘Are you too tired? Would you rather go up and rest first? I can +wait. I can wait for as long as you like.’ + +‘No; I am not too tired,’ said Monica. She could sit upright on the +chair and she certainly could not go and rest while he waited. + +Clive leaned back against the window-frame, his arms folded. ‘It’s +this,’ he said. ‘You are cruelly unfair to Hester; and you always have +been.’ + +‘Yes; I see. Yes;—I thought that was what you were going to say,’ said +Monica. ‘Won’t you sit down, Clive? You look tired.’ + +‘No; I’d rather stand.—You do own it, then. You do see it. From the very +beginning it has been,’ said Clive. ‘And from the very beginning it has +spoiled everything.’ + +‘Not everything, Clive? You have had your happiness. She didn’t see.’ + +‘No; that’s true. Hester didn’t see. She’s simpler than you and I are +and she didn’t expect to be cared for; didn’t ask it, or didn’t think it +made any difference. That was a little stupid of Hester,’ said Clive, +and across the room the white sincerity of his face flashed at her like +a sword. ‘She had never met a relation like ours. Her own family life +had been wretched. She didn’t in a way take parents seriously; just as a +girl of her type doesn’t take the past seriously; doesn’t know that it +counts, counts horribly, in the present. They are stupid in that way,’ +Clive repeated, staring down for a moment at the floor. + +‘Then, since she was too stupid to see, what do you blame me for?’ asked +Monica. This was all irrelevant; this was all enmeshing; but she must +let Clive speak. She could not strike him down among these thickets of +misunderstanding. But the briars sprang up with every word she uttered +and Clive was eyeing her with a look of scorn as he answered: ‘She did +see. She began to feel I was unhappy. She was not too stupid to feel +that, though I tried to hide it from her. I tried to hide from you both, +to pretend to you both that you got on and that I was contented with +your relation. I thought that if I went on pretending long enough it +might grow; you might begin to see her a little more truly, and do her +some degree of justice. But Hester saw what you failed to see; that I +was wretched. And how are we to go on now, when you show her as well as +me that you hate her?’ + +Monica sat silent, her eyes on the floor. It was true that she hated +Hester now; it was perhaps true that she had hated her from the +beginning; and with reason. Clive was looking at her but she could not +look at him, and if he had had a lingering hope it died then, for she +denied nothing. ‘I see it all now,’ he said, and he turned to the window +and looked out as he spoke. ‘I see now why you came down here; to get +away from her. I see why you couldn’t pretend to be glad when we came. +We can’t help hating, I suppose; but it does seem to me, Mother, that we +can help being unjust. It does seem to me that you might have put out +your hand to her, and all that she was trying to do for us both—when +once she had realized that I was suffering.’ + +She glanced up at him. ‘It seems to me, Clive,’ she said, her lips moved +faintly and the words just issued; ‘that it was always I who held out my +hand and Hester who did not even see it and walked past it. It seems to +me that it is you who are cruelly unjust. What you said a moment ago is +the truth. Hester never thought about me at all. She didn’t care a jot +whether I cared for her or not. All that she cared for was to have you, +and to keep you; and while she cared to keep you, I did not exist.’ + +‘It’s not true! It’s not true!’ Clive cried, and he turned to her again +and eyed her, fiercely, yet supplicatingly. ‘You don’t understand a girl +of Hester’s type. She hasn’t your codes and symbols; she doesn’t feel or +express things as you and I do. You don’t dream how shy and sensitive +and apprehensive she is, under that firm surface.—She’s had to keep +firm, poor darling—because she’s always had so much to face. She didn’t +know how to please you and didn’t realize when she was displeasing +you.—She was in the dark, always; for I always knew. Nothing was lost on +me. You and I saw eye to eye, while she had to walk on in the dark and +trust me.—And she has trusted me. She’s never once faltered or turned +away; till yesterday; when you pushed her too far.’ + +‘Oh; I pushed her too far yesterday? How did Hester put that to you? +What form did her arraignment of me take;—and of you?—For Celia informed +me that she was angry with you, too.’ + +‘She was angry with me because you garbled my interpretation of her to +suit your own purposes. She told me that she’d gone to you, as I asked +her to, to beg your pardon, and that you had sneered at her and thrown +her contrition in her face. She told me that you hated her and that she +could bear it no longer. It was the truth, Mother. Even Celia sees it. +Even Celia sees that you hate my wife.’ + +‘Clive,’ said Monica, ‘I must talk to you now.’ It was growing dark. His +flashing face was dim to her as he stood there, leaning back, his arms +tightly folded across his chest. Monica leaned forward and pressed her +hand against her brows. ‘You have said what Hester has told you to say, +and now I must speak. I am not going to defend myself. All that is past. +Perhaps what you say is true. I may have hated Hester from the +beginning. But if I did, I know now that I had reason to hate her.’ She +dropped her hand and looked across the room at him. ‘She is a bad +woman,’ she said. + +He leaned against the window staring at her with no change of +countenance. It was only the look of cold attention that met her, as +though, in a trench, he awaited the approaching bomb and computed where +it was to fall. + +‘That’s a Victorian word.’ She remembered the other day and his faint +laugh. ‘I don’t mean it in that way. I mean it because she has deceived +you. Hester, when she came to you, had things to hide; things to fear. +Before she met you she had a lover.’ + +There was silence, deep silence for a moment. Then he said: ‘I knew +that.’ + +‘You knew it? Since when?’ + +‘Since the beginning,’ said Clive. ‘She told me at the very first; down +in Cornwall.’ He looked across the room at his mother and it seemed to +her now that it was a look of hatred. She had uncovered Hester’s past; +and his; with all its suffering. + +‘I see.’ She forced her lips to speak, but could not force them to speak +without a horrible irony; her astonishment, her panic, were like a +tempest shaking her. ‘I see. After such confidences, such forgivenesses +asked and granted, it was natural that I should feel something very +strange in you; as I did; and in her;—when you first brought her. That +explains everything, really.’ + +Clive was silent for a moment, taking full cognizance of her intention. +‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in the sense you mean. To think in the way that you +are thinking, where Hester is concerned, would be an impossibility to +anyone who loves her. I was not writhing with male jealousy. I was not +feeling her damaged goods;—as little as she was herself. That is +precisely what you do mean, isn’t it?’—Yes. He was looking at her with +hatred. She felt it flowing into her as if every vein were an inlet for +a deadly poison.—‘If I was strange,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t only because of +those sad things in her life and because I knew that you would feel as +you do feel, if we were to tell you of them. It was because Hester and I +had faced things you never dreamed of; horrible things; I in the war; +she in Russia. We weren’t ordinary happy young engaged people. I had +seen suffering that had nearly turned my brain, and she had seen cruelty +that had seared her. It was because of what we both had to hide from +other people that we came to care so much for each other, at the first. +We seemed, from the moment we saw each other, to understand. As for her +lover, she wanted me to tell you, of course. And I refused. I knew what +you would feel,’ Clive repeated, and on his sweet, pure lip she saw the +echo of her own cruel irony. + +‘You will admit—she has not so altered all the codes and symbols you +inherit from me, obsolete as they are—you will admit that it is a +natural feeling.’ + +‘Perfectly natural. Nothing could be more natural;—like all the rest of +our primitive emotions. You see yourself as the pure and Hester as the +impure woman.’ + +‘Do I?’ It seemed to her that Clive had thrown knives at her and that +she felt them quivering in her throat and side.—All that suffering that +he had hidden from her, his mother, and that Hester had understood at a +glance.—‘Perhaps there is a meaning in the words, in spite of Hester’s +code. Do you subscribe also to the modern doctrine of contemporaneity in +love affairs? Are you a completely complacent husband? If your wife had +sad things in her past, are you willing that she should have pleasant +ones in her present?’ She was willing, more than willing, to hurt Clive. +He had done more than hurt her. She could not live after seeing that +cold hatred burn in his eyes. + +‘What do you mean?’ he asked sternly. + +Monica rose to her feet. She felt no weariness. The poison of his hatred +mounted in her, lending her a horrible strength. ‘Do you forgive your +wife everything, and your mother nothing? Are you in the plot that +brought her lover here to live? Was it acting on your part, too, the +other night? Or must I tell you—since they have hoodwinked you—that +Captain Ingpen is her lover?’ + +‘What are you saying? You are mad,’ said Clive. As she saw his face a +ghastly happiness filled her heart. He had been deceived. ‘You are mad,’ +Clive repeated. ‘It has become a disease in you, your hatred.’ + +‘Ask her if it is a disease!’ Monica panted. ‘Ask her whose ring he +wears! Ask her when they saw Chartres together! Ask her why she cried +this afternoon when he was with her and Robin was sent away!—I know it +all! I have seen it all!—You unfortunate, you hoodwinked, you miserable +child!’ + +He stood, his face ghastly, staring, incredulous. ‘She hates him,’ he +said. + +‘Does she? Ask her how she hates him? She has betrayed you.’ + +He had stumbled forward—the bird with the broken wing—as if with an +impulse of escape, and stopped in the middle of the room, staring around +him, seeing the way barred. His mother stood before him. ‘Hester +couldn’t lie to me,’ he said. + +‘She has lied to you,’ said Monica. ‘You see now why she was so anxious +to come to live here; so that I should not be lonely any longer.’ + +The thirsty vengeance of her voice drew his eyes to her and he stood +there poised, and looked at her for a long moment. ‘I don’t believe +you,’ he then said. ‘If it’s true that he was her lover, it’s not true +that he is her lover now. If she has not told me, it’s because she was +afraid. Yes,’ he looked steadfastly at his mother, drawing, it seemed, +assurance from her balefulness, ‘she’s been afraid of you; and of me. +She loves me with all her heart and soul; do you understand? As I love +her. Every drop of her blood is mine and every drop of mine is hers. +Nothing could part us.—She wanted to tell me everything long ago in +Cornwall, and I refused to hear. I only knew that it was in France, long +ago, and that he was much older than she was and that he’d broken her +heart; I thought he was a Frenchman. We never spoke of it again; not +once.—And he has followed her here. He has dared to come to her and +torment her while I’m away.—And you have played detective and thought +you would rid yourself of her like that.—Good-bye, Mother.’ + +He did not look at her. He brushed past her to the door and left her +standing there with her head thrown back, her eyes dilated. Miriam found +her lying on the floor when she brought in the lamp and she and Cook +carried her up to her room and laid her on her bed. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + + +In the night she woke after long, swooning sleep, clear-minded. She had +been dreaming of her mother, who had, in the dream, come laughing to the +breakfast-table and said, as she stood behind the coffee-urn: ‘I am +going to become a Catholic to-day, and you must all come and see me take +the veil at Brompton Oratory.’ It was a very characteristic +announcement. They had always, all of them, been a family for sudden +resolutions, and later in the dream she saw her mother, dressed like a +bride, before an altar blazing with candles, and she herself and Alison, +her younger sister, were bridesmaids and smiled at each other over the +shower bouquets of the period. Then they were both crying and everything +was dark and they were standing on either side of a black catafalque and +their mother lay beneath; dead: ‘Of course we all knew that she killed +herself,’ said Alison. Not until this dream had the truth been +spoken—that her mother had indeed taken the overdose purposely; but she +knew now that she had always known it. The dreadful grief drifted above +her like a pall of smoke and when she woke she lay beneath it, thinking +of all those she had loved, who were dead.—Her father, her mother, +Charlie, her brothers Christopher and Martin, and the young sister +Alison who had died in girlhood, nearly breaking her mother’s +heart—though that had not finally broken until her father went. And it +was strange to think of them all ending so sadly when they had been such +a happy family. And all were dead: for ever and ever and ever. She felt +herself repeating the words ‘For ever.’ Such strange words. In form they +seemed to possess something; but it was only the dust of oblivion. They +were all gone; irretrievably submerged in the salt, dissolving ocean of +time, and even the few sparkling memories that lingered on in the minds +of the living would soon be extinguished. + +Now, detached, emotionless, yet stricken to the heart as if by a deadly +drug, she lay and saw a vast cliff rising as far as the eye could reach; +as vast and dark and towering as a tidal wave, reared eternally against +an abyss of empty space. And it plunged beneath further than thought +could fathom into a sea of death. The cliff was the world, and line upon +line, like the minutely fretted ledges of a coral reef, the human +generations emerged, just above the last sea-level, like a desperate +striving crepitation of insects. The cliff was immutable. The sea, but +for its imperceptible upward movement, motionless; only the line of life +pulsed with a fierce, miniature rhythm as the insects struggled up, +always up, always away from the engulfing sea, and fought with each +other, and tore each other down, and mounted upon each other in their +effort to escape and rise above the creeping tide; all with a +hallucinated ardour of faith, their little eyes fixed on the cliff that +all sought unavailingly to scale. Then silence; stillness. The tide of +death had mounted and they sank, generation after generation, line after +line; and the ledge of stilled consciousness that lay just below the +surface was as distant in reality, as inaccessible and perished, as the +ledges on which the Pharaohs slept, or ape-like men lay curled in +profundities of oblivion. ‘Yes; that’s life,’ Monica heard herself say +in the darkness. + +When Miriam brought her her early tea, she told her that she would spend +the morning in bed and see no one. ‘No one, Miriam, not even Mr. +Wilmott. I’m too tired after that horrid fall last night.’ She knew that +Clive would not come. It was Hester she feared. A terror had waked in +her with her later waking and the ledge of life to which she still clung +was real to her again and the cliff and the sea half forgotten, a terror +that Hester might come and summon her forth to retribution. She saw +herself now as the creeping thing that Clive saw, the thing he would +have shown to Hester last night. She had not thought explicitly of the +revelation that had been conveyed to her with Clive’s words; but during +the hours of stunned sleep all her awareness of Hester had shifted and +on waking to the direful daylight she knew that she had traduced her and +had never seen her truly. The fiercely believed myth of her present +infidelity revealed itself for what it was; the shadow cast by her own +hatred. Not only Ingpen’s face was there to dispel it—with those +tears—but Hester’s also; the face of the repudiating Madonna. Such a +woman, who had from the first avowed all her past to the man she loved, +would not lie and creep clandestinely. She had loved Ingpen and put him +out of her life; and if she had seen him yesterday it was because he had +sought her out; or because she had summoned him to tell him that he must +go. Yes; that must be the truth. But she would not have seen it unless +Clive’s words had unsealed her eyes. ‘You know nothing about Clive and +me: you never have,’ came back to her. It was the truth. Their lives +had, from the first, been founded on sorrows, acceptances, +understandings from which she had been shut out. She had no place in it. +She had no place in any life. She had become a mere parasite, a +crawling, stinging parasite; something too vile for contemplation. So it +was that he had shown her to Hester. Never, never, in her shame, let her +see Hester again. + +After lunch she got up and dressed carefully. The day was bright. It was +still warm enough for her grey coat and skirt. She tied the knot of +_crêpe-de-chine_ beneath her throat, pressed her pretty hat to its +becoming level above her eyebrows, drew on her soft grey gloves and +slipped her wrist-watch into place. Miriam had put a bunch of verbenas, +all bright, delicate colours, like an old sprigged muslin, on her +dressing-table, and she selected three,—deep pink, pale pink and purple, +and pinned them into the lapel of her coat. Brightly, if with a specious +brightness, her eyes looked back at her in the mirror, and, with the +eddy of gold against her cheek, she was the most serene and youthful of +ageing ladies. She tipped a drop of lavender-water on her handkerchief +before she went and tucked it in her sleeve. + +Miriam met her at the foot of the stairs selecting a stick from the +stand. ‘Oh, Ma’am, you are too tired to go out,’ said Miriam, who, trim +and crisp, was a parlour-maid to match such a lady. ‘That was a bad turn +you had last night, and Cook and me think you had better stay in bed and +have the doctor.’ + +‘But see how well I look, Miriam,’ said Monica, smiling. ‘I think I must +have been a little bilious and air and exercise are the best things for +me. I shall be in for tea. If Miss Bowen should come with her violin +tell her to go over her music until I get back.—And, oh, Miriam’—no +explicit stratagem was in her mind; only a deep instinct led her—‘I will +put on my old georgette tea-gown to-night; the sleeve is a little +ripped, so please have a look at it.’ + +There was no stratagem: but if anything unforeseen should happen to her, +Miriam would be able to say that when last seen she had been quite +herself. Nothing, she felt as she walked swiftly away, could seem more +natural, more securely fastened to the ledge. Miriam, afterwards, would +even remember the verbenas. + +What, she thought, walking so rapidly down the station-road that the +blood mounted hotly to her weary cheek and she had to pause more than +once and draw breath—what if she took the 3.50 to London? She could go +to a hotel, telegraph to Miriam for her clothes, and then on to France +or Italy or Africa, anywhere where she might hide. But as she approached +the station she knew that London was not her intention, nor foreign +travel. She turned aside into the woods that ran beside the line and +walked out into the country beyond and along deep lanes and up over a +common thick with gorse bushes where she stripped a cluster of flowers +into her palm in passing by. She had always picked gorse on this common, +ever since she had come to Oddley, held it until it was warm and sniffed +at the thick soft fragrance. To-day she picked and held, but forgot to +smell it. She lifted her wrist presently and saw that it was 3.35. It +was time to turn. So she crossed the fields and climbed a gate and came +again to the railway woods, went through them, creeping under the wire +and up the steep embankment, and stood for a moment looking up and down +the line. But, she remembered, walking on, if she stood here she herself +would be seen from a distance by the engine-driver. A little further on +the line curved above the woods and she would be invisible until the +train was almost upon her. There was plenty of time; and raising her +wrist again to look at her watch, she walked quickly along the cinder +path beside the sleepers and saw, as she approached the curve, a little +gate, forgotten till then, that, below her, opened from the copse to a +right of way across the line. All was fitted to her need. She would +stand here, just above it, as if she had just ascended from the gate and +was waiting for the train to pass before she crossed. + +‘I can stand here to watch it pass,’ she thought, ‘and then go home, and +no one will ever know. And it will become to me only a desperate dream. +People have so often stood and watched trains go by and had these +thoughts. They mean nothing, really.’ And she remembered that it was +always pleasant to see the tray of early-morning-tea brought into one’s +room. She could go home because of early-morning-tea. And now in the +distance she heard the low humming of the approaching train, growing in +the air, and remembered Anna Karénine and how she had read the book to +Clive one summer before the war. She had cried in reading of Anna’s +death and Clive had put his head down on her shoulder and held her. + +The face of the train appeared suddenly above the copses. It was like +the face of a bee, so blank and so intent, and the sinuous following +body lurched, fore-shortened, smoothly round the curve. If she stood +quietly to watch it pass, no one could find anything to note in her +attitude (she was aware of no explicit change in her thought, but the +memory of Clive had reminded her that something intolerable hemmed her +in closely, from which she must escape);—and if, just as it approached +her, humming and throbbing, she stepped quietly before it, or better +still—her mind flashed pictures now—stumbled and fell forward, Miriam +could tell how she had fallen last night. Her sight felt empty; her +heart had melted away; she was thinking of her mother and of the dream: +‘Of course we all knew she killed herself.’ It was as if her mother, +above the swift, hungry humming, were calling to her, and she felt no +fear, only laid her stick down quickly beside her—for it would be horrid +to be entangled and impeded—and the insect whir of wheels and pistons +was close now, close——. + +What was this crash and impact?—Death? She was dragged aside and +struggled for footing on the steep embankment. Great eyes were looking +into hers;—eyes of passionate reprobation; eyes of the Byzantine +Madonna, and the clutch on her arm and shoulder of hard hands. ‘That +would be a rotten thing to do,’ said Hester, and her voice floated like +a wisp borne on the roar and current of the train sweeping by above +them. + +Hester had no need to drag her. She went passively; weak as a rag; like +a criminal with gyves upon his wrists. Once it was known, one could +never do it. She might almost be put into a lunatic asylum. It would not +be possible to pretend to Hester. She remembered her stick lying beside +the line on the permanent way. Hester had seen her lay it down. She had +been watching her for how long? She remembered that she consulted her +watch again and again. No; there was no use pretending. So she walked +on, held by Hester, into the little copse which, thickly planted with +pine trees, made a whispering sound above their heads. Here Hester +paused, and as Monica felt herself released she sank down upon the +ground and covered her face with her hands. + +Hester remained standing beside her, leaning against a tree. ‘It would +be a rotten thing to do, wouldn’t it?’ she repeated, and a long time +must have passed. ‘What would have become of Clive if you had? He would +never have forgiven himself.’ + +Monica stilled her shuddering breaths. She forced her mind, from some +vast dispersal, into the channel of thought. It was like air entering +drowned lungs, cutting its way resuscitatingly. ‘It might have been an +accident,’ was what she heard herself say. + +‘Well, he would have known it couldn’t have been an accident, after your +scene last night. It would have been the most awful kind of vengeance, +really,’ said Hester. ‘But we won’t talk about it. Rest, and try not to +think.’ + +But Monica muttered: ‘No; no;—I didn’t mean that. Try to believe that I +didn’t mean that. It was only that when I saw he hated me I couldn’t go +on.’ + +Hester was silent for a little while, and in the silence, over the +whispering of the pine-trees, Monica heard, far away, the deep breaths +of the engine as the 3.50 pulled out after its stop at Oddley Station. + +‘You know, I think you are rather foolish,’ Hester then remarked, +bitterly, but with a strange, impersonal bitterness. ‘You ought to know +Clive better than that. People can say anything, when they’ve had a +knock-down blow, can’t they? Clive had been knocked flat. You understand +that, I’m sure. He doesn’t hate you. You couldn’t make him hate +you—whatever you did. It’s much more me he’d be likely to hate.’ + +Monica put down her hands and raised her head and looked up at her +daughter-in-law. Hester still stood leaning back against the pine-tree, +her elbow in her hand, her chin on her knuckles, looking before her with +a cold, intent look. Her lips were drawn; her cheek sunken; but how pale +and starry was her forehead. Monica fixed her eyes on Hester’s forehead. +She had always granted that Hester’s forehead was beautiful, and the +shape of her dark, proud head. She looked at her, carefully, for a long +time. And Hester, unaware of her scrutiny, remained sunken in her own +dark thoughts. + +‘Hester, how did you know that I was here?’ Something so new had come +into Monica’s apprehension that she was filled with dispassionate +wonder. ‘What made you come?’ she asked. + +‘Robin saw you,’ said Hester. She kept her eyes fixed before her and +spoke with a change of tone, with relief, perhaps, at the adjournment of +their personal question. ‘He was on the hill and saw you starting and +came and told me that you were going out. He looked so queer that I +asked him if anything were the matter and he said: ‘Grannie’s unhappy. +She can’t walk properly. She keeps stopping all the time.’—Of course he +was badly upset yesterday—by me and Godfrey,’ said Hester, uttering the +name steadily, though after a slight pause. ‘Clive saw how upset he was, +when he came back last night, from you, and found him sitting alone in +the garden. That’s another reason, you see.—For hatred, I mean.—A good +reason, don’t you think? Mothers oughtn’t to have pasts that let their +children in for such experiences, ought they?—their nervous children.’ +And now Hester glanced down at her with a smile of cutting self-mockery. +‘So I ran up the hill,’ she went on, after the comment, which Monica +received with a deepening absorption, ‘and I could still see you, on the +station road, walking very fast and, as he’d said, stopping now and +then. It didn’t need a nervous little boy to see that something was +wrong. So I told him to stay in the nursery and that I’d find you and +cheer you up, and I ran down by the lane and through the woods and I’ve +been dogging you ever since. When I saw you walking over the common and +picking gorse, I thought that perhaps you didn’t mean anything. But when +you came back into the copse and crept under the wires and looked up and +down the line—and at your watch—I knew; of course. So I followed you, +keeping well out of sight, till you stopped above the gate—I saw how you +were thinking it all out—and you didn’t hear me when I got up close +behind you; the train was coming and you were listening too hard for +that. I stood there, just below you, as if we were waiting for the train +together. I don’t think they suspected anything;—though they must have +thought it odd—about your stick, and my dragging you back so +suddenly.—But I don’t think they suspected anything, really.’ + +Monica’s marvelling gaze remained fixed upon her face. ‘I suppose,’ she +said, after a pause, ‘that it was for Clive’s sake you did it.’ + +‘I don’t know about that,’ said Hester, also after a pause and again +glancing at her. ‘I didn’t want you to commit suicide.’ And again with +the bitter flicker of a smile she added: ‘And I can understand wanting +to get under a train just as well as you can, Monica.’ + +Now a long silence fell. A golden sunset had slowly embued the sky and +through the openings of the wood it slanted over the pine-needles to +Monica’s feet and fell warmly on her face and hands. It was like a +peaceful tide stealing in upon them, and she was content to sit there +and feel it take her, hearing suddenly that the air was full of soft, +autumnal insect murmurs, rising and falling joyously, while the brooding +fields were like a mother’s breast. She closed her eyes. It seemed to +her that she slept, listening in her sleep to the joyous murmur. She +could rest safely, for Hester was there beside her and would watch over +her. + +‘Hester,’ she said suddenly, still with closed eyes,—‘Hester, what did +you mean by saying that Clive might hate you? You must know that it was +because of you that he hated me; after what I’d believed of you.’ + +‘Don’t you believe it any longer?’ Hester enquired after a moment. She +had got out her cigarettes and was smoking; looking up at her, Monica +saw her through a waft of smoke. + +‘No; I believe it no longer.’ + +‘Because Clive told you I’d been straight with him in the past?’ + +‘Not only that. That didn’t touch the present, did it? No; it all +dropped away.—Because of what I felt of you and of Captain Ingpen. I +saw, when I woke this morning, that it could not be true, of either of +you.’ + +Hester smoked, her eyes on the sunlit fields. She wore her straight blue +linen dress, with the narrow black belt around her hips; rather like a +French child’s apron. She was bareheaded and looked like a child. ‘All +the same,’ she said presently, ‘I see why you believed it. You don’t +know anything about me, really, do you? and when you found out that +Godfrey and I had been lovers, all the rest must have seemed inevitable. +I understood, even last night, when Clive came back, what had +happened.—All the same, I do rather wonder at you;—not so much because +of me and Godfrey—whom you don’t know;—but because of Clive.—How you +could think, I mean, that Clive’s wife would deceive him. But then you +have never understood what I feel about Clive; how I care for him, I +mean.’ + +‘Do you mind telling me?—What you feel about him? I always knew you +loved him,’ said Monica, after the long pause that followed Hester’s +words; ‘but even loving wives do sometimes deceive their husbands.’ + +Hester knocked off the end of her cigarette and held it away and looked +at it, frowning. ‘I’d like to try,’ she said. ‘I’d like to try to +explain. It would be a pity not to get it clear, wouldn’t it, while we +are like this.—What I mean is that I feel you would understand anything +I told you.’ + +‘I am sure I should, Hester. Anything you told me.’ + +‘About Clive, then. He was so different from all the men I’d known. He +made the rest of them seem so—grubby—somehow.—One can’t say why one +falls in love, can one?’ said Hester, ‘but perhaps difference is one of +the chief reasons. I suppose Clive was almost the only gentleman I’d +ever really known—except Godfrey;—and he isn’t quite so much of one, is +he?—It wasn’t only that, of course; that would seem so very trivial, +wouldn’t it?—though I don’t think now that it’s as trivial as I once +did.—The things you jibe at when you’re outside seem so different when +you’re inside.—My father, poor old fellow, isn’t quite a gentleman, to +begin with;—rather a saint, but not quite a gentleman. Clive is rather a +saint, and a gentleman as well. I was like a dull blade when he met me. +He’s sharpened and sharpened me;—by his difference; by his belief in me; +by having to live up to what he takes for granted.—It has hurt +frightfully, sometimes, to see what he took for granted and how far from +it one was; but by the time one had had a few turns on the wheel one was +a good deal sharper.—Of course that’s a clumsy metaphor.—He makes one +open like a flower; a tight, hard, distrustful flower.—That’s more like +it. Godfrey never did that. He trampled one under foot.’ + +‘Oh, Hester;—not under foot? Was he cruel? Must I believe it of him? Did +you know I liked him? It hurts me to have you say that.’ + +‘Yes. I saw you liked him. So do I,’ said Hester, glancing at her. ‘No, +he was never cruel. Never. He was kind, always. But kindness can +trample, too, you know, if it’s blind. I only mean that he tore me to +pieces without meaning to, because he was blind. It was because of him +that my father cast me off, you know. It would be utterly unfair to +blame Godfrey for that. I had all my theories, and if it hadn’t been him +it would probably have been someone else. But my father came over to +Paris and found me living there, in sin, as he called it, and cast me +off. He is of that type and generation. And although Godfrey was very +sorry about it, and wanted to make up in every way he could, he is of +the type and generation that would never dream of marrying their +mistress. He wasn’t free; and I never thought about marriage; and I’m +not blaming him. All the same,’ said Hester, holding off her cigarette +and surveying it, the bitter savour on her lip, ‘I don’t think I ever +quite forgave him—among all the other things I didn’t forgive—when I +realized that he looked upon me as a mistress. I’ve never told anyone +about this; not even Clive. I am telling you because it makes you +understand what I feel about Clive. He could never have made such +mistakes about me, even if he’d been my lover, and not married to me. We +love the people who don’t make mistakes about us, don’t we?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Monica. What mistakes had she not made about Hester? + +‘I think we’d better be going back now.’ Hester tossed away her +cigarette. ‘You can walk, leaning on my arm, can’t you? Robin will be +wondering, poor lamb, and I must get back to him;—and you must go to bed +at once and have some hot milk with brandy in it and then get a good +long sleep.—Pretty rotten for you, too, it’s been;—and don’t think I +don’t see it!’ And Hester smiled at her as she held out her hand to +assist her to rise. ‘Lean on me,’ she said. + +They went slowly along the little grass track that, at the edge of the +field, ran beside the copse. The sun had set and a soft evening breeze +fanned their cheeks, but the golden light still enveloped them—the light +in which everything could be said, and thinking of Hester’s smile just +now, as she held out her hand, a smile so sweet and childlike that it +brought again the sense of bewilderment and marvel, Monica asked: + +‘Why did you think Clive might hate you, Hester? You haven’t told me +that. It seems to me that where there is such love as that between you +and Clive it is secure against all such danger.’ + +Hester, sustaining her arm, walked beside her, illumined in her blue +against the pine-trees, and glancing at her, as she kept silence, Monica +saw that it was with an effort that she now kept back her tears. ‘Tell +me, Hester,’ she said. + +‘Can’t you see?’ said Hester, holding her head high and keeping her eyes +fixed before her. ‘It’s partly you and partly Godfrey. He couldn’t stand +finding out like that. You will say that I ought to have told him at +once when I found that Godfrey was living here. Perhaps I should have. +Only I’m accustomed, in a way, to protecting Clive. He goes under so +horribly, you know; while I’m as strong as a horse. And I couldn’t bear +to make him so miserable; to bring it all up, after we’d said nothing +for all these years. He begged me to say nothing more, when I told him, +down in Cornwall. He didn’t want to hear the name of the man who had +made me so unhappy;—though I did tell him that it was in Paris, just +after I’d left Girton; but he said we’d forget it and that the only +difference it made was that I was the dearer to him because of what I’d +suffered. But I don’t think he ever really did forget it, poor darling,’ +said Hester, smiling the bitter smile over her unshed tears. ‘I think it +haunted him and tore at him, frightfully, and that the more we were to +each other the more he minded. His loveliness unshackled him in so many +directions, but somehow it didn’t unshackle him in that.—I mean, he felt +about it, really, just as his father would have felt—if you’d had to +tell him such a thing. And that was why, when I saw Godfrey again on +Saturday night, I was so dreadfully upset. I knew how Clive would feel. +That’s why I behaved so devilishly. I was so upset that I had to set my +teeth in something; and it seemed to me that Godfrey was sneering at me +and taunting me. But he was upset, too. We had parted with the most +grisly quarrel—out there—at Chartres, you see;—that’s why I hate +Chartres, Monica; do you remember?—and never to run into each other +again, or hear of each other, and then find ourselves face to face +between a husband who hadn’t forgotten and a mother-in-law who didn’t +like you!—Well, you can see for yourself that it needed strong nerves. +Godfrey was clever that night, wasn’t he? He played up well. I never +dreamed you would find out, or guess, and thought I could manage it all +and get him to go away and no one the wiser. I thought, for a day or +two, that he’d go of himself, and when I found he didn’t I wrote and +asked him to come and he told me—yesterday when he was with me, you +know—how it had happened and the horrible ill-luck about the ring and +your seeing the initials.—I saw that ring, while we played bridge that +night. I gave it to him in Paris; we found it together in an old shop +and I never dreamed he would have gone on wearing it.—He gave me one +too; a beautiful ring; but I went out in Paris, after parting from him, +and threw it into the Seine. What a little fool I was! But I couldn’t +wear it myself and I couldn’t bear to think of anybody else wearing +it.—Well—I seemed to see nothing while we played and while I made those +imbecile mistakes—except that ring of mine on his finger.—He is going +off first thing to-morrow morning, Monica. He said at once that he would +go. “Give me one day to pack and settle accounts,” he said, “and none of +you will ever see me again.” He left me, of course, before Clive got +back. He never made muddles about things like that.—But it was too late, +in a way. I mean, Clive found me crying. Can you understand that?’ +Hester’s arm was steady under her mother-in-law’s hand, but Monica now +saw that a slow flush had crept up to her cheek. ‘I feel as if you +would. I feel as if you would understand that one might not get over the +man one first loves, even if one loves someone else so much better. He +tore me to pieces and made me sick with rage and shame, but I did love +him most awfully, and when I saw him again, yesterday, I knew that I +still did—can you understand?—And when Clive came in and found me +crying, I couldn’t deny it. Why should one change because one is parted? +But Clive couldn’t understand. He said he’d half killed you for my sake, +because he trusted me, and that he could never forgive himself and that +you had every reason to believe what you did—since half of it was +true;—and I was in a rage then and said that all of it would be true, +unless he were careful.—We said terrible things to each other;—for the +first time.’ Hester spoke brokenly, with short, hot sentences. ‘And +though we were horribly sorry afterwards and said we didn’t mean it, +it’s all there still, in our minds.—For even then—even afterwards—I +couldn’t tell him that I didn’t still love Godfrey, too.’ + +They had reached Oddley Green now. Sad old Mr. Fellows passed them, +taking off his hat with a gentle, mournful glance. Hester’s bare head +and hot cheeks must strike him as singular. Standing at her cottage +gate, a little further on, was Rosemary Dixon and Monica felt that +Hester’s eye fixed itself upon these neighbours with a look of +desperation. ‘We will cut across the Green here,’ she said. ‘Rosemary +won’t follow us. We don’t want to listen to her latest impressions of +Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, do we?’ + +‘No; we don’t,’ said Hester, with a broken laugh, and Monica now felt +that it was she who watched over Hester. + +They crossed the Green and reached safety at the gate. The fountain was +playing and Hester was looking at it remembering, perhaps, the afternoon +of its release: ‘When will you come and see Clive?’ she asked. + +‘Will he want to see me?’ Monica questioned. She could watch over Hester +for these last steps, but she knew that she had no strength left in her +and she laid her hand on the gate-post as she spoke. + +‘Of course he’ll want to see you. More than anything,’ said Hester. ‘But +you are neither of you fit for it to-day. Clive is in bed with a +temperature. To-morrow will be better and I’ll tell him that I’ve had a +talk with you and that you understand everything and that he mustn’t +brood any more on what happened between you yesterday.—That will be +right, won’t it?’ + +‘That will be right, Hester.’ Monica’s eyes were fixed on her +daughter-in-law’s face. + +‘Well, good-bye, then,’ said Hester. ‘You’ll come to-morrow, after that +sleep, you know.’ She was turning away when Monica put out her hand and +detained her. ‘Wait.—I want to say something first.—I want to ask you +something.—Do you forgive me, Hester?’ she said. + +Hester stared. ‘For what?’ + +‘For misjudging you. For traducing you—to your husband.’ + +‘Well, if you call it traducing when, as Clive said, half of it was +true.’ + +‘Not the half I minded most; not the half he would have minded most.’ + +‘Well; no; I see.’ Hester gazed at her with a new attention. ‘But of +course the other half, the old half;—having a lover, living with someone +you’re not married to;—I suppose you really hate all that sort of thing +as much as my father did.’ + +‘Not as he did. Certainly not as he did. I am not thinking of that. I +can’t judge that. That’s over. It has nothing to do with me. I did +traduce you.’ + +‘Well, that’s over, too; forgotten and forgiven,’ said Hester with her +smile, strangely compounded now of bitterness and benignancy. ‘You must +forgive _me_, if it comes to that, for being so unutterably the wrong +person.’ + +‘The wrong person?’ + +‘Yes. As you always found me. Wrong for you; wrong for Clive.—He has +made me feel it now.—Yes,’ Hester turned her head away and the smile +still held her lip but Monica saw her tears; ‘I have ruined both of your +lives;—or almost.—He ought to have married Celia, of course; as you +wanted him to.—Don’t you suppose I see that now?—Good-bye.’ And Hester +walked rapidly away over the Green. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + + +It was almost dinner-time. Miriam received her back calmly and told her +that no one had called. ‘But you’ve been too far, Ma’am,’ she observed, +and Monica agreed to go to bed again and have hot milk and brandy. +Already she was in a half dream when Miriam brought it and very soon, +after drinking it, she fell asleep, her mind empty of every image. + +When she woke it was late. Her room was dark and all was still. She +lighted her candle and saw that her clock stood at half-past ten. The +maids had gone to bed. Across the green, on its hill side, Clive and +Hester, up at The Crofts, were, she hoped, sleeping peacefully. Hester +would never tell Clive the truth about the afternoon; that would be to +grieve him too terribly; but she would have told him that his mother +could never again hurt him as she had done. All would be well with the +young lives. And, suddenly, in the apathy of release, of reconstruction, +a memory, an image, shot into her mind. She saw Ingpen’s head, dark +against the sky, looking in at her through the window. + +With the memory, a dreadful distress filled her; a new, a strange +distress. The globe had turned again; the daylight world of youth where +Clive and Hester lived and struggled, moved slowly round to darkness. +She was again in the sorrowful world of the Old Manor Farm and +remembered the scarred heart of her friend. He was going early to-morrow +morning. He had promised Hester that they should never see him again, +and he would keep his promise. + +Monica rose and put her feet to the ground. She felt feeble yet +restored. It could not be. ‘No, it can’t be,’ she said aloud, her own +childlike voice startling her as she heard it. She dressed quickly, as +she had dressed that afternoon; carefully—but that she did not pause for +flowers and lavender-water and forgot her gloves. She crept downstairs. +The house was still. An old dark cloak hung in the hall cupboard and she +wrapped it round her. The night was cloudy, moonless, the way solitary; +but even if she were seen she would not be recognized. And even if she +were recognized;—she felt herself smile slightly at her own +indifference. All the scruples and inhibitions of the daylight world had +fallen from her. + +Not by the wood, she thought, as she stole out, down the path, through +the gate; it was shorter by the wood but in the dark she would not find +her way across the planks and she must run no danger of not reaching her +friend. The road lay, the colour of the sky, between the darker hedges, +and it seemed to unroll itself before her and to lead her on into the +obscurity, and it was restful to walk like this, swiftly, +unhesitatingly, in the darkness, as if led on. She could not remember +that she had ever walked, late at night, in the country, alone, before. +It was an adventure, and as she had smiled slightly on thinking of +doffed scruples, so she smiled now, contrasting the adventures of her +life with those of Ingpen’s life; adventures to which his personal +involvements had, perhaps, been only a background; and again vaguely +remembered names and images moved before her mind as she went along the +drowsy English road:—dark, menacing faces; fertile valleys, unknown +perhaps, to European eyes till his had seen them; and she saw pallid +stretches of plain, bleached by the sun; and rocks with inky shadows +rising against a torrid sky; and peril everywhere. How far away; how +remote, how unreal to her; yet upon such images the web of his +consciousness was stretched. + +Now the Manor Farm woods stole gently towards her, so tame, so +diminished by the darkness that they made her think of a tabby-cat +reconnoitring along the roadside, and there, beyond them, was the oblong +bulk of the Manor Farm just visible, with chinks of light along its +lower windows and a dim orange fan of light laid above its door. He was +still up; of course; he was leaving early to-morrow and would have much +to do; but it struck her, as she opened the gate so softly, that with +all her intrepidity she would have been disconcerted had the house been +unlighted. Softly she opened the gate and softly stole across the lawn, +her hands outstretched till they touched the window-sill. Then she stood +still for a moment and, for that one moment, a dart of wonder at herself +went through her, almost as if she woke from a somnambulist dream to +find herself strangely astray. But no, this was herself; she had meant +to come and her friend would not misunderstand her. + +She lifted her hand and tapped softly three times. There was no sound, +no movement. The chink of light close there before her remained +unaltered. She tapped again, three times, lightly, insistently. Then a +heavy muffled sound answered her, a sound of incredulous haste, a +thrust-back chair, a table toppling, tottering.—The curtains were flung +aside, he was there, before her, against the lighted room. Her face +looked in at him through the pane, and for one moment they gazed at each +other as they had gazed the other day. But now the story was to take +life and substance. They were to remain ghosts no longer. He threw open +the sash. + +‘I have come to say good-bye,’ said Monica. + +His collar was unfastened; his tie loosened; and oddly, automatically, +his fingers went up to them, angrily wrenching them into place. ‘May I +come in?’ she faintly smiled. How absurd, with all its beauty, life was! +That at a moment like this she should feel herself wish to say: ‘Let it +alone: it makes no difference.’ And the sense of pathos brought by the +untoward little mischance deepened in her as, while she waited on the +doorstep, she realized that he had said not a word of welcome or +surprise. + +The door opened and she went before him into the drawing-room. A chair +at the table had been pushed back in haste and a heavy pile of documents +lay sprawling on the floor beside a battered leather box with brass +corners. She glanced down at it as she went in; it seemed to have been +in a dream that she had seen it before; it had come from so far away; it +was going so far away again. Those strange names and visions floated for +a moment through her mind. ‘Hindu Kush,’ she thought as she moved into +the middle of the room and looked about her for the second and the last +time. The bright landscapes still hung on the wall; on the mantelpiece +stood the uncouth stone animals, like those on Hester’s mantelpiece. The +clock still ticked with security; yet all wore a dismantled air, and the +old square leather box, yawning there on the floor, expressed its owner +as the room had never done. He was on the march again;—no, not on the +march; that was too disciplined a simile:—on the prowl. The wilderness +was again to receive him. + +He pulled a chair for her before the fire and she sank down in it and +leant back her head, closing her eyes. Absurd, beautiful; yes; but she +knew that as she thought of all it meant of loss her heart was almost +breaking. + +‘Hester told me you are going early in the morning, so I felt I had to +see you.—I hope I have not seemed too horrible to you,’ she said, +keeping her eyes closed. + +He stood across the room by the table. ‘Horrible? No. Why?’ She heard +that he stooped and began gathering up the fallen papers. He gathered +them up in crackling layers and dumped them down on the table. + +‘I have seemed horrible to myself,’ said Monica. ‘But I had to think of +my son. I misjudged you and Hester. I thought he was betrayed.’ + +Ingpen went on dumping down the papers and for a moment made no reply. +‘I saw what you must think,’ he said then. ‘No;—you didn’t misjudge +me—though in the present instance your judgment went astray. What you +thought me capable of is exactly what I am capable of;—had you not been +involved; and had I still wanted Hester.’ He sat down on the chair +beside the table and his hands still moved among the papers. ‘That’s +quite all right,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand;—how this is +possible, I mean—how you can be to me like this. I saw you knew +everything, yesterday;—no, the day before was it? I told Hester you knew +everything. And that everything was over.’ + +She had opened her eyes while he spoke; he was not looking at her; his +head was on his hand and he rubbed his hand over his brow and across his +eyes, repeating: ‘I can’t quite understand.’ + +‘It’s because of Hester, I think.’ Monica had not known till now that +but for Hester it would not have been possible. ‘I had a long talk with +Hester this afternoon. She found me when I was very desperate. I thought +I had killed my son’s love for me. And she was extraordinarily kind. +Everything is changed. And, after I had slept, when I woke just now and +remembered you, I knew that I must see you.’ + +He had dropped his hand and was looking over at her, his dark brows +brooding, still in perplexity, above his hot pale eyes; and, looking her +assurance at him, she went on: ‘We were meant to meet like this, with +nothing before us, and everything between us. We have nothing to hide +now. We know each other for ever.’ + +He said nothing, but presently he got up and walked to and fro, his +hands behind him. ‘Are you friends with Hester?’ he asked at length. + +‘Friends? I don’t know. But I understand why you and Clive loved her.’ + +‘I am glad of that,’ said Ingpen. He continued to walk to and fro. ‘Then +I can tell you everything. I would like to give you the history of +everything, if that’s what you mean I may do. You are being so beautiful +to me;—but I don’t want to take advantage—and force things on you. Only +I would like to do Hester one good turn, for all the ill ones.’ + +‘I want to hear everything that you care to tell me.’ + +‘I met her in Paris,’ said Ingpen, ‘at the end of the war, and I had +never seen anything like her. I had lived so much out of England and I +hadn’t followed the changes that were taking place among the young, and +all the women I had known could be put into simple categories:—the +chaste and the unchaste: the attainable and the unattainable;—and I +hadn’t much faith in the latter unless they happened to be in love with +somebody else. I had never conceived of a woman—a young +woman—unprotected, without position or fortune or worldly asset of any +kind, who could at once set the very highest value on herself and yet +unhesitatingly give herself away. I had never conceived of a woman in +love who had not a trace of the siren about her—and not a trace of the +virtuous victim who bargains with her virtue for permanence and +fidelity. Hester never allured and never bargained. She came to me +because she loved me and thought no less well of herself for giving than +of me for taking. The old hallmarks did not exist for her. I was a +married man.—Did you know that I’d been married?—That’s a story that I +won’t inflict on you. She’s dead, poor creature, and we pretty well +hated each other before the end, though we began with a Tristram and +Isolde romance.—I was perfectly frank with Hester and she took what I +had to offer with her eyes open, with perfect courage and perfect +integrity. At the same time I don’t think she quite realized what kind +of man I was. I didn’t mean to deceive her; but she was deceived. She +was very young and very ignorant and took her first love affair with a +terrible whole-heartedness. I didn’t believe in whole hearts where love +affairs were concerned and she never understood that. She was very +ingenuous. She still is. And she is faithful to the core.’ Ingpen looked +at Monica from the end of the room which he had, in his pacing, reached. + +‘And, since she was faithful, why did you part? Were you faithless?’ +Monica asked. + +‘Yes; I was faithless, after a fashion,’ said Ingpen, still standing to +look at her; seeking, not arranging, the truth. ‘But I don’t think that +I am by nature disloyal, if you can accept the difference. And I can +even conceive that I might have remained faithful to one woman in spite +of my polygamous tendencies; because I can love very deeply. It’s only +that things get broken. They break more easily in love affairs than in +marriages, perhaps. A quarrel isn’t as perilous a thing in a marriage as +it is in a love affair. There’s nothing to keep people together in a +love affair—except love; and that may seem extinguished.—Well. Yes. I +was faithless,’ he resumed his pacing, ‘from her point of view. She is a +modern girl; but only in the way of freedom; not of licence, and she +felt contemporaneity in love affairs an unforgivable affront and injury. +All the same I should have kept straight, for I loved her very deeply, +if another woman hadn’t turned up, a woman I had loved in India, years +before. It was only a month after Hester gave me this ring.’ He glanced +over at her with a twist of his grim smile.—‘Poor old Aunt Harriet! To +what uses I tried to put her! When I saw your face that morning I felt +sure you had seen the initials; but you spoke of great-grandmothers and +that gave me the clue and I forgot about the date.—Well, the other woman +came to Paris with her husband, for the Peace Conference. I was there, +too, and Hester was secretary to another bigwig;—that was how we met. It +was a shock to see the other woman again. I am very susceptible, you +know, and she was still quite extraordinarily lovely; not happy with her +husband and her boy killed in the war. She had never relinquished her +sense of a special claim on me because I was her only affair, and she +made the most of her griefs and memories. But it was my fault. I was +faithless, and Hester found it out. She already suspected that something +was amiss when, by some mischance, they met at a function, my friend a +very brilliant personage and Hester a little outsider. They found they +both knew me—and knew me well, and my friend was exquisitely rude; so +rude that she gave herself away. Hester confronted me with my infidelity +and I didn’t lie to her. I couldn’t lie to Hester. We had gone down to +Chartres for the week-end and we had a terrible scene there and she left +me and I never heard of her again until the other night. By Heaven, you +know—I was pretty well knocked out when I saw her appear there in the +door between you and your son!’ + +Poor little Hester! So young! She flitted across Monica’s memory, a +sombre slender figure in the black cloak lined with red, suspicious of +all softness; the obscure girl who had endured exquisite rudeness at the +hands of a brilliant rival. How clearly she could retrace the flaming of +that passionate young heart. She sat and thought in silence, looking +into the fire, while Ingpen, restlessly, walked up and down, and at last +she questioned him again: ‘You must have known that it might come out at +any moment, when you saw her here, married, happy, safe, with her +husband and her child. Why didn’t you go at once? You knew we were the +type of people who couldn’t accept it. How do you forgive yourself for +not going? Didn’t you feel it was to use her cruelly?’ + +Ingpen stopped in his walk and looked over at her. ‘I wanted to stay +near you,’ he said. + +Monica pondered, not lifting her eyes from the fire. ‘Near her too, +don’t you think, perhaps?’ + +‘No. I still wear her ring. I always shall. Because of something she +meant to me that no one else will ever mean: something of youth and +faith. But I was horribly sorry to find her here. All I wanted of her +was to ask if we couldn’t be friends; if she couldn’t accept my going on +among you all. Judged by her old standards she would have felt it absurd +that I should have to clear out now just because she and I had once been +lovers; absurd, antiquated, irrational. And you know, in a way, I feel +it that myself.—No: I am going: I see I must go. I see you all push me +out. But the odd thing is that you—the older generation—could bear it, +could live over it and keep me here.—Isn’t it so?’—He confronted her and +then went on, not waiting for an answer, his voice recovering its heavy +calm; ‘But when I saw her yesterday I saw how she had changed. You have +changed her; he has changed her. She has grown into all the standards +she once rejected so fiercely. She is a wife, with the standards of a +wife. She couldn’t tolerate the thought of hiding my identity from her +husband if I stayed, and he couldn’t tolerate seeing his wife’s former +lover.—Does he know now who I am?’ Again Ingpen confronted her. ‘Is that +why you thought you had killed his love for you?’ And he waited now for +her reply. + +‘Yes,’ said Monica, ‘that was why.’ + +‘I see. Yes, I see.’ Ingpen gazed at her, his hands clasped behind him. +‘And he hates me like slow poison.—And will you understand if I say that +I felt a stir of hate for him the other evening when I saw him there; +her possessor. What are we made of do you think? I don’t want her in the +least. What I want is to stay. Near you.’ + +She was wondering, as she looked at him, whether she must conceal from +him how deeply he moved her; wondering whether, at a glance, a gesture, +the thread of flame might creep between them; knowing that she could +trust him only if she could trust herself. ‘Spoiled.’ The word came back +to her. ‘Horribly spoiled.’ It must not be. This was perfection that she +held within her hand. She owed it to him, to herself, to life, not to +jeopardise it by a faltering or a tear. ‘We could not have made anything +of it, you know,’ she said, and her voice was as steady as her gaze. ‘It +became impossible—from the moment that she saw you again.’ + +He looked at her, hard, for a moment longer and then he turned away. He +went to the window, pushed aside the curtain and looked out into the +night. ‘Of course you know what happened—at the beginning,’ he said. ‘At +the beginning, when I first saw you—at Norah’s, in the wood—you were one +of the sirens. You attracted me, at once; exceedingly; in spite of your +age. I had never met a woman who attracted me more. Your type:—frost and +sunlight; gaiety and hardness.—Your eyes, that darkest blue; the way +your lip lifts when you smile; the arms of Helen of Troy.—I saw it all; +at once. I see these things at once in women. And then, I don’t know why +or how—perhaps merely because we are both over fifty—I became sober and +reasonable.—No; better than that; far better.—You made me feel safe; +healed; or, at all events, sheltered. I became quite sentimental over +it; saw us growing old together; standing by the fountain with the +little boy; looking at the blue anemones in spring; watching the yellow +rose grow on the front of the house;—it’s there already, you know; and +the anemones are planted. I would never have asked anything but the +shelter. You may be sure of that. I’d have had too much sense, once I +had found it, to risk spoiling it. And now it’s spoiled. All spoiled.’ + +It was as if the word, in its different context, had passed from her +mind to his. He stood there at the window, his back turned to her, +leaning his face close to the pane as if to gaze out at the darkness +that was all he had before him, and he gave a great sigh, like a tired +child. Her heart rose up—to her lips—as she heard him. But it was full +of thankfulness as well as of grief. ‘Not quite spoiled, dear Godfrey,’ +she said, ‘or I should not be here.’ And he did not turn to her. He +understood. + +‘Do you remember,’ he said presently—the embers had fallen, an owl had +hooted, the clock had struck, sadly, reluctantly; it was twelve +o’clock—‘that talk we had—it’s only the other day, really, but it seems +years ago—when you came here through the wood? I felt that I had reached +the end of everything that day. It was like mildew creeping over me; and +when I saw you sitting there, where you are now, I felt that you had +too.’ + +Yet how far she had been on that distant day from having reached the end +of things. Sitting quietly in her chair Monica saw again the bee-face of +the engine coming round the curve. ‘And we talked,’ said Ingpen, ‘about +love and suffering; and we agreed that life is a delusion, and we +agreed, all the same, that we preferred it to Nirvana. And you said +then—do you remember?—that perhaps our preference had a meaning.’ He +closed the curtains and turned to her and leant back against the +window-frame, folding his arms. ‘I often think of it.’ + +‘Yes. I remember. I think I remember our talk;—though not clearly.’ She +rested her forehead on her hand, trying to remember; not only for him +but for herself. There was something that they must try to see together. +‘I don’t think that we meant quite the same sort of love, did we? Or the +same sort of suffering.’ + +‘Yes, we did. Exactly the same sort. There is only one sort of both; and +of happiness. You said we kept the love we gave; you tried to make it +safer so; and I said that that sort was as much of a delusion as the +other. I said there was no safety anywhere—for saint or sinner;—granting +if you like, that you are the one and I am the other.’ + +‘You must not get angry with me if we are to think together.’ Monica +gently smiled in the shadow of her hand. ‘You know I don’t grant it, +though you seem to have gone more astray than I have ever been in danger +of doing. I have not led a dangerous life—that’s all the difference, +perhaps. I have had shelter.’ + +‘If I pretend to get angry with you, it’s only because you are so dear +to me,’ said Ingpen. ‘And I want if possible to get some comfort out of +you before we part. It’s a little comfort to know that you mind parting, +almost as much as I do.—But I’m really not being personal. I wasn’t that +day—in spite of the other side of it;—that was the difference, with you; +one reached something else.—And we did agree that the only real thing +was suffering; that all the rest was youth and froth and illusion; that +all the rest fades. We did agree, I am sure of it, that the sort of +happiness that Hester and her friends believed in is a sheer +will-o’-the-wisp. Happiness for the race, you know, when we have got rid +of our greed and cruelty and become hygienic and rational and orderly.’ + +‘Yes; but it’s worth while to get rid of greed and cruelty if we can. I +know what they mean. I admire it.’ + +‘You never will get rid of them; they are life; part of life. You will +get them in more surreptitious forms; that’s all. We shall go on +devouring each other—because life can only maintain itself so; but we +shall hire butchers to do the killing first. And even if there were +something in it—in the idea of a better race—it could only be for a +time; until the earth begins to cool and we degenerate into forms of +life too low for such aspirations. For a time humanity may rise; it may +reach a more decent level than any it has yet attained to; but even +then, the craving for love, the craving for power, will never lessen +till life itself begins to fade. Hester and her friends believed that +those cravings could be better managed.—Poor child! I can hear her +talk!—They believed that they may be harnessed to useful machinery;—be +made to plough and reap and irrigate. But it’s not so; you will never +rationalize craving; you can only deviate it; and it may corrode us the +more for being deviated. People who were loved once, will long to be +loved again, and consume away with grief; people who have power without +opportunity will canker with rage and envy; it may all stumble on, +better than in the past; but for imagining that it will ever mean +happiness or offer an ideal;—no; that’s not possible;—when one has felt +the facts in one’s flesh and blood;—when one has seen in oneself +everything one most hates in life. We do agree, you and I; we do see the +truth; that beautiful things come to an end and are broken; and that we +shall go on suffering until we are put to sleep for ever.’ + +Monica, while she listened, leaning forward on her hand, trying to +think, to follow the arraignment—his bitter sincerity shot through, as +always, with the glint of his bitter parade—felt exhaustion overwhelming +her and almost feared that she might faint. But, lifting her eyes, she +saw that he was still standing at the other side of the room, leaning +against the window, and waiting; waiting for her to give him some +comfort before they parted. He believed that she might have some comfort +for him; and she pressed her hand against her eyes and thought of +herself; of Clive and Hester; of Ingpen and of the little dog lost and +stoned to death; of all the cruelty and horror;—in oneself; in life. And +at last she said: ‘We shall go on suffering until we go to sleep; but we +can go on loving too.’ + +‘Suffering because we love,’ said Ingpen. + +‘Yes: that’s perhaps the best we can hope for; but often because we +don’t love; because we don’t give love. To give is life and not to give, +death; and the love that is life redeems us from death. It is given to +us. We find it.’ She was remembering how it had come to her to-day and +how it was with her now. ‘We can only give it if it is first +given.’—That was the paradox, and she felt herself pause to look at it +as she saw it for the first time.—‘If we never found it, if we felt life +only as loss and change, we could not love life as we do. We love it +because we find love. In spite of everything.’ + +He did not move. He did not speak. She knew that he was standing there +looking at her and she dropped her hand and raised her eyes to his. + +From the first she had seen something endearing and ingenuous in his +ravaged face, and it was now that his innocent gaze brought her her +deepest vision of him. She saw him as a little boy, as young, nearly, as +Robin, who had been frightened, and who had come to his mother with a +question. It was all there in his face as he said slowly: ‘But in that +case, if it is given, there would be a Giver. There would be a Giver—who +cared to give. I wonder if you are right. I often wonder about it all. +Do you really think there may be a meaning in it for us?—“And God will +wipe away all tears from their eyes.”—Do you really think that +possible?’ + +It was the question of the little boy longing for comfort; it was the +question of myth and legend. But it was only in the terms of myth and +legend that the deepest questions could be asked or answered.—‘We are +all nothing more than children,’ thought Monica—while the question fell, +like a plummet, down, far down, into her heart.—‘And we discover, as we +grow old, that we never grow up;’—and she seemed to listen to its fall +and to watch it. It fell beyond thought, towards the unfathomable +foundations of the cliff. She watched it disappear. Her mind could give +her nothing. But he was asking nothing of her mind. + +The memory of the wide golden sunset that she had watched with Hester +rose within her now as, leaning her head on her hand, she kept silence. +Had he asked that question this morning she could have answered him only +in the terms of the nightmare vision; of hallucinated life and +obliterating death. What had happened to her since then? It had been as +if she had left life and death behind her and as if—she watched the +sunset broadening—salvation had been made manifest. Not the saving from +death; it was deeper than that withdrawal back into existence; the +saving from darkness and alienation. It had been given. She could have +done nothing by herself. It had come to her and widened before her like +the sunset. And could salvation, manifested here and now to the darkened +selves, fail to express its essential being for ever and to include all +grief in its atoning beatitude? + +She remembered afterwards, as it came back to her in its preciousness, +the sacramental significance of their last moments together, but she +could remember no words. Her assurance, if assurance it was, her faith, +rather, had been conveyed in the look that she had at last lifted +towards him, the silence in which their eyes had communed with one +another’s. Peace passed from her to him and together they partook of its +meaning. + +It had been like the symbol of this communion, when, seeing her deadly +weariness, he had gone away and found milk and heated it and made her +drink before her homeward walk, drinking with her. At the time +everything had been so blurred by her exhaustion that she had known only +the primitive comfort of silence, warmth and nourishment, that, and a +faint amusement at the monotony of her repasts; for she seemed to have +spent the intervals of the day in drinking milk, with just this flavour +added of the brandy that he, like Hester, found suitable to her case. +All was done calmly and concisely, with no flurry of search or +overturning of saucepans such as she associated with improvised meals. +He brought the jug and glasses on a tray; there were biscuits on a plate +and a spoon. It reminded her of the way he had cut down the trellis. And +afterwards she leaned on his arm for the dark walk home. + +They met nobody. The night was still and cloudy; but a few faint stars +showed here and there in the darker spaces above them. A sheep bleated +behind a hedge, and, as they approached Oddley Green, they heard the +owls hoot from the elms. They paused before the road reached the first +cottage. Till then they had not spoken. ‘You can go alone now?’ said +Ingpen. + +‘Perfectly. Thanks so much,’ said Monica. They might have met that day +for the first time. ‘You will always let me know where you are.’ + +‘Shall I?’ + +‘Yes. Always please. I will come to you if you send.’ + +‘You mean if I am dying?’ She felt his grim smile in the question. + +‘Yes. If you are dying.’ + +‘And if you are dying—will you send for me?’ + +‘I am afraid not.—No; I can’t promise that. I shouldn’t be alone.’ + +‘Well.’ He took her hand. ‘So it is good-bye.’ + +‘It is good-bye.’ + +All was over. As Monica sank asleep the only thought in her mind was: +‘Nothing is spoiled.’ But, afterwards, it all came back to her; never to +be forgotten. + + + + + CHAPTER XV + + +No one cared if old hearts broke. Monica lay, on her awaking next +morning, and almost smiled as the girlish self-pity of the thought +returned to her. Until last night she had, perhaps, still been a girl +and she lay now knowing that age brought acquiescence. He was not to die +with his head in her hand, like Jeremy:—but he was not a lost dog; not +stoned. He was lonely, yet loved and cherished; and as long as he lived +the thought of her would keep alive the hope that had brushed them with +its wing, as the thought of him would keep it alive in her. He was dear +to her; very dear; but the sacrament of which they had partaken meant +more, perhaps, than any personal relation could have done, and united +them more really. + +When, a little later, a note was brought to her she lay for a moment +looking in a sort of bewilderment at her name written in Hester’s small, +scholarly hand. Last night seemed far away; but how much farther the +afternoon and her own suicidal self. She had almost forgotten the world +of youth; almost forgotten Clive. Yet, as she opened Hester’s letter she +knew that he was not less dear for having been forgotten. Her heart was +no longer shut in on its solitary love, and a shared heart is a heart +enfranchised. It would be happier for Clive to be loved by an +enfranchised heart. + +She opened the letter. Hester’s firm dark script closely filled the +sheets. + + ‘DEAR MONICA, Frank Jessup has for some time been suggesting that I + should go to Russia again and write a series of articles for the + “Enquirer” on developments there, and it seems the moment to close + with the offer. So I am going up to London by the 12.40 and shall + stay with Frank and Marcia for a day or two and then be off. If I + could have foreseen this on Thursday, I wouldn’t have asked Godfrey + to go and perhaps you know where he is and could tell him to come + back. But perhaps you and Clive will like to stay on at Oddley, and + in that case it is necessary that Godfrey should be kept away; Clive + could never stand seeing him. My going off on the same day as he + does will make some gossip, I imagine; but I like to be quite frank + with you and hope you will go on understanding—as you did + yesterday—if I say that gossip about me will be all to the good, + where Clive is concerned. You see, I found him and Celia up here, on + the hill, the other evening, when I came back from London, and saw + then what I had never realized before—purblind fool that I have + been—how deeply Clive cared for her; how he depended on her—or could + depend on her again. And I know, though the less said about it the + better, that if they could come together it would be far the + happiest thing for everyone concerned. At the same time I would like + you to know that I should never go back to Godfrey—even if he wanted + me to, which he doesn’t—though he and I might agree to fix up + appearances so that Clive and Celia can marry. Clive is opposed to + my decision, and I couldn’t leave him in the state he is in unless + you were here; so this is really to ask you to come over and see + after him as soon as I am gone. The sooner I go the better. I merely + tear him to pieces by staying on, now that the decision is really + taken. He thinks me incredibly cruel and hard; but I believe you + will understand. You won’t forget what I said to you about him + yesterday. Wives can get to feel about their husbands what mothers + feel, after a time, though at the first it would have seemed + impossible;—I mean being really able to think of their happiness + apart from one’s own. I have sent Robin up to London for the day + with Nurse so that he shall be well out of the way. He will be very + happy, I feel sure, with you and Celia. He has taken a great fancy + to her already, and she to him, and you know that he has always + really liked being with you rather than with me. You can tell him + all the fairy-tales you like now, Monica! I was a beast that + night.—Though it’s quite true that I don’t think they are good for + him. As to the future, I shall never make any conditions about being + allowed to see him and all that sort of sentimentality because I + think it really dislocates a child’s life—having to adjust itself to + two centres and care for two mothers.’ Here came a sentence that had + been scratched out; but it could still be deciphered: ‘All the same + I hope I shall see him sometimes,’ but, after this repented lapse + into maternal weakness the letter resumed its steady course. ‘I + don’t really think I am a maternal woman. I don’t understand + children instinctively. It made me frightfully angry when I saw that + you thought my book great rot, but I’m inclined now to believe that + you were right; at least, that one needs more than a knowledge of + psychology—and even more than being a mother—to write a book like + that. Of course Robin doesn’t know that I am going; and it’s best + that he should only realize, little by little, like the rest of the + world, that I’m not coming back. I think I said yesterday the things + that most needed saying and I am glad you know me better and that I + know you. It is really—if you will forgive my saying so—because I + begin to know you at last, and Celia, that I feel I can go away and + leave Clive to you. I should have been conceited enough to have + thought that no one else could do for him what I could. But I was + mistaken about that—as about so many things. So, wishing you the + best of luck, dear Monica, + + ‘Yours ever + ‘HESTER’ + +Monica laid down the letter on the sheet. Here it was in her hand. What +had been the dearest wish of her heart for years was accomplished. +Hester was eliminated. And the thought brought her no joy. On the +contrary, she knew, as she lay there, that dismay was closing in upon +her. The face of Celia, summoned by an act of will and at Hester’s +bidding, only rose to share in her consternation. Arctic, moonlike, it +floated over the plains. Some possibilities, once extinguished, could +only shine with a reflected radiance for ever after. Clive and Celia +might once have married; but Hester was his wife. Hester was here, close +by; she was nearer, strange as it was to realize it, than Celia. A +person hated for five years was a person brought near. Hatred carved its +dark conceptions, its dark interpretations, and then the hollowed form +turned round and revealed itself in relief; the same, yet almost +unrecognizable. _Elle est ben trop noire_; the Madonna eyes of +reprobation; against what a background did she now see her old +distastes! The strength of Hester’s arm was round her shoulders, +snatching her from death; its warmth was beneath her hand, sustaining +her. Hester might still be strange to her; but she was near. + +It was a grey, fresh day. Yesterday had still been almost summer; to-day +was almost winter and as Monica approached The Crofts she saw that the +hedgerow trees, in the climbing lane behind it, were nearly leafless. +But a savour of sweetness was in the air and on the cherry-tree at the +gate a robin was singing its silvery song, symbolic to her ear of all +she had come to rescue; childhood under a secure heaven; old age hand in +hand beside the hearth; the promise of spring and winter’s harvesting of +unity; all the sacred platitudes. + +She went quietly up the path, so quietly that the robin did not cease +its singing, and opened the door and went in. Everything was still in +the little house though, in the distance, she could just hear the murmur +of voices in the kitchen where the maids no doubt were in surmising +conference. Her eye was drawn, as she stood there, to a suitcase +standing near the door, a strong leather suitcase marked ‘H. W.’ Hester +was packed and ready for the Bolsheviks. The drawing-room door was ajar +and she looked in. In the further end, at the window that gave on the +garden behind the house, Hester sat writing with her back to her. Her +slight figure was framed from on high by the opulent folds of Mrs. +Jessup’s batik curtains with which it was in strange contrast. Monica +saw now, clearly, that Hester had never harmonized with Mrs. Jessup’s +curtains; as little as with her own chintz and china. She was a creature +of either the open heath or the underground railway. She belonged to no +æsthetic background. She wore, this morning, her dark blue skirt and her +red jumper and her hair was neatly brushed to a point on the nape of her +neck. Beside her on the ground stood an open attaché case and as she +dropped a folded paper into it and drew a fresh sheet towards her she +looked extremely composed and efficient. Monica, however, now saw the +statue in the round and knew what lay on the other side of Hester’s +composure. She was occupied in cutting away her roots; but it would not +be without emotion. She did not believe in roots; yet they ran as deeply +in hers as in any human heart and bled as bitterly when severed. They +did not believe in roots, Hester and her generation; they believed in +the swift, unflinching adaptibility that roots menaced, or made +impossible. And perhaps they were not altogether wrong, thought Monica, +still pausing, still gazing at the resolute young figure, the future, +was it not?—as she herself was the past. Roots meant sweetness, +security, sameness; the old found again in the new; continuity and +bondage. They gave you as reward a flower, and Hester’s world moved too +quickly for such slow rewards. It was a world of machinery, rather; of +things you made and used and cast aside; things of which you remained +master and that never mastered you. Roots mastered you; and perhaps the +world of the future was a world of change, of swift improvisation, where +ruthlessness and decision were the price of survival. It was difficult +for her eyes to foresee what beauty there might be in such a world, yet +Hester, sitting there in her ruthlessness, was not alien to her. It was +better to cut through and escape if withering were the doom of +persistency, and not only one’s own withering, but that of those one +loved. They refused the discipline of tradition, Hester and her +generation; they would be self-disciplined; and she saw their valour, +their integrity, and their peril. A new age was always perilous. It was +as though the fostering epoch of the plant-consciousness were over and +the human flower, its product, walked away on its feet, nourished by no +sap from below and sustained only by some new element in the surrounding +atmosphere of which newly evolved faculties were for the first time +aware. ‘It may work; it may work;—in ways we can’t conceive of,’ Monica +thought, standing there, her heart strangely held by pity and +understanding. ‘There may be enough to grow on—since they feel it. It +will be a world of walking flowers. Dangerous; but they accept danger.’ + +She turned away and went softly up the stairs. Robin’s day-nursery was +in front, facing south; Hester had chosen the best bedroom for her +child. She passed that, glancing in at its sunny order, and went down +the little passage that led, at the other side of the house, to Clive +and Hester’s room. She stood for a moment before the door and listened +hearing no sound; then she tapped, very softly, and Clive’s weary voice +said: ‘Come in.’ + +Monica had not seen the room since her first visit to the completed +Crofts, and, as she glanced at it, her eye passing over Clive who lay +turned from her on his pillows, it looked almost as denuded as then, +like a bright modern room in a shop-window. Hester’s bed of painted wood +might never have been occupied, so accurately drawn above so flat a +surface was its cover of putty and flame and black; her dressing-table +was empty of all appurtenances; the cupboards in the walls were neatly +closed; the chairs stood in their appointed places; even the bright +little fire, lighted for the invalid, might have been an imitation fire; +it carried out the colouring scheme as accurately as the flame and putty +and purple of the pictures on the walls in their broad black frames. Yet +though it was denuded Clive did not look abandoned in it. A glass of +water, a vase of late roses, his letters unopened, and the folded +morning paper lay on the table beside him. He had only to get up, to +make a gesture, to take up the new life to which Hester was leaving him, +in order to break through the bright magic that seemed to surround him. + +His mother scrutinized him and noted that though he seemed almost +sleeping, the hand lying out on the sheet was tightly clenched. ‘What is +it?’ he said. He thought it was the maid. + +‘Clive dear——’ She advanced from the door, but she did not meet his +eyes. She could not look at Clive yet. She walked to the window and +stood there with her back to him. From the window one saw the hill +behind the house. The turf was misted with spider’s webs and the sheep +were all the colour of mushrooms. Above the hill was a little space of +blue. ‘I’ve come to see you, Clive,’ she said. + +There was silence for a moment behind her; then, in a careful voice, +Clive said: ‘It’s very kind of you, Mother. More than kind. But Hester +doesn’t leave me till the afternoon.’ + +‘I know. I won’t take Hester’s time. I only want to talk to you a +little.—Hester has told you that we met yesterday?’ + +‘Yes. Of course.—She said you’d been wonderful. You and I’ll talk later, +Mother. When she’s gone. There’s nothing to be done now; really.’ + +She turned at that and looked at him. He lay back on his pillows, a spot +of hard colour on each cheek. ‘I’m all right, I promise you,’ he +muttered as he met her eyes. ‘You needn’t treat me as if I were spun +glass. I lie here because she’s left me nothing else to do. I can’t go +down and wrestle with her at the door before the taxi-driver and the +maids.’ + +‘No; of course you can’t,’ Monica murmured. ‘But you do know, don’t you, +that she is as unhappy as you are. You do know that it’s not from lack +of love that she is leaving you.’ + +‘Mummy,’ Clive muttered, gazing at her and after a moment’s silence: ‘I +don’t know where you stand; I don’t know what you’re trying to do for +me;—but I do know that it’s no good.—She won’t stay. Not even if it were +you as well as I who asked her to.’ + +‘Why not, Clive?’ She advanced and sat down on the chair at the foot of +the bed and Clive’s eyes were sounding her. He did not know where she +stood; but he must see that she was changed; he must see that it was no +longer Hester’s enemy he confronted; and as he kept silence she said +again: ‘Why not? I traduced Hester the other night, and you trusted her. +You left me full of love and trust. You said that every drop of your +blood was hers. What was it that happened when you got back to her? Why +did she feel that she must leave you? Tell me, Clive? You must tell me. +You must trust me.—You can trust me now,’ said Monica. + +He turned away his face and shut his eyes and she saw that he was +thinking hard. The thin, beautiful hand, the archangel hand, clenched +itself again as he lay there thinking and when at last he spoke Clive +was nearer than he had ever been, for he trusted her, completely; with +his own and with Hester’s life. ‘I was horribly upset,’ he said. + +‘Yes. Of course. But you trusted her.’ + +‘It wasn’t my trust I was thinking of,’ Clive muttered. ‘It was +something very different.—All the way up here, after I’d left you—it was +something very different I was thinking of.—It was of him.’ A scarlet +flush mounted to his face as he spoke. ‘I understand what’s happened, +Mother; and you understand. Hester understands too; though she won’t +accept it. How could you have believed anything but what you did—of a +man like that?’ + +As she heard his broken phrases; as she saw the dark, bright colour rise +to her son’s face, Monica, for a moment, knew such a turning of the +heart that she feared her own blood would echo his. But it was, she +felt, a drained pallor that met Clive’s eyes as he opened them to look, +heavily, at her, and as she heard her own voice saying: ‘A man like +that?’ + +‘Why, Mummy, don’t let’s pretend,’ said Clive. He felt her emotion, +though it was so stilled, and he moved his eyes from her face and looked +out of the window beyond her head. ‘You may have liked him; but that was +because you knew nothing, really, about him. I know, unfortunately, a +great deal. I know what sort of reputation he has, where women are +concerned. It has been discreditable to him. He had to leave the army +because of it. He is the last sort of man I could have associated with +Hester.’ The hot colour burned on Clive’s cheek while a cold fire burned +in his eyes. ‘I had thought of an artist; a writer;—an idealist of some +sort; not a ruthless, battered libertine.—A man whose love is an +insult.—Mummy,’ he glanced at her, and as he had looked away from her +emotion so she now looked away from his, dropping her eyes—‘I told you +that I didn’t writhe with male jealousy; do you remember? And it was +true when I said it. But I had it all the other night; on the way up +here; after I’d left you.—I had it all; every bit of it,’ said Clive, +and had he been lying on her heart, in his bitter abasement, her son +could not have been nearer. ‘I came up here,’ he said, ‘and I was as +primitive as he is—damn him! And first it was Robin, sitting in the +dusk, in the garden.—I saw he’d been frightened.—And then it was Hester, +crouched on the sofa, crying.—That’s how I found her. And when I asked +her if it were true that Captain Ingpen had been her lover, and whether +she loved him still, she said that it was true. She said she loved him +still. She said she’d always love him. I was horrible to Hester, Mummy. +But she gave me too much to bear.’ + +A silence fell. Under the sound of her son’s deep breaths Monica heard +laughter in the kitchen and the robin’s song in the garden. A +tradesman’s cart drove up and stopped at the back door. She glanced at +her wrist. It was half-past eleven. Clive’s eyes were closed. He was +shut into his dark world of shame and passion. He had never till now +inhabited such a world and strange it was to know that she accepted his +initiation. His flame had been too white. It had burned down now into a +hidden core of consciousness and she seemed to see the smoke and fire +that tainted its limpidity. + +‘Clive,’ she said, and as he heard her voice he opened his eyes and +looked at her, ‘would you have found it easier if it had been a man you +could have understood her loving?’ + +‘What do you mean?’ he asked after a moment. They were, again, sounding +each other. + +‘Would it have been easier for you to accept, if Hester’s lover had been +somebody you could understand her loving?’ + +‘Why should you ask me that? You mean that I deceive myself; that I +don’t know myself; that I was as primitive as anyone and would have +writhed, whoever it was?—There may be truth in that.—Some truth.—But +no!’—He clenched his hand and laid his arm across his eyes. ‘No! If it +had been anybody but that man! If I could only understand that it could +be that man! And even that—for the past—I could have swallowed. She was +so young. He was so—practised,’ Clive groaned. ‘But that she should tell +me, throw it in my teeth at last, that she loves him still and will +always love him!—No. Even to keep Hester I can’t pretend that I accept +it.’ + +Monica now felt herself gazing at a necessity that lay before her. She +had seen it in an ominous glimpse before, when she had paled and +recoiled from it; but it lay there, clearly visible now, in the path of +her approach to Clive and Hester’s lives, and over the heavy throbbing +of her heart she steadied her voice to speak, understanding, at last, +what it had all meant as she had not done till this moment came upon +her. One did not understand, ever, till afterwards. + +‘I wonder if it will help you to accept what Hester gives you to bear if +I tell you something about myself, Clive,’ she said. He lay still, +rigidly still, his arm before his eyes. ‘You think that Captain Ingpen +would not have been my friend if I had known about him. But that isn’t +true. I did know about him; all that you know; and I was his friend. But +it’s more than that.’ She had begun to speak with dropped eyes but now +she raised them and fixed them on her son, who, his arm fallen, gazed at +her. ‘It’s much more than that, Clive,’ she said, and as she spoke she +seemed to herself to be drawing Hester near, to be holding her within +her arm, to be at one with Hester; ‘Because I understand why Hester +loved him, and still loves him, in a way I never could have done if he +had remained only my friend.’ + +Clive spoke then. She heard the voice that Hester had heard; almost the +voice of a stranger. ‘What do you mean?’ + +What did she mean? She stopped to think, looking at her son, feeling no +wish for veils. All that she wished was the truth. ‘Not that he was my +lover,’ she said. ‘That would have been impossible; but not because I +did not love him enough. Impossible because of my age; my situation;—my +codes and symbols, Clive. He is not my lover, but I love him and he +loves me. We parted last night; and I don’t think we shall ever see each +other again; and after you, no one has come so near my heart.’ + +Had the presage of the October woods been for this, she wondered, as, +looking into her son’s eyes, she saw his father struck down and +remembered the slow brooks, the prowling figure and the fear in which +the strange affinity had masked itself. But this was not disloyalty; not +forgetfulness. All the loves, the lesser and the greater, the old and +new, were there within her heart; swords crossing; notes clashing; +though she saw, she heard, the attainable harmony. If she could stand +firm and bear the pain, the harmony could be attained. + +‘Does it make it more, or less endurable, Clive?’ she asked. + +‘It puts me out,’ was what Clive said to her. He lay and looked at her. + +‘No, darling. It only puts _me_ out;—if you can’t forgive my loving +him.’ + +‘It puts me out,’ Clive repeated, ‘with you both. I’m only second-best; +with you both.—Somehow—that doesn’t seem enough to go on living for.’ + +She sat and thought. + +‘It’s for your sake that we both put him out; because we love you most.’ + +‘You put him out because I’m your son; and Hester puts him out because +I’m her husband. But you both love him best,’ said Clive, and he closed +his eyes and turned his face away from her. + +Was it the truth? They must face the truth, thought Monica, as, pale and +trembling, she rose to her feet and moved towards Clive, and then +paused, hearing a footstep outside, a hand laid on the door. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + + +The door opened and Hester stood before them. Clive turned his head and +looked at her. He surveyed her steadily and she surveyed him. Then she +said: ‘I’ve come to say good-bye to Clive and he and I must be alone.’ + +‘You shall be alone.’ Monica stood beside her son. Was she the tigress +at bay, or was Hester? Each was fighting for Clive but not against each +other, now; against him. ‘You shall be alone, when the time comes,’ she +said. ‘But I must speak to you together, first.’ + +‘The time has come. It’s a quarter to twelve. The taxi will be here +directly; and you know, Monica, all this is rather hard on Clive,’ said +Hester. ‘I asked you to wait till I’d gone.’ She had closed the door and +leaned back against it, keeping her hand on the knob. Her face had no +rigidity; a sodden, gentle look, rather; and the dragging, bitter lines +had been effaced by desperate weeping. + +‘You shall be alone,’ Monica repeated. ‘But you can take a later train. +I must speak to you. There are mistakes. There are mistakes between you +and Clive as distorting as the ones I made.’ + +‘Mistakes? Oh no; there are no mistakes now. There were before but not +now,’ said Hester, glancing at her husband. ‘As for any you made, +Monica—if you did make any—they have nothing to do with this situation.’ + +‘I think they have everything to do with it. I think they have involved +us all. And the first thing for us to do is to see the truth together. +All the truth.—Clive,’ she stood beside his bed and she looked down at +him, ‘Hester saved my life yesterday. I was so miserable, believing that +you hated me, that I went out to throw myself under a train, and she +saved me. And, as we talked afterwards, she said one or two things that +I shall never forget. One was that she thought me rather foolish to have +believed that you hated me;—I saw that it was true, when she said +it;—and another was that she wondered at me for having believed that +anyone who loved you, and who had known your love, could have deceived +you. She said that we love the people who do not make mistakes about us +and that Godfrey Ingpen had made mistakes that tore her life to +pieces;—while you had always understood.—And I have something to say to +you, Hester. Clive cannot understand that you should still love the man +who hurt you. But I can. I understand because I love him, too.—That’s +what I’ve been telling Clive.’ + +She did not look at her son as she found these succinct phrases. They +seemed to cut her away from all her past life, that edifice of graces, +reticences and dignities, and to set her adrift upon a sea as strange +and as uncharted as any that Hester had ever embarked upon. She knew +that he had leaned forward as he heard her, his eyes fixed upon her, his +arms outstretched along the sheet; but she did not look down at him. +‘Clive can’t understand us, Hester,’ she said, keeping her bright, +intrepid eyes upon her daughter-in-law. ‘He believes that we love the +other best. Is that true, do you think? And if Clive can make such +mistakes about us, do you feel that he loves us still?’ + +Hester’s hand had slowly dropped from the knob. She leaned back against +the door, her arms folded, and her eyes were the Madonna eyes of gloom +and reprobation. ‘So that’s what you’ve been doing,’ she said. ‘I see. +You’ll cut your heart out to mend Clive’s life, won’t you, Monica? You +are willing that he should believe you such another case as I am, if +that will give him ease.—As to which we love best, I’m not going to +answer; and I’m sure you’re not. If life doesn’t answer that sort of +question, nothing else will, and as for me, it doesn’t make much +difference what Clive believes now, does it?—Perhaps I do love Godfrey +best. Who knows?—Though now that I come to think of it, it may be the +people who give us most to bear who are the ones we love most at the +end, and Clive has certainly shown me that he can hurt as much as +Godfrey ever did.—But I’m not going into that. It’s you, Monica. I see +you through and through. You love Godfrey; I know it; and I know how he +loves you.—He’s never loved anyone so much.—But with all the will in the +world you’ll never make me believe that you are like me; nor make Clive +believe it either.’ + +‘Perhaps, if Clive has the insight that I believe him to have,’ said +Monica, gazing at her daughter-in-law, while her mind seemed to move in +great flashes, ‘he will wish, more than anything, that I were.’ + +Clive, there beside her, had bowed his head upon his arms while Hester +spoke. Now she felt that he put out his hand for hers. He found it. He +laid his cheek against it and held it tightly. + +‘I can go now,’ Monica murmured, glancing down at her son. ‘I can leave +you now. You and Eddie see now that people who love so much cannot +part.’ + +But Hester put her arm across the door. ‘No; you can’t go now,’ she +said. She was pale and trembling. Her eyes were wide and sick. ‘You +can’t go now,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve something to say first, too.—Yes, +Clive.—She is the best friend you will ever have. No one will ever do +for you what she does—or love you as much. But I’m not going to be given +back to you by her. I’m not going to have you accept from her what you +won’t from me.—It’s not only Godfrey.—It’s deeper than that—the reason +for our parting. I’m not the sort of woman you ought to have fallen in +love with. Monica saw the truth from the beginning I came into your life +and I broke it.’ + +‘It’s not the truth,’ said Clive. He had raised his head. He held his +mother’s hand, but he faced his wife with his own strength. ‘You mended +my life. You are my life; and if you leave me now it will be from +pride—not from love, as you think.—It will be because you won’t share me +with my mother;—as I felt I couldn’t share you with the other man you +love. Well; I can. And if it’s because of Mummy, you must put up with +it; just as she has to put up with the fact that it’s you who are my +life; not she.’ + +‘All right,’ Hester muttered, and, darkly flushed, she seemed to glance +at her husband with hostility. ‘All right. You think that the truth.—Sit +down, Monica. I’d rather have it out, now.’ She pulled forward the chair +from the dressing-table and placed it against the door and sat down, +leaning back her head. ‘We’ll have it out,’ she repeated, and she +stopped for a moment, controlling her thought with an effort that swept +her face clear of its dark passion. ‘We must go back to the beginning,’ +she said, ‘the very beginning, when Clive says I mended his life. It’s +true that I helped him over his bad time. I knew how to deal with +ghosts, because I’d seen so many myself; but any good psycho-analyst +could have done as much. It wasn’t to mend his life that I came into it, +or to be mended that Clive came to me; it was because we fell in love +with each other, and when one’s in love one imagines that it’s enough +and that nothing else counts and that it will carry you through.—Well, +there are some things it doesn’t carry you through; and that’s what we +came to find out; that’s what Clive knows as well as I do.’ + +She paused to think and in the pause, still keeping her son’s hand +tightly held in hers, Monica sat down softly on the bed beside him. They +were united as they had never yet been united. Their pulses seemed to +beat together, and as she felt the deep tide of peace rising within her +Monica knew that her strength, now, was greater than Hester’s, and her +understanding greater. + +‘You didn’t exist for me, Monica; you simply didn’t exist,’ said Hester. +‘If I thought of you at all, I thought of you as the Victorian Aunt +Sally my generation has been brought up to shy coconuts at. The only +thing that defined you clearly for me was that you were the sort of +woman who would think it wicked to have a lover. Not that Clive said you +would think it wicked. He only said that you’d be hurt. That was why he +wouldn’t tell you. But it was more than that. It was because it would +have hurt him, too, most horribly, to tell his mother that his wife had +had a lover. I didn’t mind, one way or the other; about your being told. +But I didn’t think it your business. And I didn’t see, or suspect, that +he was hurt all the time, though he pretended not to be. I wasn’t in the +least afraid at first, Monica, of you or your standards, because I +didn’t imagine that Clive was. It was only by degrees that I began to +see that I was outside, and that you were inside, with him, always.’ + +As they were now, Hester meant, perhaps, though she did not glance at +them. She sat there, with folded arms, in her red jumper, against the +door, and she made Monica think of a picture she had seen of a young +condemned revolutionary sitting up, proud, perverse, unvindictive, to be +shot. Her face was the strangest colour; the colour of a white +passion-flower, its surface bloom bruised from the petals and the purple +pulp showing through. Her eyes were like the flower’s dark centre; +bruised, too; soft and expanded; there was no fierceness in Hester’s +eyes to-day. + +‘It was mistake, then, on your side, from the very beginning, Hester,’ +said Monica. ‘Clive was not inside with me. He never once came inside. +It was I who was put out; not you. It was you who had put me out;—me and +my obsolete standards.’ + +Hester’s eyes did not move from the window. ‘Of course that was what you +felt. That was what Clive meant you to feel; that was what he did for +me. Because it was I, not you, who was making him suffer, and he had to +hide it from me. I made him suffer from the beginning, because I was too +different from you. It wasn’t only in one standard; it was in all the +standards; down to the way you dressed and the jokes you had together. +He was always hiding from me, poor Clive; in the little things as well +as the big ones. It’s impossible in marriage, I see that now, if the +wife is so different, and the man loves his mother so much. I was very +slow in seeing the truth. I was a complacent dolt, of course. But by +degrees it came over me that Clive was unhappy, fearfully unhappy; that +he was thinking about you all the time, and wondering. He used to call +out in his sleep—oh, we joked about it, of course, and pretended it was +his nerves;—but I began to see that he called out for you because his +heart was full of you and he was wondering if you weren’t miserable down +here, alone, with nothing in your life. You played up awfully well, +Monica; allow me to say that. I watched you carefully, and I watched +him, and I saw that you gave him nothing to go on. But he knew perfectly +well that you couldn’t stand me and that you removed yourself lest you +should be forced to show it. He saw that you couldn’t stand me, and he +saw why,’ and round Hester’s lips there now crept the shadow of the +bitter savour. ‘He saw why just as well as you did; better than you +did;—And shall I tell you why he could go on standing me?—Simply and +solely because he was still in love with me; simply because of sex; +nothing else. It was that you were sacrificed to. A man will always +sacrifice his mother to the woman he’s in love with, I suppose, and a +mother will always cut herself in pieces to help mend his life. We +understand all that. But it’s what lies underneath that matters now; +because there are deeper things in life than even sex.—He sacrifices her +because he is in love; but he is nearer her than ever because he has +sacrificed her. What I’ve come to see in these last months,’ said +Hester, gazing past Monica’s head out of the window, ‘is that it’s the +family thing that always conquers in the end. It’s what we all come back +to, in the bottom of our hearts;—if we have any family. I have none. I’m +an outsider in that way, too. I’ve always been a free lance, with all +the conceit and theory of a free lance. But if you’ve ever had a mother +and if she’s given you and meant to you all the things you care for +most, you never get over it. That’s what has happened to Clive and me. +And we all three know it’s true. And we all three know that we can pick +up and grow roots again—after I’m gone. And that,’ said Hester, rising +and lifting her chair and putting it down in its place before the +dressing-table, ‘is why I am going. And please don’t let us be +sentimental about it.’ + +‘Hester,’ said Monica. She, too, had risen. She still stood by her son, +but she had dropped his hand and her voice arrested the girl who, half +turned away, was fumbling, perhaps through sudden tears, for the +door-handle. ‘Will you stay for my sake?’ + +Hester stood turned away, her head bent down in an attitude of sombre +attention. + +‘I mean,’ said Monica, and she felt her own tears rising, ‘if I need +you, too.—I have nothing to do with you and Clive now. I can’t give you +back to him, for you’re not mine to give, nor him to you: he is yours in +a way he never could be mine; in spite of what you say. But I need you, +too, and I believe you can care for me. Didn’t you feel it yesterday? +Didn’t you say that you could tell me everything? Isn’t that enough to +stay and try to let it grow on?’ + +She had put out her hands. Hester had turned and leant back against the +door, solemnly looking at her. They had kissed each other so often, and +the kisses had meant nothing. Now an immense shyness lay between them, +but she had taken Hester’s hands and Hester did not move away. She did +not acquiesce, but she did not move away; she stood, solemnly looking at +her. + +‘Perhaps you haven’t changed as much. Perhaps you don’t feel it as I +do,’ said Monica. ‘But I know that I have found you and that I love you +and don’t want to go on without you. Will you stay and be my daughter?’ + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +The original spelling was mostly preserved. Obvious typographical errors +were silently corrected. The use of hyphenation was carefully +normalized. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78779 *** diff --git a/78779-h/78779-h.htm b/78779-h/78779-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8fb7f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78779-h/78779-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10817 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> +<meta charset="UTF-8"> +<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> +<title>Dark Hester | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <!-- TITLE="Dark Hester" --> + <!-- AUTHOR="Anne Douglas Sedgwick" --> + <!-- LANGUAGE="en" --> + <!-- PUBLISHER="Houghton Mifflin, Boston, New York" --> + <!-- DATE="1929" --> + <!-- COVER="images/cover.jpg" --> + +<style> + +body { margin-left:15%; margin-right:15%; } + +div.frontmatter .halftitle { text-indent:0; text-align:center; padding-top:4em; } +div.frontmatter h1.title { text-indent:0; text-align:center; margin-bottom:1em; + margin-top:0; padding-top:1em; } +div.frontmatter .aut { text-indent:0; 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margin-left: 1em; } +.trnote ul li { list-style-type: square; } +.trnote .transnote { text-indent:0; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; } + +/* page numbers */ +a[title].pagenum { position: absolute; right: 1%; } +a[title].pagenum:after { content: attr(title); color: gray; background-color: inherit; + letter-spacing: 0; text-indent: 0; text-align: right; font-style: normal; + font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: x-small; + border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; + display: inline; } + +div.centerpic { text-align:center; text-indent:0; display:block; } +div.centerpic.logo img { max-width:4em; } + +body.x-ebookmaker { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } + .x-ebookmaker span.firstchar { float:left; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker a.pagenum:after { display:none; } + .x-ebookmaker .trnote { margin:0; } + +</style> +</head> + + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78779 ***</div> + + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<p class="halftitle"> +DARK HESTER +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<h1 class="title"> +DARK HESTER +</h1> + +<p class="aut"> +<span class="line1">BY</span><br> +<span class="line2">ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK</span><br> +<span class="line3">(Mrs. Basil de Sélincourt)</span> +</p> + +<div class="centerpic logo"> +<img src="images/logo.jpg" alt=""></div> + +<p class="pub"> +<span class="line1">BOSTON AND NEW YORK</span><br> +<span class="line2">HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</span><br> +<span class="line3">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span><br> +<span class="line4">1929</span> +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<p class="cop1"> +COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY ANNE DOUGLAS DE SÉLINCOURT +</p> + +<p class="cop"> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE +THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM +</p> + +<p class="printer"> +The Riverside Press<br> +CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS<br> +PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="frontmatter chapter"> +<p class="halftitle"> +DARK HESTER +</p> + +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> +<p class="tit"> +DARK HESTER +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter1" id="chapter-0-1"> +CHAPTER I +</h2> + +</div> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar"><span class="prefirstchar">‘</span>I</span> suppose I have hated her from the first moment +I saw her,’ Monica Wilmott heard herself +saying, and she saw Hester as she had first seen her, +sitting in the open window of the Chelsea drawing-room +against the background of the river; extraordinarily +quiet, extraordinarily assured, with black +eyebrows and a thin black cloak lined with red. +She had thought of Hester almost constantly since +Clive had married her, but this habit of thinking +aloud had crept upon her only since she had come +to live alone in Essex, and it frightened her a little +when she caught herself at it; it was dangerous, as +anything automatic in life might be dangerous; a +thing like that, said aloud, became much more real; +more real than it was; one might shut oneself up in +the cell of a self-suggestion if one listened to it. So +now, on this solitary afternoon, darkened by cold +summer rain, she rose from the window-seat where +she had been looking out at the village-green, and +<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> +walked with a swift step down the oddly shaped +room that turned an angle at the chimney-piece and +fell to a lower level reached by three shallow steps. +The casement windows in the upper portion opened +under a thatch, and the ceiling there was low and +crossed by ancient beams; the little house had been +contrived from two old cottages, and the second, +loftier room was modern. +</p> + +<p> +Monica Wilmott descended to it and looked out +on the altered view, as uneventful as the first had +been. There was a touch of romance in the silhouettes +of the hedgerow elms; but it was a tame +romance and her own house made part of it, so +comfortably, so consciously picturesque with its +beams and plaster, its eddying thatch and climbing +roses. Never would she have chosen to live in such +a house, nor to live in Essex at all, were it not that +Clive lived in London and that here, though parted +from him, she was near him. Oddley Green was almost +suburban and the railway station lay but a +mile away; she could hear the whistle of the trains as +they passed all day and night, and she was glad to +hear them; they seemed a link with London and +with Clive. +</p> + +<p> +Turning from the window she glanced at her husband’s +Indian water-colours, hanging in a row round +<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> +the walls as they had hung in all her makeshift +homes all the thirty years since his death, and then +at the goldfish in their bowl. Clive, from babyhood, +had loved goldfish and she had always had them, +too, in her drawing-rooms. Her eyes gathered an +intentness as she watched the glancing fish, seeing +herself suddenly like them, like them bright, rapid, +frustrated, and the bitter flicker of a smile crossed +her face as she took ants’ eggs from a little porcelain +box and scattered them on the water. She went +back, then, to the upper room,—‘I am restless,’ she +thought. ‘Like the goldfish,’—and, beside the fireplace, +she came to a standstill, putting her foot on +the stone curbing, her hand on the high stone shelf +and looking round her—at the walnut bureau +where her mother had sat every day in the spacious +London home of her girlhood; at the French +clock that she and her father, the clever London +judge, had bought in Paris; at the portrait of her +Scotch great-grandmother, a girl with bare shoulders +above white satin, pearls in her tawny hair, and +blue eyes like her own; not soft, not gentle blue; intrepid, +rather, and ardent with their smile. The +faded chintzes on the chairs and sofas she and Clive +had chosen together seven years ago, for the flat +in Chelsea; every rose and pheasant and carnation +<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> +brought memories of that one epoch of her life +when she had been aware of a garnered, a conscious +happiness. And, as she remembered it, her eyes +fell and in her stillness she might have been standing +there to have her picture painted, a touch of something +gracefully obsolete, for all the modernity of +her straight lines and shortened skirts, in the falling +sleeves of her black dress, the loose short jacket, the +bow of velvet at her throat. Resolutely drawn +against the dark background, the lines of her downcast +profile were at once gay, impatient and imperative; +the lifted upper lip sweet, the lower lip +stubborn, the nose a little thick, a little clumsy, like +a child’s nose, but with a nostril all delicacy and +decision. Her golden hair, twisted round her head, +made a brightness in the room. Clive had said that +she had the hair of Helen of Troy. He had also said, +playing at their game of analogies, that she was +like a falcon, a jar of honey, a spray of rosemary; +and there was, indeed, an almost vestal fierceness in +Monica Wilmott; something high, hovering, and +perhaps a little ruthless. Her tresses might be the +tresses of Helen, her fair glancing face might allure +like the face of a siren over the sea, but her two +distant years of marriage had left intact something +of girlhood that survived into her middle years, and +<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> +her maternity had expressed itself not only in passionate +comradeship with her child, but in swift +repudiation of all matrimonial approaches. She was +impatient of sentimental predicaments; averse, +even hostile to any display of amorous emotion. +</p> + +<p> +She was remembering those years after the war as +she stood there, that time of halcyon sweetness +when, like two tempest-tossed sea-gulls, she and +Clive had floated side by side in a sunlit harbour; +the happiest time of her life. She had never been +inclined to pathos or self-pity. She had, for all the +years of his boyhood, eaten her cold mutton in the +West Kensington lodgings, run the hat shop, written +the articles on the French countryside, since only so +could she send him to Winchester and Oxford; and +the road she trod was never dusty to her, since +Clive’s future was its goal. But when, her goal attained, +the tidal wave of the war broke over the +world, she had, for a suffocating and swooning moment, +seen herself as a collapsed and falling form +with bubbles rising from its mouth. She remembered +now the turmoil of horrifying darkness, the +sensation, while it lasted, of holding her breath and +swimming under water, and then the emergence, +tragic, since Clive was brought back to her almost +dying of his wounds, yet ecstatic, for he was in her +<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> +arms again and death now was an antagonist that +they could face together. His slow return to life and +to her had recalled the trembling sweetness of her +pregnancy, and when he was safe at last it was as +if he had been born again. All the good things had +come to her at once; Clive’s recovery and Aunt +Janet’s legacy and the post in the staunch old City +shipping-office to make them in their own eyes opulent. +It was true that she had never thought of +a shipping-office as the end of all her efforts; she had +thought of Clive as a soldier, like his father, or a +lawyer, like his grandfather, or the poet that his +verses had seemed to promise; but the shipping-office, +when it came, was indeed a harbour and what +wonder, with all the sudden security, that she had +been blind to the change in Clive, the change, she +saw so clearly now, that had made him Hester’s +prey. His child face rose before her as she tried to +define to herself in what it had consisted; one day, +when very tiny, he had had little friends to tea and +been horribly shy and afraid of them. Fear, with +Clive, never took the form of subterfuge or awkwardness. +He had sat there, very upright in his +white suit, at the end of the nursery table, a pale, +golden little boy; and though he could not assume +a smile he could muster a perfect courtesy. The +<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> +only signs by which his mother had read his deep +distress were the stiffening of his small upper lip +and the way in which he repeatedly raised his eyebrows, +opening his eyes very wide the while. And +only to-day did this distant memory supply its link +of association; for Clive, when he came back to life, +was constantly raising his eyebrows and opening his +eyes very wide; and if he as constantly contrived to +smile, she saw now that that had been because of +her and because, for love of her, he could dissemble. +A mother might give life; but even a mother could +not give the zest for life. The war had left him a +frightened bird huddled under a hedge with its wing +broken. That was the truth of it. That was what +Hester must have felt in him; helplessness; helplessness +and beauty. Even her prosaic eye had been +charmed by the bird’s beauty; commonplace young +huntress as she had been, striding through the +woods in search of prey. +</p> + +<p> +But it was unjust; she knew it was unjust. Hatred +made one unjust and horrible. She looked a moment +longer at the dark fireplace and then, taking +the matches, stooped and lighted the logs. Let us +have more light, was the instinct within her. Let +us face things.—Own up and see yourself as you +are; perhaps the merely jealous mother, unable to +<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> +endure that another woman should make your son +happy. Did it really come to that? Or had it been +because of Celia that she had seen Hester from the +first with hostile eyes? +</p> + +<p> +‘How did it all begin?’ said Monica, watching +the flames leap up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is Clive’s new friend?’ Margaret Orde had +asked. ‘The queer dark girl who dresses like a boy?’ +It was so it had begun, the first hint brushing +lightly yet sharply, like a branch of briar drawn +across one’s face on a woodland ramble. Clive had +seemed to share his life to every jot and tittle with +her; and he had told her nothing of a new friend who +was dark and queer. From the very first there had +been a sharpness, a surmise. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where did you see them? He has so many +friends and all girls dress like boys nowadays,’ she +had said. +</p> + +<p> +Good old Margaret who lived out at Chiswick +with her ancient father, loved these tea-table talks +and to hear every detail of Monica and Clive’s +London life. She insisted now, all interest and all +innocence, on her topic. +</p> + +<p> +‘Boys don’t curl their hair over their ears, or wear +pink silk stockings, and neither did this girl. Her +hair was brushed back and she wore what looked +<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> +like riding boots; but I expect they were rubber; +very sensible, for it was raining.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Could it have been Agatha Milford?—but +Agatha would hardly come to London in riding +clothes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it wasn’t Miss Milford—I remember her +perfectly; I met her here at tea one day, you know. +She’s lovely. This girl had very big eyes and looked +rather ill-tempered; but perhaps she was only very +intellectual or artistic. It was at that show of queer +pictures in Grafton Street.—Clive didn’t see me, +so I didn’t interrupt them.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica asked no further question but she had, +already, a sense of something surreptitious that +faintly menaced her. She telephoned to Celia that +evening and asked her to come and dine with them +and bring her violin. Since they had first played +together, since Celia’s childhood, Clive had been +their audience, so much at one with them in his +part of listener that they made a trio rather than a +duet. But he had seemed tired that night when he +came in and she had felt, all through the lovely +Schubert Sonatina, that he was not really listening, +that he was not thinking of her or Celia or Schubert +but of the queer dark girl. And after that, as the +days passed and he said nothing of the new friend, +<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> +he suddenly became much older in her eyes; a man +as he had never been before; never again to be her +child only. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wouldn’t it be nice if Celia could come with us +to Paris this Easter?’ It must have been a fortnight +later that she had asked him this question, one +evening when he and she had returned together +from the play and were drinking hot bouillon in the +drawing-room. He was standing opposite her, his +cup in his hand, and as he looked at her she saw that +his sweet, attentive face was jaded, almost haggard. +</p> + +<p> +‘Paris? Were we thinking of Paris, Mummy?’ he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, wouldn’t it be rather nice for Easter? +We have not been there since before the war, nor +has Celia. We could show her everything.’ France +had been one of the family traditions in Monica’s +youth and she had seen to it that Clive inherited it. +She was always scraping and saving in the West +Kensington days to give him his holidays in +France, to see cathedrals and follow the course of +the great French rivers with knapsacks on their +backs. +</p> + +<p> +‘That would be delightful,’ said Clive, ‘but +what about summer? Isn’t Easter rather early for +Paris?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> +‘Oh, I always think it a heavenly time then, the +horse-chestnuts just beginning to bud, and violets +in the streets.—Had you thought of anything +else?’ +</p> + +<p> +He was still looking at her, and now he lifted his +eyebrows and opened his eyes very widely; then +said: ‘I have been asked to go to Cornwall for +Easter—some new friends of mine.—But of +course I could give that up if you have fixed your +heart on Paris, Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +A violent struggle took place within her, but she +mastered it. ‘Of course you mustn’t give it up. +Who are the new friends?’ It was inevitable that +she should ask that now; he could feel no pressure +in that. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather a nice couple,’ said Clive. ‘He is the +editor of “The Protest”—you know that clever +weekly—and she is artistic and does batik scarves +and curtains. Jessup is their name and they have +three nice little children. I am not sure you would +care for them though, Mummy. I shall find out, in +Cornwall.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was now smiling at her quite clearly. He was +grateful to her for not holding him back from +Cornwall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Only those two?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> +‘And some friends of theirs, two or three friends, +who have cottages near by. It’s on the cliffs near +the Lizard; it’s lovely there in early spring they say.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are the friends artistic too?’ She felt as if she +were creeping after a tiger in the jungle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, they are all artistic I think,’ said Clive, +moving to the fireplace. ‘Write or paint or act, you +know;—all very busy and modern.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What form does their modernness take?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What form does it take? Well, I don’t quite +know. Talk in the main, I think; they are great +talkers; very unshackled,’ and Clive tried to smile, +looking over at her, but his smile was no longer clear. +He knew now that he had something to hide and +that she was trying to find it, and, while bitterness +surged in her against the dark girl who made Clive +hide from her, who made them both, suddenly, fear +each other—she contrived to ask, lightly: ‘Is anybody +shackled nowadays, my dear?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, <em>we</em> all are!’ said Clive, and he laughed. +‘People who dress for dinner, I mean, and are presented +at Court and take in the “Quarterly Review”——’ +He glanced at it lying on his mother’s +table. +</p> + +<p> +Her bitterness found an outlet. ‘I haven’t +painted, it’s true, or acted, or made batik scarves, +<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> +but I have written, and run an antique shop, and +trimmed hats! It seems to me that I know the +dusty arena as well as any modern woman—that +I am as modern in that as any of them;—even +though I <em>was</em> presented at Court in the dark ages!’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive crossed over to her. She had done what she +intended; made herself real and near to him; bound +him to her—but, when he came to her like that +and put his arms around her, she had known that +the heavy beating of his heart was for the secret he +hid from her as much as for his love and retrospective +pity. And she had known, with a cruel pain, +that she had asked her son for gratitude. She +hardly kept herself from weeping as she heard him +say: ‘Oh, darling Mummy—don’t I know it! Do +you think that you need ever remind me? Do you +think that I shall ever forget all that you have done +for me!’ +</p> + +<p> +So they had clung together—their embrace effacing +nothing, and he had gone to Cornwall for +Easter and when he came back was engaged to +Hester Blakeston. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-2"> +<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> +CHAPTER II +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> was not Hester’s face that she was seeing now, +as she stood, looking down into the flames; it +was her son’s; when he had told her; a face of fear. +It had been because of fear that he had, till now, +told her nothing and she had known that she must +hide from him at once, lest he should guess at hers—and +see his own too plainly; and responding to their +peril with an automatic swiftness she had said: +‘My darling! I’m so glad! Tell me all about +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Not a word of reproach, but Clive, holding her, +his face against her shoulder, had said: ‘Forgive +me, Mummy;—but I cared so desperately; I was +so afraid she wouldn’t have me; I couldn’t bear to +speak of it—even to you—till I was sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course—of course. Of course I understand,’ +she said. And she had understood; but most of all +that had he been sure of her liking the woman he +loved he must have confided in her. He was not +sure. He was afraid. But she sustained and reassured +him. The lover’s radiance flowered from him +as he told her all about his wonderful Hester. She +was a modern girl, very modern, a product of Girton +<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> +and post-war London. She had had a miserable girlhood; +her mother was dead and her father a parson +in the Midlands. Hester had made her own living +ever since leaving college. She had done really remarkable +work. The Jessups thought it remarkable. +She had travelled through Bolshevik Russia, risking +her life, and written a series of articles for ‘The +Protest,’ and she was tremendously interested in +psycho-analysis and social reform. +</p> + +<p> +‘A socialist, I suppose?’ Monica had blithely +enquired.—And why not? Her youngest brother +had been a provocative socialist, thirty years ago at +Oxford, and had come home to call them all ‘pleasant +thieves’—a phrase that made their father—jovial +and caustic—with his rough tawny head—loudly +laugh. But Clive said that Hester followed +no isms of any sort; was completely detached and +sane—‘The sanest person I have ever known, +except you, Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I must love her. I cannot keep him unless I can +love her,’ Monica had thought. She remembered +that she had knelt down and prayed for strength +and wisdom and selflessness. And when he brought +her was it not true that she had gone to meet her +with unhostile, with hopeful eyes? +</p> + +<p> +And now again she saw her, sitting in the open +<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> +window on the hot July day, extraordinarily quiet, +extraordinarily assured. Her face was vehement; +childlike yet haggard; with, already, the indication +of a line running along the cheek to the corner +of the mouth, and a deeper line engraved across +her forehead, which she showed when she doffed +her hat, unceremoniously, for tea. She showed +then, too, a beautifully shaped head, the dark +hair, thick and dense and straight, brushed back +from a meditative arch of brow; and the indignant +composure of her large eyes made Monica think +of a Byzantine Madonna. ‘A repellent little face!’ +That had been the involuntary, the irrepressible +verdict that had surged up in Monica’s mind on +seeing her fully. In her considering gaze she read +already the relegation of her own standards and +significances. Hester would never trouble to controvert +them; she would merely look away from +them, and over them; they were not so much out of +date as irrelevant; and a woman of the Hester type +had no time for irrelevancies. Monica saw her +placing her and deciding how to deal with her as +they sat face to face, she herself, as she too well +knew, wearing the smile that her own panic forced +from her. Hester did not smile; she answered +questions and asked none, looking now and then +<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> +about the room, while Clive sitting a little behind +her, radiant perhaps, but still haggard, watched +them with an intentness under which his mother +still seemed to hear that heavy beating of his heart. +Meretricious, frivolous, trivial—that was what +Hester was thinking her; the smug, sheltered, upholstered, +late-Victorian woman; reared on obsolete +traditions, sustained by a doomed social system, +buttressed by old china and mezzotints of simpering +ancestresses. She could not remember anything +that Hester had said at this first interview; she +could only remember her assessing silence; but +never, never to her dying day, would she forget the +minute yet portentous incident that she had witnessed +after they left her. She had gone to the window +to watch them as they walked away in the +little slip of garden beneath the flats, and she saw +Clive bend his head to speak to the girl, as though +in pleading or reassurance and that, for all response, +not looking at him, she had laid hold of the hem of +his coat, staying herself on him, or staying him on +her, as she walked beside him. Their unity could +not have been made more piercingly apparent to +the mother’s fierce eyes watching from above. +Hester’s possessorship of her son was rivetted upon +her mind by the unemotional little gesture. Not +<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> +only Clive’s subjection was made clear to her, but +Hester’s still, impassive strength. +</p> + +<p> +And then Celia. Celia who loved Clive; who +should have married him. She had had to tell her +that very evening when she came in for a practice. +Standing there in the twilit room, still, gentle, unprotesting, +her violin hanging by her side, she had +received the blow.—‘Clive is engaged to be married, +Celia;—to a girl none of us know.’ So she +had phrased it, controlling the trembling of her +voice. ‘Her name is Hester Blakeston. She’s a +journalist.—You must come and meet her next +Monday, for they are to be married very soon.’ +And then, seeing the girl’s brave smile, bitterness +had broken from her: ‘I’m afraid I shall never +forgive her for taking him from you,’ she had +said. +</p> + +<p> +‘But she hasn’t taken him from me,’ Celia answered +quickly. ‘I shall always care for him more +than for anybody;—but he never cared for me +in that way.’ And as Monica stood silent, she added, +looking intently at her:—‘Oh, Monica, don’t start +wrong!’ +</p> + +<p> +Celia had seen her as starting wrong from the +very beginning; even after her own meeting with +Hester she had seen her friend as wrong. And, of +<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> +course, it had been wrong to have been so aware, +on that second hot July afternoon, of the contrast +between Clive’s elect and his bride rejected. +There sat Celia—his affinity in type and tradition, +whatever Hester might be by the dark forces +of the blood—with her unflawed gentleness, her +unflawed dignity, ethereal in pearly greys and +whites; while Hester in her black and red, with dust +upon her shoulders, was, she knew, conscious of the +contrast, and only just escaped sulkiness by being +surly. And, as they moved to the tea-table, she +had asked her—prompted, perhaps, by malicious +subconscious forces of which she was only now +aware: ‘What are you going to wear, Hester?’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester, after her wont, had taken off her hat and, +dropping into the seat that Clive placed for her, +passing her hand over her hair, she looked across +the table at her mother-in-law-to-be, her chin a +little dropped, as though not understanding, or not +wishing to understand, the question. +</p> + +<p> +‘For your wedding?’ Monica had smiled, perhaps +too radiantly. ‘There is nothing so lovely as white +satin, is there?—And I have an old lace veil of my +great-grandmother’s that has been waiting since my +wedding for a bride in the family.’ She had perhaps +meant it kindly; really kindly; she had certainly +<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> +meant to show Clive her willingness to adorn his +beloved with her most cherished possessions; but +even as she spoke she saw Celia’s flower-like head +bent beneath the veil and thought, swiftly:—‘But +<em>we</em> are all so fair!’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester, after considering what was placed before +her conversationally—Monica had already noticed +this—and finding that she could not agree with it, +was capable of making no reply, and for a moment +now Monica feared—or hoped (only it was too +late to hope for any estrangement)—that she +would vouchsafe none. But, after a pause, looking +steadily at the tea-pot, she said: +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think a lace veil would look particularly +well in a Registrar’s office.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A Registrar’s office!’ Monica still heard the +metallic note of her own voice as she said it. Clive +in a Registrar’s office! She stood there, the caddie +in her hand, and she could not pretend to +smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive and I are going to get married in a +Registrar’s office,’ said Hester. ‘I have no religious +beliefs and I don’t like being stared at by a crowd +of strangers.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But,’ said Monica, carefully, after a moment; +‘there will be no strangers.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> +‘Not to you; but they would be strangers to me,’ +said Hester, not provocatively, stating, merely, the +fact that concerned her. +</p> + +<p> +‘There would be your friends as well as ours—and +ours will all be yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A Registrar’s office is rather small for such a +crowd; ask anybody you please, of course. I shall +have one or two only.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But a church has nothing to do with religious +beliefs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hasn’t it?’ Hester slightly smiled. ‘It’s that +way of looking at a church—as though it were a +wedding-cake—that I don’t like. Perhaps I take +churches more seriously than you do. I am the +daughter of a parson,’ and Hester laughed, unmirthfully. +</p> + +<p> +‘I only mean’—Monica knew that she had put +herself in the wrong—‘that a church stands for a +past and a future; what our ancestors believed, +what our children may believe; it transcends completely +any question of individual feeling. And +many of us there would be believing;—quite +enough to justify the occasion.’ +</p> + +<p> +She, too, smiled; but hers was the forced smile +that seemed to reach down within her and wring her +heart-strings as she felt its falsity. There was +<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> +nothing forced or false about Hester; helping herself +to bread and butter she replied: +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t ask to be justified. Other people’s beliefs +don’t concern me. If it would offend you to +come, you know, Clive and I could slip out quietly +some morning and have it done without troubling +anybody.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—no; no,’ Monica had muttered, feeling her +pale cheeks burn suddenly. ‘I must come to my +son’s wedding.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had not dared look at Clive or Celia. She +knew that she was worsted. She knew that they +were unhappy and that only Hester preserved the +guise of imperturbability. She and Hester had +met and their rapiers had clashed, in the presence of +terribly interested witnesses; but it was she who had +fallen back; her rapier that was splintered. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards, when she and Celia were left alone, +desperate tears had risen and she could not conceal +them. Celia came to her and put her arms around +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, you know—I <em>do</em> see what she means,’ she +had said gently. +</p> + +<p> +‘So do I!’ Monica rejoined with intense bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +‘It <em>is</em> to make a wedding-cake out of a church—if +you don’t believe anything,’ Celia said. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> +‘Then why refuse to have mere wedding-cake—if +it pleases your foolish mother-in-law?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because she wants to be straight. I do see that +about her, Monica.—She wants to be straight, +more than anything.—Please don’t start wrong; +it will make Clive so miserable;—already he’s +afraid,’ Celia murmured while Monica now wept +openly. +</p> + +<p> +She turned now from the fire and went back to +the window-seat and again looked out at the driving +rain. Her mind travelled over the past five years +and saw Hester always the same, imperturbably +pursuing her own way and making it Clive’s; but +there was no injury to recall, no fault to record. If +Clive’s friends had not cared for his wife and had +tended to fall away, that was not Hester’s fault. +If Clive looked a little dimmed and dumb and out +of the picture that Hester put him in, he never +looked unhappy. He never looked unhappy when +he was with Hester; it was only with her, his +mother, that Clive was, gently, silently, ill at ease. +It was her relationship with her son that was +ruined, or almost ruined; because she could not +like his wife. She had tried to; faithfully, if desperately. +She recalled the parties she had gone to, in +the little Chelsea house that had been her wedding-gift +<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> +to Clive. Hester and her friends had furnished +it; her own taste and help had not been requested +and she soon observed that the lovely bits of glass, +of china, the one or two really good engravings that +she bestowed upon the young ménage were exiled, +in order that they might not disturb a unity of +design with which they jarred. How she disliked +Hester’s drawing-room!—so gaunt, so glaring, so +unadjusted to human needs and frailties, so cut off +from all complicity with the past. It seemed to +challenge you to disagree with it as you entered, to +nudge you maliciously on its angular chairs, to +suffocate you surreptitiously with the many cushions +of its enormous divan. On the walls, the perspective +of the few pictures slanted dizzily towards +you; you wanted to push the knife, the mug, the +herring and the apple back to equilibrium. On the +mantelpiece stood three small sculptured animals, +menacing in their solid, misshapen vitality. The +batik curtains of a dramatic purple shade seemed +inappropriate as a background to afternoon tea and +London gossip. In Hester’s drawing-room she had +felt herself an anachronism, a half-absurd survival. +But Hester’s friends went well with it. They were +often drab and dusty and often picturesque and +brightly coloured, but whether they lounged on the +<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> +divan or sat bolt upright on the chairs they were +terribly intelligent. Their laughter ripped up +ancient faiths; their gravity undermined stalwart +policies. They seemed to believe in none of the +creeds one had ever heard of, but they held creeds of +their own with a fierce intolerance and could become +very angry with each other. Monica enjoyed seeing +them quarrel. She disliked them all intensely and +when she saw that they took Clive lightly she +hated them. ‘Hester’s amber cigarette-holder’ she +had heard him called one evening by a jibing young +couple who did not see her on the stairs above them. +And indeed Clive moved among them all, against +Mrs. Jessup’s batik curtains, a background figure. +He did not look in the least oppressed—or impressed; +neither did he look ironic. He talked to +anyone who seemed to be neglected and passed the +claret-cup and sandwiches. +</p> + +<p> +It was after this party that Monica decided to +leave London and live in the country. Her gifts to +the young couple had depleted her resources and +her London, the London shared with Clive, had +ceased to exist; but to her own consciousness the +withdrawal was less of a retreat than a flight. She +could not risk living on near Clive. She had not the +strength to go on hiding from him, at such close +<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> +quarters, how much she disliked his wife. There had +been every sort of good reason to allege and Celia +had been the chief of them, for Celia’s lungs had +been threatened, and after a winter in Switzerland +she had gone to live with a devoted woman-friend +who ran a little chicken-farm in Essex. Every +aspect of recoil was removed by Celia’s presence. +‘I can never be lonely with you at hand and Celia +so near and Jeremy with me day and night—can +I?’ she had said. Clive, perhaps, had been convinced. +Even when Jeremy, the dear West Highland +terrier who had grown up with him, died, he +had remained, she felt sure, unaware of her deadly +loneliness, though he had begged her to let him give +her another dog. But she could not replace Jeremy. +Another dog would have been a mere effigy. +She often felt that she herself had become an effigy, +bearing on its face the waxen smile of the past, +and she often felt that it would be better to be +dead. But that, she suspected, smiling ironically as +she leaned her head against the window-frame and +closed her eyes, was only when she was angry. She +still longed too much for Clive to wish to leave a +world where he lived. It was mere sentimentality +to say that everything was over when one could +suffer like this and tear one’s heart. Why could she +<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> +not acquiesce and be at peace? Why could she not +rest in the conviction of his happiness?—for that +he was mended, that Hester made him happy, she +felt sure. Should it not be enough for a mother to +know that her son was happy?—‘Lord, now lettest +thou thy servant depart in peace.’ The words +rose in her mind. That was what a mother must +be able to say. +</p> + +<p> +The wicket-gate clicked as she thought it, and +opening her eyes she saw Hester coming up the +path holding Robin by the hand. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-3"> +<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> +CHAPTER III +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">R</span><span class="postfirstchar">obin</span> was in his little waterproof hood and +cape, all shining in the rain, and her delight at +seeing him was so great that she had not time for +surprise. He was marvellously like Clive at the +same age.—‘Mouse-face,’ she had used to say to +her little son, tilting back the face to kiss it; and +Robin’s hood framed the same broad brow and +narrow chin. His eyes were darker than his father’s +and his pallor more golden; but there was the same +austerely sweet modelling of the cheek and lip, the +same pale, bright hair. Yes, he, too, was the colour +of amber, exquisite little creature. +</p> + +<p> +And there went Hester’s rubber boots beside him; +she still wore rubber boots in rainy weather and +they certainly became her slender form, her small +foot, her indolent and decisive gait. As she glanced +up, behind her rain-driven pane, at Hester’s face, +a phrase from a pitiful little tale of Maupassant’s +came to her mind: ‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Elle est ben trop noire</span>’ the old +peasant mother had said of the proposed negress +daughter-in-law, reiteration her only argument. +What if, on first seeing Hester, she had relapsed to +the same animal antipathy and said to Clive: +<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> +‘<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Elle est ben trop noire</span>’? Could it possibly have +parted him from Hester? But Hester was not <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">trop +noire</span>. It was absurd and malicious to say it. She +was the nut-brown maid in type.—‘And as sound +as a nut,’ Monica muttered. Her brooding loneliness +set her mind singing to these chimes, but this +involuntary tribute cheered her. She did not hate +Hester if she thought her as sound as a nut. And, +keeping her place at the window, she heard her say: +‘Come on, Robin;—don’t dawdle,’ in her rational, +unadmonishing voice. Hester was a just and careful +mother, but his grandmother felt sure that Robin +must miss the ardent, playful improvisation and +gaiety that had shone about his father’s childhood. +</p> + +<p> +‘How perfectly delightful of you, my dear!’ +Thus she heard herself greet Hester and felt the +sane machinery of life close round and sustain her. +Hester was kissing her cheek, she was kissing +Hester’s. ‘And you walked from the station in all +this downpour!—Well, Robin darling.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We were prepared for the rain, and we enjoy +it, don’t we, Robin?’ said Hester. ‘Robin was +delighted to come. He is always glad to have +tea with his Grannie.’ +</p> + +<p> +Set upon the background of her dark reminiscences, +this remark showed Monica something of +<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> +which she had not till then been aware. Hester was +changed since that day of their first meeting. She +was as assured, as competent as ever, but she was +certainly kinder. Something of her repellent manner +on the first day might be set down to girlish +awkwardness, and perhaps, in spite of the assurance, +she had really been a little frightened. It was +possible, if difficult, to believe it. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I see the goldfish?’ said Robin. He was +dressed in a little suit of green. Monica did not +think it became him. Clive, she had always dressed +in blue or white. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may; but let me have a look at you first; the +goldfish will wait.’ She drew him to her side while +Hester leaned to the fire and held out her hands to +the blaze. She had taken off the boots in the hall +and showed slender legs and low-heeled shoes; her +dark coat and skirt, sparse and formal, gave her +again the boyish air, though there was nothing +really masculine in Hester’s demeanour. Mingling +with the terse competency, Monica felt always an +undertone, repellent to her, of something soft and +smouldering, and over Robin’s head she cast an +oblique glance of the old distaste at her daughter-in-law’s +nonchalant form. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why doesn’t our room turn round like this, +<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> +Mummy?’ said Robin. He leaned against his +grandmother’s knee and looked about him. ‘I like +it. You can’t tell what’s on the other side, down +the steps.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think I can,’ said Hester. Her reasonableness +was only just not a snub and for a moment Robin +was checked by it; but he took up after a moment: +‘Not if you didn’t know already. If you didn’t +know already, there might be robbers down there; +or tigers;—or just a kitten asleep on a cushion.’ +His fancy as it took substance widened his gaze. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I shouldn’t care for robbers in my drawing-room, +or tigers either and you’d be the first to be +frightened by them if they were there,’ Hester rejoined, +turning her head to measure her child with +a scientific eye as though hidden meanings might +lurk in these images. +</p> + +<p> +‘But they wouldn’t really be there,’ Robin rejoined, +quite as reasonably as his mother, and without +her dryness. ‘That’s what’s so nice; Grannie +might have changed everything and one wouldn’t +know.—I do like this room, Grannie,’ he repeated. +‘It’s like that queer room on the ship you took me +to.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica’s one remaining brother was an Indian +judge and Robin had gone with her to see him off +<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> +that spring. ‘It <em>is</em> rather like the saloon of a ship, +with the windows all round and the low ceiling,’ she +said. ‘And with such a quantity of rain outside one +might fancy oneself on the waves!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should call this the cosiest of suburban rooms +and anything more dismal than the saloon of a ship +I can’t conceive of!’ laughed Hester, taking out her +cigarette, while Robin, feeling her not at all in +the game, whispered to his grandmother: ‘Perhaps +there’s a whale round the corner that’s been washed +on deck.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s go see!’ she said. Hester no more understood +a child’s mind than she understood the drawing-room, +which was neither cosy nor suburban. +She was glad she did not; glad that Robin whispered. +She took him by the hand and led him off +and as they turned the corner and went down the +steps it seemed to her that she and Robin escaped +into fairyland, leaving Hester behind them. Tranquil, +pale, the rain-swept hedgerow elms outside +making it the quieter, the lower room received +them as though with a gentle finger laid on its +lips, and in their bowl on the lacquer table the goldfish +glanced and glittered, living so determinedly +their mysterious, circumscribed life. Robin stopped +short on seeing them. ‘It’s not a whale:—it’s +<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> +goldfish,’ he whispered, turning up to her a face +Clive’s to exactitude in its wistful archness. She +stooped and kissed the starry forehead. She felt +her love passionately flow over the little boy, sweeping +him and Clive together in its tide, the past +and the present. ‘Much prettier than a whale +and much easier to take care of,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘<em>Could</em> you take care of a whale?’ Robin questioned, +still with the archness that showed his +recognition of fairyland and its code. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not very well in here;—but you might in the +garden—on such a rainy day as this the poor thing +would hardly miss the sea!’ laughed Monica. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I like these better. There are no whales at +the Zoo. There wouldn’t be room for them.—They’d +reach out into the lane if they were in the +garden, Grannie; you couldn’t keep them there.’ +And as, absorbed now in reality he stood beside +her, he added: ‘Don’t you think they have dear +little faces? They look so happy as they go +round and round and they open and shut their +mouths as though they were singing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you ask me, I always think they are melancholy +mad,’ said Hester’s voice, devastatingly. +She had come to the steps and stood there above +them, her cigarette in her hand, looking down. ‘I +<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> +don’t like to see them going round and round. Their +cheerfulness doesn’t deceive me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica felt something of a shock as she heard +these words. It was almost as though Hester were +reading her thoughts of an hour ago. ‘Aren’t even +the fish to be spared psycho-analysis?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, since they are <em>all</em> repression, I think we +need hardly waste our time on them! They offer +no problem!’ Hester returned with a slight laugh. +‘They are melancholy mad, poor things—as anything +shut up with nothing whatever to do must be. +I do hate to see animals shut up.’ She tossed the +end of her cigarette into one of Monica’s Chinese +bowls, took out another, tapped it against the back +of her hand and lighted it as she stood there. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you can call them shut up,’ said Monica. +Robin had drawn close to her and was gazing, very +earnestly now, at the ambiguous fish. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are as shut up as the lions at the Zoo, and +those always make me feel sick,’ said Hester, turning +away. +</p> + +<p> +Monica and the child stood in a stillness curiously +shared. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are they really unhappy, do you think?’ Robin +asked, whispering again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not one bit, darling,’ she assured him—though +<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> +not herself. ‘They have been here for three years +and get bigger and fatter all the time. They would +pine if they were unhappy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But why does Mummy think they’re unhappy?—Could +they make a noise to say if they were?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No: they couldn’t make a noise—but they +could move slowly and look dull;—that’s the way +a fish would show unhappiness;—and not care to +eat ants’ eggs.—They had a splendid feed of ants’ +eggs only a little while ago and you should have +seen them snap them up.’ +</p> + +<p> +Still Robin leaned against her and still he gazed +at the fish. ‘But I sometimes eat my tea when +I’m very unhappy,’ he said in the lowest voice. +He trusted her completely; he was hers completely; +he would never have said it to his mother—or why +the lowered voice? For a moment the selfish joy of +her proved possessorship filled her heart, then drew +away to give place to apprehension. ‘Unhappy? +Are you unhappy, darling? Why? Tell me why,’ +she said and looking up at her with Clive’s eyes he +said, faltering a little, ‘I don’t know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s enough about the fish.—Don’t let Robin +get sentimental about them,’ called Hester from +above with kindly peremptoriness. ‘I’ve something +to tell you, Monica.’ She had always, from the +<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> +beginning, called her mother-in-law by her Christian +name, expressing to Monica’s ear indifference +rather than intimacy. +</p> + +<p> +Holding Robin very tightly by the hand, wondering, +as she came, about acquired and innate instincts +and their inheritance; wondering whether a +seed of Clive’s dark time had drifted into the soul +of his son—Monica obeyed the summons, drawing +Robin to her knee as she took her chair near the fireplace +and looked up at her daughter-in-law. As a +little boy, Clive, too, had known moods, she remembered, +of grief and panic. But she had been +there to shield and soothe and understand. He did +not hide from her when he was a little boy; as Robin—she +felt sure of it—would hide from Hester. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve something to tell you, that will please you,’ +Hester was repeating. She had taken up her position +again at the fireplace, but now she leaned back +against the mantelpiece, raising her cigarette to her +lips, drawing at it, then holding it off as if for +scrutiny, her eyes half closed, her brows slightly +knitted. She looked at her cigarette as if its taste +disappointed her;—Monica had often noted the +trick. She had never seen anyone smoke so constantly +and with so little air of relish. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s a very important decision Clive and I have +<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> +come to,’ Hester went on, ‘mainly because of you—but +because of ourselves as well. We are tired of +London in some ways. I don’t think it’s very good +for Robin, or for Clive either. He still gets those +horrid headaches from time to time.—And since +last spring we’ve had our eye on The Crofts—the +cottage on the hill, you know, under the wood:—and +now we’ve bought it.—Yes, actually.—I +thought you’d be pleased. We have been very +crafty about it all and said nothing to you lest it +should fall through and you should be disappointed.—There’s +been the London house to get rid of and +endless documents to seal and sign. But it’s all done +now in law and order, and you won’t be lonely any +more.’ And Hester benevolently surveyed her, very +much, it flashed over Monica, as she might have +surveyed the goldfish, released and making off +down stream. She saw the picture of the hurrying +fish, golden and glad, and for a moment felt their +astonished gladness in herself, before she felt a +deep drop of dread. It was not Clive coming back; +it was Hester. She had run away; to be safe; to +keep safe with Clive; to hide from Clive; and now +Hester followed her. No; the goldfish were not +released; they were drawn out of their safe retreat +in a net. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> +‘My dear—what wonderful news,’ she said +slowly, looking down at Robin’s head. +</p> + +<p> +‘It <em>is</em> rather, isn’t it? We are rather proud of ourselves. +Even Robin didn’t know.’ Hester tapped +her cigarette against the mantelpiece and again +frowned at the tip. ‘You are coming to live near +Grannie, Robin; isn’t that rather jolly?’ +</p> + +<p> +Robin, making no reply, turned his eyes up to his +grandmother. It was as though he felt all the unuttered +things in her, all the things Hester would +never feel. +</p> + +<p> +‘Isn’t it wonderful; you can see the goldfish every +day,’ she said to him softly. She wanted horribly to +cry; to be alone so that she could think. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not if they’re unhappy,’ said Robin, gazing at +her. ‘Not if they’re going to die.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But they’re not going to die. Why should they +die? We’ll make a little pond for them—since +Mummy thinks they’re unhappy in the bowl—and +have a fountain to play over them. Wouldn’t you +like a fountain to play with? Like the princess, with +the three golden balls?’ +</p> + +<p> +Robin’s eyes still studied her. ‘But Jeremy died,’ +he said. ‘And he was very happy.—Is it true that +he’ll never, never come back—however much we +want him?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> +‘When things are dead they never come back, +Robin; I’ve told you that already.’ Hester checked +the sentimental tendency with decision. ‘It’s very +kind of Grannie to say she’ll make you a pond and a +fountain to play with, and the fish will love it, of +course. Jeremy died because he was old and when +things are old it’s much better they should go to +sleep. He had a very happy life and went to +sleep. It’s silly, you know, to go on thinking +about things that can’t be helped. Think of all +the nice things that are going to happen instead. +You are to have a garden of your own, as well as +Grannie’s, and if you like you shall have a dog +just like Jeremy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Robin sat, very straight, on his grandmother’s +knee, his eyes downcast, his little face firmly set, +and Monica saw that he was frightened. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s such a nice garden, The Crofts’s,’ she said, +diverting Hester’s attention from Robin’s case, +shielding him, giving him time—with Clive she +had always known that it was merely a question of +gently giving him time.—‘They have done some +very funny things to it—the good people who +lived there—but it’s charmingly placed under the +hill and almost anything could be made of it.—You +are quite sure it won’t tire Clive to go up and +<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> +down every day—or cut you off too much from +all your London occupations?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a bit more tiring than it is to get from Chelsea +to the city; and we shall be able to afford a car +now that will take us to the station in ten minutes. +He will have tennis here, and he loves that so, and I +shall manage perfectly;—but, you know, we were +thinking of you even more than of ourselves. We +didn’t like to think of you all alone down here.’ +Hester wanted to make it clear. It was the second +time she had said it. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know. It’s too dear of you both. How soon will +you move in?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We think we can manage in six weeks’ time; by +the end of September. Eddie and I and Marcia +Jessup are coming down on Saturday to go over the +rooms and Beppo Gales, too, perhaps. He says he’ll +decorate the dining-room for us if it’s a possible +shape.—We’ll call for you, shall we?—and have +tea here afterwards.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Beppo’ Gales was a young painter whose fame, +in Monica’s eyes, rested upon impudence rather +than achievement. He dealt with the human form +singularly displayed and distorted and had been one +of the young people on the stairs who had called +Clive the cigarette-holder. Grievous to think that +<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> +he was to decorate Clive’s dining-room and that to +the end of her days she must see, at every meal she +partook of at The Crofts, visageless, vast-thighed +forms bearing grisly fruits and flowers on their +heads. ‘That will be delightful,’ she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘It will be nice for Celia, too, our coming, won’t +it?’ said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +The tea-table was now placed before Monica and +she still kept Robin on her lap, saying to him as she +warmed the tea-pot: ‘Will you measure in the +tea for me, Robin?’ Robin, she knew, had been on +the verge of tears but was now master of himself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive can take her and Miss what’s-her-name +out in the car for drives,’ Hester went on. ‘There’s +no risk of infection now for Robin, is there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not the least.’ Monica heard that she spoke +dryly. ‘Her lung healed before she left Switzerland.—Clive +mustn’t have her on his mind. Norah Unwin +has an uncle coming to stay who has a car. He +is looking for a place here, too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, well; in that case Clive can certainly have +her much less on his mind. He was very much upset +by her breakdown. He’s so fond of her, you know. +Lucky we got The Crofts in time if there’s a competitor +in the field.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> +‘He wants to rent, not to buy, I gather. He was +thinking of the Old Manor Farm, Norah said.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we certainly shouldn’t have competed with +him for <em>that</em>. It’s a dismal place,’ said Hester. ‘Now +drink your milk and eat your bread-and-butter, +Robin.—We’ve not much time before our train +and you mustn’t be late for bed.’ +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-4"> +<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> +CHAPTER IV +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">B</span><span class="postfirstchar">ut</span> why had it been Hester to come with the +news? Why not Clive? This question, which +had lain latent in Monica’s mind during Hester’s +visit, rose to assail her during the long night, as she +lay awake and listened to the rain. Such news as +that should have been brought by Clive. He had +sold the little Chelsea house that she had given +him. She had given it to him;—not to Hester. It +was their transaction, his and hers; not hers and +Hester’s; and it could be only Hester who had made +it so; thrusting herself, with her bland assurance, +between them. +</p> + +<p> +‘She is straight,’ that phrase of Celia’s returned +to her pleadingly while her thoughts burned and +brooded on her wound. But was Hester straight? +Was there not some surreptitious motive smouldering +under the fair appearance of her? She was +hounded by the memory of her walking away in +the garden below the flat, leading Clive out of +her life, her hand stayed on the hem of his coat. +Now she was leading him back, a trophy; placing +him there, tormentingly near but never to be +reached except on Hester’s terms. And Hester +<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> +seemed to smile ominously behind him and to say: +‘Hate me as much as you like:—but touch me at +your peril.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I don’t hate you; you are straight; you +mean to be kind; I don’t hate you,’ she felt herself +repeating exorcisingly. And at last a merciful cloud +covered her mind and she fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +On waking she found herself thinking of Celia. +Her thoughts of Hester had run themselves dry and +the obsessions of the night survived only in her +sense of weight and weariness. It was Celia she +must think of now, and Celia could hardly rejoice +at the news she had to tell her. It was news that had +best be broken carefully. So, after her orders were +given, her letters written, she put on her hat and +coat and took a stick and went out, remembering as +she always remembered on starting on a walk, that +Jeremy was not here to share it. +</p> + +<p> +The rain had ceased but the day was blanketed in +a thick mist that might, later on, lift and reveal a +summer sky. Monica’s spirits revived a little as she +walked, her feet slipping in mud, the hedgerow +trees pattering down drops on her shoulders. The +weight was there, and the sense of it was like a +tendency to sickness underlying her vigour, but she +had an eye for what the day could give and found a +<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> +certain charm in the restricted world, seeing herself +as a Noah’s Ark figure set on her little circle of +green, the circle moving with her as she went. There +was beauty, too; the glossy branches of the oaks +above were like those she had seen carved in deep +relief on a dark, mysteriously lovely old door in +Bourges; in Norah’s field an arabesque of hens were +scattered like a spray of white chrysanthemums in +a Chinese picture, and at the door the old-fashioned +little banksia rose, sweet and apricot coloured, reminded +her of her girlhood; one hardly ever saw +these roses nowadays, and she nipped one off, shook +out the rain that clogged its tiny petals and, while +she waited for Bowditt, bent her face absently to its +fragrance, a deep, almost a crafty fragrance, overwhelming +her in memories of Aunt Janet and of +Lockers, the old Sussex house under the Downs +where she and her brothers and sisters, she and +Clive, had spent so many happy holidays. +</p> + +<p> +She saw Clive and Celia, the slender boy and girl—Celia, +too, was related to Aunt Janet—playing +tennis on the lawn while the downs grew grave and +purple above the garden and Aunt Janet’s white +cap appeared at the French window summoning +them all in to dress for dinner. The roses grew +against the wall round the window and she herself +<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> +was sitting there on the gravel path, her book on +her knee, her thoughts busy with ways and means, +a harassed but happy woman. Little Jemima, +Jeremy’s mother, sat beside her, watching the +players with a dog’s disinterested melancholy. +Monica was far, far away, deep in the fragrance of +the banksia rose when Bowditt came to let her in. +</p> + +<p> +Bowditt had been Celia’s nurse, then her maid, +and now with the aid of a village girl she ran the +little house for the two friends. She was a gaunt, +sad-eyed woman and Monica always felt that she +held her in some way responsible for the devastation +of her young mistress’s life. All the same, under +the resentment, if that it were, she knew that she +could rely upon a fundamental sympathy in Bowditt, +for she and Bowditt both cherished Celia. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Miss Celia in the drawing-room?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s gone out, to Chelmsford, with Captain +Ingpen,’ said Bowditt surprisingly and with evident +satisfaction. ‘Captain Ingpen said he would do +some shopping for us, and Miss Norah thought the +drive would do Miss Celia good.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica now observed the various masculine belongings +that altered the aspect of the apple-green +little entry. A faded silk scarf, russet striped with +grey, lay on the table beside the salver of visiting +<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> +cards; golf clubs leant beside the umbrella-stand, +and a curious square box, with brass corners and a +brass handle in the lid, stood near the foot of the +stairs. She even savoured a new odour on the air; +leather? tweed? tobacco? and something added;—or +was it merely her fancy that added it?—something +faintly yet sharply reminiscent of years ago in India; +an aromatic, bitter whiff. She had hated India; she +turned her thoughts away from it now as the pain of +an old self-reproach visited her heart. She had been +the romance, the delight of her young husband’s +life, yet she knew that she had not made him happy +during the two years they had spent together. She +had loved Charlie, but she had hated India and +hated his acceptance of the life she found so unbearable +in its formulas of empty gaiety, its heavy idle +days and convivial nights. It had revealed her to +herself as a rebel, a bohemian. In her girlhood’s +home they had questioned everything; in Charlie’s +India they questioned nothing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Norah’s uncle has come then?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘He came last night, Ma’am, unexpectedly. They +had a wire from Dover to say. It wasn’t till Saturday +they had been looking for him. You will see +Miss Norah, Ma’am? She is just gathering the +eggs.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> +‘Don’t call her. I will wait till she comes in,’ said +Monica, and Bowditt showed her into the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +Celia’s drawing-room was china-blue and white +and grey, with touches of lemon colour in the Iceland +poppies set upon the mantelpiece and of black +in the cushions and picture frames. Monica went to +the fireplace where, because of Celia, a little knot of +flame glimmered pleasantly, and looked about her, +seeing her own figure reflected in the old French +mirror on the other side of the room, a thickened yet +youthful form in pleated short grey skirt, short +jacket, and black straw hat with a velvet bow. Her +figure went with the room and it seemed to her that +the room belonged more to her own past than to +Celia’s. The mezzotints from Reynolds and Gainsborough +had been given to Celia’s father and mother +as a wedding-gift from her parents. She remembered +the delicate Chippendale chairs in Celia’s grandmother’s +drawing-room and playing as a child round +the old Chesterfield, now covered in blue and white +cretonne. This was the sort of room she understood +and loved; that understood and loved her: here she +was herself, her petals all unfolded. +</p> + +<p> +Norah came trudging in almost at once, drawing +off her muddy gloves, a pleasant-faced young woman, +<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> +ruddy, with prominent teeth and blue eyes. +She was the daughter of a country parson—as +Hester was. Monica had never seen, or heard of +Hester’s father since her relegating allusion to him +on the day when the Registrar’s Office was announced; +and the fact that Hester had cast him off +did not make him seem more obscure. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hello! How jolly of you to come! You have +heard of our excitements. Celia carried off already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Just what Celia needs. She and your uncle have +taken to each other, have they?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know about that; but he doesn’t frighten +her and that disposes him to kindness, I think. He +rather frightens <em>me</em>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he old and sunburnt and crabbed? Has he +always lived in India? I really know nothing about +your uncle, Norah.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s sunburned all right; extraordinarily brown; +but not crabbed exactly, or old either; younger than +you are I expect, Mrs. Wilmott. He is my mother’s +youngest brother. Yes, he has spent most of his +life in India; among queer warrior-tribes in wild +places.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On the Afghan frontier? Soldiering, do you +mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not soldiering so much as studying; discovering;—their +<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> +languages, customs, religions. He’s lived +among them in disguise; seen the sheep sacrificed +and worshipped it with them afterwards—or whatever +it is they do. I really don’t know him a bit, but +I know his life has been frightfully hairbreadth and +exciting. And because of all his special knowledge +he was very useful during the war. He is rather an +impressive sort of person, but, if you ask me, he has +a way of looking at us which makes me feel as if he +saw me as a hen and Celia as a kitten.—Not but +what he is kind enough to hens and kittens.’ +</p> + +<p> +Norah, laughing and good-humoured, was plumping +up a cushion here, emptying an ash tray there. +‘See what a state he is getting our room into already,’ +she said. ‘He took all the hot water in the +bath this morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How long will you have this inconsiderate person +quartered upon you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, he’s safely in London till the Manor Farm is +ready for him. He’s going to make me useful and +help him to furnish it I see. But that will be rather +fun and he’s willing to be useful to us, too. It’s +really very decent his offering to do our shopping +this morning, and it <em>is</em> good for Celia to see outside +people. It’s a quiet life here for her, isn’t it, after the +life she was used to in London?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> +The allusion gave Monica her entry. ‘Yes, it is, +but I always feel that Celia is far more country than +I am. I am an old Cockney at heart and to me the +quiet is almost suffocating sometimes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Norah’s face fell; she was aware of an approaching +announcement. ‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of +going back to London? I don’t see how Celia could +get on without you and her music.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Going back? No indeed. But London is coming +to me. That’s my news, Norah. I wanted to tell +you and Celia at once. Clive and Hester have been +feeling that I must be lonely and they are coming +down to be near me. They have bought The Crofts. +They will be here in six weeks’ time.’ +</p> + +<p> +Norah, sitting on the sofa opposite, stared at her, +and slowly the astonishment on her face gave way +to reprobation. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are coming to live here? All the year +round?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. They are giving up London.’ +</p> + +<p> +Norah gazed heavily. ‘Why did they keep it +dark?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was an unpleasant echo of her own thought, but +Monica had her reply, and Hester’s, ready. +</p> + +<p> +‘They wanted to be sure. And they wanted to +surprise me. Hester told me only yesterday. You +<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> +do see—don’t you, Norah—that it will be rather +wonderful for me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; of course it will,’ said Norah slowly. ‘It’s +only about Celia that I am thinking.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I am too. Do you think, after all this time, +that it will in any way be difficult for her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s bound to bring it all back, isn’t it,’ said +Norah; ‘seeing him all the time and seeing that he +has forgotten her, in every way; as only men can +forget.—Forgive me, Mrs. Wilmott; I do like Clive +most awfully; I always have, even when I saw that +he was breaking Celia’s heart; but it’s true, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He hasn’t forgotten, Norah, it’s only that marriage +crowds friendships so completely out of a +man’s life, and what I hope for now is that he will +remember enough for things to be happy again. +After all they were really like brother and sister;—he +will remember back to that happy time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It would be frightfully hard lines if he remembered +the time that wasn’t happy. It would be +frightfully hard lines for Celia if he remembered +enough to be sorry for her. Celia, though she looks +such a wisp, is the bravest creature in the world and +couldn’t help it if a microbe <em>did</em> get into her lungs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s so brave that no one could be sorry for her.—You +mean it will be a strain for her—showing +<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> +them that she <em>is</em> brave?’ Monica got up restlessly. +‘After all, Norah, nobody knew except you and me +and Bowditt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester knew all right,’ said Norah with a short +laugh. ‘And she knows that you wanted him to +marry Celia and that you are sorry he didn’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Norah!’ Monica gazed at her. ‘Do I +make it so plain?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘How can you help making it plain? One only has +to see them all together—with you. Hester isn’t +our sort, is she?’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica walked to a window as she heard this +question. ‘She’s my son’s wife. That’s all I have to +remember,’ she said, standing there looking out and +wondering, if Norah had seen, how much Clive +must have seen. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, she’s his wife and he’s devoted to her; but +the queer thing is that if she’d been a man he +wouldn’t have made a friend of her. Celia would +have been a friend, always; but not Hester. That’s +just the difference, isn’t it? That’s just where this +queer falling in love comes in; but I can’t help feeling +that it’s happier when a man falls in love with a +friend; they do sometimes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wonder.’ Monica stood looking out. ‘Perhaps +difference and the surprise of difference are needed +<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></a> +for falling in love. It’s a different kind of affinity.—Here +they are, Norah.—Celia is looking +amused—and surprised.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Celia shan’t fall in love with Uncle Godfrey;—I +can promise you that,’ said Norah; ‘and he won’t +fall in love with her. It’s not her kind of difference +that would attract him. He has no taste for paradise,’ +and Norah laughed with a certain grimness as +she followed Monica out into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +A car, spattered with mud, stood before the door +and a gaunt, heavily built man, with close-cropped +hair, was holding out a hand for Celia to descend. +No, Captain Ingpen had no taste for paradise, +Monica in a swift glance at him agreed, feeling +something a little brutal in his air of nonchalant +kindness. Celia was more a disembodied spirit than +a pretty woman and Captain Ingpen’s taste would +be for pretty women. Again he recalled India and +the men there, who were too stupid, or too busy, to +care for anything but pretty women. +</p> + +<p> +Celia might not be pretty in the Indian sense, but +she was the loveliest creature, and all her little +foibles were dear to Monica; her breathless way of +laughing, her gay yet melancholy inconsequence, +even her tendency to make rather pointless jokes +when she was shy. There was something arctic in +<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> +her tints—blue and white and gold—but she did +not look ill, only fragile and flower-like; forget-me-nots +and cowslips growing strangely in fields of +snow. +</p> + +<p> +‘But Monica—you’re not going!’ she said, coming +to embrace her friend. Celia’s devotion always +gave Monica a sense of establishment, security, in +a world of change. She had always been part of +Celia’s world and Celia understood her, better, she +sometimes suspected, than she understood herself; +or perhaps it would be truer to say that she knew of +herself the evil of which she was capable and Celia +the good. It was reconstructing to be with anyone +who saw the good—sometimes when one had forgotten +it oneself—and her eyes dwelt fondly on the +girl as she said: ‘I only ran in for a moment—I +must be back by twelve; Mrs. Fellows is coming to +see me about the nursing committee.—How well +you look, my darling.—Did you enjoy your drive?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ever so much.—I never knew anyone drive so +fast as Captain Ingpen. He was trying to frighten +me, I believe;—but I wasn’t frightened. I liked +it!’ laughed Celia. She was seldom shy nowadays +and Monica sometimes grieved over this as a sign +that girlhood was over.—She was not in the least +shy now. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> +‘This is Norah’s uncle,’ she said presenting +him, and Monica found Captain Ingpen’s eyes +on her; light yet hot blue eyes—burned looking, +with a straight line of upper lid—that showed +oddly in his dark face. His stare might express surprise, +discomposure, or admiration, and since so +many things to-day reminded her of the past, she +now found Captain Ingpen’s eyes reminding her of +pursuing suitors. Yes, it was unmistakable, though +it had been so long since she had seen it, that arrested, +appraising look in a man’s eye; a tribute to +her sex that, she reflected ironically as she walked +away, would never have been elicited had not her +close little hat, her upturned collar, so framed her +countenance as to lend it a misleadingly youthful +aspect. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-5"> +<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> +CHAPTER V +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">nyone</span> looking at Clive—anyone with a +discerning eye—would have said that unless +he were a soldier he might well be a poet. So his +mother thought, as she had often thought, on that +Saturday afternoon when, drawing her hand within +his arm, he led her away from The Crofts, where +Hester and her friends still computed and measured. +He carried himself like a soldier—that was his inheritance +from Charlie, and the little twist that his +injured thigh had given to his gait lent it a jauntiness +that added to rather than detracted from the +resolute blitheness of his bearing. Objectivity was a +soldierly quality and Clive’s expression—so much +more aware of you than of himself—was objective. +And with these disciplined and valiant characteristics +went the almost unearthly beauty; eyes bright +as clear grey water; hair swept to silver-gilt ripples, +like a young archangel’s; a head with its fragile, +forcible structure, to be bound by the laurels of a +Greek fillet or bend from a background of swift, +beneficent pinions. Yes; a beneficent archangel; but +an archangel bearing a sword. There was something +about Clive that frightened her a little at moments. +<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> +He never yielded to inner, or to outer, pressure. He +could break; but he would not yield. +</p> + +<p> +‘I must see you alone, Mummy darling,’ he had +said. They had had no word alone as yet. She had +been called for and borne off to The Crofts and so +elated had he been with the success of their exploit, +so glad in her imagined gladness, that no +shadow of her anxiety must be allowed to reach his +consciousness. There had been, for her, too, a certain +exhilaration in thus taking possession of the +new home and looking out from the comfortable +windows at the views which were now to frame +his existence; and even Hester’s friends she had +found less annoying than usual. Never, indeed, had +she heard anyone talk so swiftly and so vehemently +as Mr. Gales. He was like a stout weathercock in a +summer storm, veering, glittering, challenging the +elements, with never a suspicion that anyone could +find him anything but bewitching. But he had altered +much in his demeanour towards Clive since +that far-away evening of the party. Without pressure, +without consciousness, she felt that Clive +had mastered all the elements of Hester’s world. +He did not withdraw and he did not mingle, but +they were all aware of him; and to her they were +very kind, even when they bustled her aside and +<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a> +forgot her presence. A young woman whom they +called Oriana, who had come, unannounced, with +Mr. Gales, offered her chocolates with the greatest +affability. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s go round by the hill, Mummy,’ said Clive. +‘It’s so jolly up there; the hill is the best part of The +Crofts.—You’re not too tired with all the chatter?’ +Drawing her hand within his arm he bent his +head to smile at her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a bit too tired. Rather stimulating, I found +it. It does one good to be made aware of all this +new life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I suppose it does. There’s no harm in +them,’ said Clive, still looking at her and smiling a +little absently while, from the gate of The Crofts, +they turned up the smooth, turfed hill where a +flock of sheep raised tranquil heads to see them pass. +</p> + +<p> +It was a hot August day, but the wind blew +freshly and the blue distances fell below them, +spreading and receding into the ample, happy view. +They paused to look down at it and as they turned +again to the ascent, Clive said suddenly: ‘You are +pleased, aren’t you, Mummy?’ +</p> + +<p> +She knew then that this had been the question +underlying all his gladness and that he had been +longing to ask it; that it was in order to ask it that +<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> +he had led her away, and in feeling him thus dependent +on her happiness her fears and darknesses +seemed to melt away into the encompassing sunlight. +‘Pleased! How should I not be pleased?’ +she said. She clasped her hands on his arm and +offered him a radiant countenance. +</p> + +<p> +Clive walked beside her, looking down at her, +sounding her radiance as it were; and for the first +time to-day she was aware of an uncertainty in his. +But there had always, since the war, been uncertainty +in any radiance of Clive’s and even as she +looked at him she saw anew all that Hester had done +for him; all the things that a mother could never do. +There was still the cold, attentive gravity at the +bottom of his gaze, as though he watched for something; +but the strain and lassitude were gone. He +was deeply rooted in life, in the life that Hester had +made for him; and she felt, in seeing it, for all the +pain of her own abdication, a pang of deep, impersonal +joy. Hester had given him back his manhood. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that is what we thought; that is what we +wanted;—more than anything;—to please you,’ +Clive said. ‘I was never satisfied about your being +here, all alone. From the first I hated your going off +to live by yourself in the country.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you, dearest? I never guessed that.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a> +Clive was still smiling but now she saw that he +lifted his eyebrows and opened his eyes widely. +‘Did you really think that I felt it natural—our +being separated—after having spent all our lives +together?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +It was the first time he had asked such a question; +he asked it now when five years had passed. Did he +not know that they had been separated for more +than five years? Time collapsed suddenly; Clive +was suddenly near her again, so near that it was as +though she held him against her heart. Had he +really suffered too? The weight upon her heart +seemed his suffering as well as her own. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, darling child,’ she said, carefully, seeking +her words;—‘it was the most natural thing in the +world. It is what must happen, when a man marries +and makes his home;—it is what must happen—to +mothers.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not to a mother like you. Not when people have +been as much to each other as you and I. For a time +I hardly took it in; you seemed so sure of its being +the right thing, and so contented. And then, little +by little, it became more of a grief, a mystery.—And +when Jeremy died——’ Clive stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘When Jeremy died?’ she repeated. ‘Yes? What +had that to do with it, Clive?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-64" class="pagenum" title="64"></a> +‘Why—to see that you were quite alone; not a +bit of the old life left to you.—<em>Have</em> you been contented;—living +without me, like this?’ +</p> + +<p> +She steadied her thoughts and voice. ‘Well—hardly +contented, Clive; except as mothers must +learn to be; in your happiness.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But how could I be happy if you weren’t!’ said +Clive. He had turned his eyes away from her. +</p> + +<p> +Strange paradox of the human heart, showing its +frailty! A moment before she had felt the pang of +joy in the thought of his happiness; but was it not +now a deeper joy to know that he, too, had suffered? +She could find no word to say to him; no word that +might not flaw the beautiful, the precarious moment. +She felt herself cherishing it, and the assurance it +brought her, as though it were a gift of something +warm, living and fragile that Clive had put into her +hands. It was their life; their own shared life; known +by nobody else; that she had thought dead. It +lived; and he had given it back to her. She heard +herself saying to herself, deep down under everything: +‘This is one of those moments when it would +be good to die’: and then, suddenly, as they reached +the summit of the hill and stood there, looking away +in the sunlight, everything was shattered; for Clive +was saying, with a breathlessness that, she now +<a id="page-65" class="pagenum" title="65"></a> +recognized, had underlain all his urgency: ‘And +it was just what Hester did see, Mummy.—That +you must be missing me and that I couldn’t be really +happy with you buried down here. It was all Hester’s +idea, every bit of it. I’d never have thought +it possible to sell the house and uproot ourselves like +this and put it through so that you shouldn’t find +out and stop us. It was Hester who did it all. She is +like that when she makes up her mind to a thing. +Nothing stops her. That was why I wanted her to +be the one to tell you;—so that you should understand.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester. It was Hester’s idea; or rather—for she +did indeed understand—Hester had made him believe +it hers. He loved her, no doubt; he had, no +doubt, suffered in the thought of her loneliness—with +even Jeremy gone; but it was not of her, it +was of Hester, he was thinking; and what he was +really longing for was that she should see and acknowledge +and love Hester. He had sent Hester so +that she might gain the full credit for her insight +and generosity. Dust. Dust and ashes. The bright +afternoon shrank to a shrivelled snake-skin before +Monica’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘How dear of Hester!’ she said. Instinct upheld +her. She found the fitting words. She kept her +<a id="page-66" class="pagenum" title="66"></a> +clasp steady on his arm and smiled, looking before +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do hope,’ she said presently, for Clive said +nothing and the pause that fell between them became +perceptible, ‘that it is not a real sacrifice to +you both; I hope you are not doing it only on my +account.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive already felt the change in her. How should +he not? What availed the sweetest words if the voice +that spoke them went to a different tune? And how +banish the stiffened rhythm when the night thoughts +that had come to her after Hester’s visit pressed in +upon her and she saw them all—all fulfilled? She +had run away from Hester, and Hester followed her, +with generous hands outstretched. Hester accepted +her and it remained for her now to accept Hester. +That was what it all came to. It was a contest between +her and Hester in which she was worsted beforehand; +since it was Hester who possessed Clive +and was in no peril of losing him. She remembered +now the long glance that she had cast upon them +as he led her away. It had all been rehearsed between +them; all arranged, so that Hester should +have the full credit of her magnanimity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sacrifice?’ Clive repeated the word a long time +after she had spoken it, as though he had been +<a id="page-67" class="pagenum" title="67"></a> +weighing it and found it heavy. ‘Sacrifice, Mummy? +There’s no question of that. I must have blundered +badly to lead you to think that. Who wants a sacrifice +made for them?’ +</p> + +<p> +Who indeed? ‘I only meant that it is so much to +accept from your young lives.—I must be very +worthy of it.’ Monica spoke as carefully as though +picking her way amidst hot ploughshares. +</p> + +<p> +‘Worthy! Don’t, Mummy!’ +</p> + +<p> +They had begun to walk, rapidly, down the hill. +</p> + +<p> +‘But that really is the word, Clive. You show me +how much it is the word. You show me how wonderful +Hester has been in it all. I must be worthy of her; +that is what I mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +Yes; she must heap Hester with garlands, lest he +should guess at her ingratitude. But she saw as she +walked so swiftly beside him and heard the heavy +beating of her heart that her bitterness had betrayed +her. She had shown Clive to himself as asking something +of her instead of giving her something. She +had spoiled everything for him, as he had for her: but +it was a mother’s part to hide from him what he had +done and she had failed to hide it. Everything was +spoiled, unless she could find at once an issue, and +summoning all her resource, all her strength and +strategy, she went on: ‘You know, London means a +<a id="page-68" class="pagenum" title="68"></a> +great deal more to Hester than it does to you, Clive. +You care for all sorts of things that you will get here +in the country; tennis and birds and gardening; +while Hester is a typical London girl—as typical +as I used to be; only I have drained my London cup +and she is in the middle of hers. It <em>is</em> wonderful of +her, Clive, and perhaps I realize how wonderful +more than you do; and I own, darling, that it +troubles me lest you have not counted the cost of it +to her.’ +</p> + +<p> +Had she succeeded? She listened to the specious, +the perfidious note of her own voice after it had +ceased and wondered if Clive had not heard it +too. She gagged and pinioned and laid herself at +Hester’s feet, as he had forced her to do; and could +she really make him believe that she relished the +position? +</p> + +<p> +‘But she isn’t giving up London, Mummy,’ he +said. Gravely, his eyes turned from her, he accepted +her words at their face value. ‘Not in any way that +would mean such cost to her. I did count it all, I +promise you, and I wouldn’t have accepted it from +her if it had meant the loss of her London life. But +that’s the good fortune of your being so near. She +can go up to town every day if she likes, and have +her friends with her constantly. Gales will be coming +<a id="page-69" class="pagenum" title="69"></a> +twice a week, you see, to paint the dining-room;—it’s +as easy for him as if we were living in Chelsea. +And Hester is arranging to give a course of lectures +this autumn.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Splendid. That is splendid. If it’s really so. If +Hester hasn’t deceived you about it in her wish to +make us happy.—But I will take your word for it, +dearest. What are the lectures to be about? Excellent, +that Hester should be taking up her own work +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +She must indeed go carefully. Clive knew that +she had not cared for the small book on infant psychology +that Hester had published in the second year +of their marriage. It had been easier, when one saw +such theories connected in all their abstract brutality +with the dawning life of little Robin, to smile +at them than to resent them; and in order that she +should not show resentment, she had smiled. Clive +must have seen her smile. They had never spoken +of the book. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, her special line, you know.—The modern +emancipation of women; psycho-analysis; all that +sort of thing.’ His voice was guarded. +</p> + +<p> +‘Does she feel the emancipation accomplished?—or +is there even more to do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A very great deal more to do; the acceptance of +<a id="page-70" class="pagenum" title="70"></a> +equal standards, all along the line, is only tacit as +yet, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can we hope for more than a tacit acceptance, I +wonder?’ She tried to attain the tone of blithe detachment +with which she and Clive, in the old days, +would have discussed such themes. ‘Women are so +handicapped by nature that it’s difficult to imagine +a time when equal standards wouldn’t be really an +injury to them.—Where is she to give the lectures? +I might be able to go up for them?’ She must go on +talking; but Clive would know as well as she did +that she had no intention of attending Hester’s +lectures. +</p> + +<p> +‘At Oriana’s;—Mrs. Travers’s—you know,’ +said Clive. +</p> + +<p> +They had reached the bottom of the hill and were +now following the little path that led out to the +Green. How terse was Clive’s voice. Hester was +there between them. Monica seemed to see her eyes +following them, and now with reprobation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, is that little creature married? She looks +such a child—with her bright doll face. I imagined +that she and Mr. Gales were engaged.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive paused for a moment and then with a resolution +not hidden from his mother’s ear, answered: +‘She’s left her husband and she and Gales live together. +<a id="page-71" class="pagenum" title="71"></a> +They are modern, artistic people, you know, +and don’t believe in marriage. I hope you don’t +mind their coming. Hester was rather upset when +she saw them both, knowing we were to have tea +with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, my dear—do you, too, think of me as the +prim Victorian dame? Of course I’ll give them tea. +Why should I mind? I don’t mind irregularities in +the least. All I mind is people having theories to +justify their irregularity.—I don’t mind what +people do so long as they don’t talk about it!’ And +Monica’s laugh, as she found the aphorism, was dry. +She was sure that Hester had not been in the least +upset and she did mind irregularity. +</p> + +<p> +‘They don’t talk about it,’ said Clive. He never +retorted; he only withdrew. She felt now that he +withdrew. She had failed. He saw that she was +miserable. When one was miserable one could not +hide. +</p> + +<p> +In silence they crossed the Green. Looking out +with hot eyes from under the brim of her summer +hat, Monica felt that she hated the Green; she had +never known how much till then. She hated her +garden, too, all opened and exposed to view except +at the back where the hedge had grown high enough +to hide it. She hated the beam and plaster and the +<a id="page-72" class="pagenum" title="72"></a> +clambering roses. Only when they were inside and +the dark coolness of the drawing-room enveloped +them, did the flame of hatred die. Here, at all +events, was the past. Here she could remember +Clive, as he had been, before Hester came. He +pulled a chair near the window for her. ‘Sit down, +Mummy,’ he said gently. ‘How delicious it is in +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; you sit down, my dear. We’ll have a little +more light for our tea-party.’ She went to the +blinds. She must give herself time to see where she +stood. A horrible dread, cold after the fierceness, +crept over her. Had she not alienated Clive by her +perversity? He must see it as perversity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive,’ she said—a woman when she has shown +herself as perverse must not supplicate, yet she knew +that under her light tone there was supplication:—‘you +and Hester will have to come and spend +a great many evenings with me.—Give me an inch, +and I’ll take an ell, I’m afraid you’ll feel! They +have been rather lonely;—more lonely than I could +have realized. And even when you can’t come, it +will be everything to know that you are hardly a +mile away.—I believe that you could almost hear +me if I called you from my bedroom window.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It will be everything to me, too,’ said Clive, still +<a id="page-73" class="pagenum" title="73"></a> +with his gentleness. ‘I’ve often thought I heard you +calling me—since you’ve been down here.—I’ve +waked up suddenly and answered you.—Yes;—isn’t +it queer? Perhaps you were thinking of me, +Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +He sat there in his chair, sunken together a little, +as though his gallant pose had failed him, and as she +saw his smile and how jaded was his face, tears almost +mastered her. How she had hurt, how disappointed +him! She could have thrown herself in his +arms and wept, but that Hester and her friends +would soon be upon them. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps I was,’ she said, moving to the last +blind. ‘That’s very likely, darling.’ +</p> + +<p> +Voices were approaching over the Green, Mr. +Gales’s voice; Mrs. Jessup’s. It was fortunate that +she had mastered her emotion. Hester and Mr. +Gales walked in front. She carried her hat in her +hand and the breeze blew back her hair. In her blue +linen dress and with something sulky in her demeanour, +she had a curiously childlike aspect. Mrs. +Jessup, golden hoops swinging against her ochre-coloured +cheeks, followed with Mrs. Travers. She +was a succulent young woman with glossy black +eyes. Mrs. Travers, round-faced and coloured to an +apple-blossom pink and white, tripped beside her +<a id="page-74" class="pagenum" title="74"></a> +on the highest heels, listening with docility to her +authoritative contralto. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here they come,’ said Monica cheerfully. ‘I feel +specially pleased, Clive, when I see her friends, that +Hester doesn’t paint her face.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But it suits some women, don’t you think?’ said +Clive. He got up with a little stumble of eagerness +and came to look beside her. He could be grateful +even for a negative tribute to Hester. ‘It’s rather +too hot a day for Marcia’s make-up, isn’t it? Her +mouth seems rather shifted. But Mrs. Travers is +very crisp and neat.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; and it’s an amusing little face, with the +straight fringe; like a Chinese baby, rather. Poor +little creature. I’m afraid this venture of hers will +be an uneasy one. Mr. Gales looks to me very unstable.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive smiled. ‘They don’t expect stability, I +imagine.’ He was loyal to them, but he did not +identify himself with Hester’s friends. +</p> + +<p> +Now they were all in the room, Mr. Gales still +talking. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a divine room!’ he cried, twirling about +to look at it.—‘Grandmothers;—great-grandmothers;—Hymns +Ancient and Modern;—Mudie’s +Circulating Library and bridal wreaths—all +<a id="page-75" class="pagenum" title="75"></a> +the things we’ve raised such a dust to run away +from! here they sit and smile at us!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Isn’t it cosy,’ said Hester. She drew her blue +linen sleeve across her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +‘Cosy, my dear child!—that’s not the word for +it! It’s balm!—not down! I revel in it! Simply +revel!’ and snuffing his nostrils, as if assailed by +sweet odours, Mr. Gales plunged himself into the +deepest chair and then plunged out again as Mrs. +Travers, perched at the top of the steps, looked +down into the lower room calling out: ‘O Beppo—come +and see!—Goldfish and black-lacquer and—oh +the priceless little water-colours!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We shall never look upon their like again,’ said +Mr. Gales solemnly, gazing down, while Hester, at a +little distance, surveyed him with a persistent gloom. +‘Hester, my darling, they give me an inspiration:—about +that rather degraded little dining-hutch of +yours at The Crofts.—I’ll paint you a row of +Indian jokes; palanquins; elephants; ladies in +bustles flirting—<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pour le bon motif</span>—with cavalry +officers under the deodars! Kipling, Empire and the +Nineties! A wink for every meal! <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Cela vous sourit?</span>’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all,’ said Hester, sitting down at Monica’s +tea-table. ‘I don’t like being winked at. Keep to <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La +Boutique Fantasque</span> idea. Robin would love that.’ +<a id="page-76" class="pagenum" title="76"></a> +She had not liked the reproof of her ‘cosy,’ for which +Monica could not but feel grateful, though Mr. +Gales’s encomiums struck her as singularly impudent. +</p> + +<p> +Hester sat opposite her, on a straight chair and +was evidently bent on doing her duty by her. ‘I’m +rather worried about Robin, Monica. He calls out +in his sleep. There’s some repression, I think, and +he cries when I try to get at it. He says he sees +Jeremy in a cage.—I suppose that’s the goldfish.—You +had the same sort of trouble with Vivian, +hadn’t you, Marcia?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There was a definite complex in Vivian’s case,’ +Mrs. Jessup, from the easy chair where she already +sat smoking, a magazine on her lap, answered. +‘He’s always tended to Narcissism; moral scruples +and general priggishness when he was little and +trying to get religion now at school. He wants +to be like Saint Francis, it seems, and say his prayers. +He may outgrow it, but it’s rather disturbing I +own.’ Mrs. Jessup did not lift her eyes from her +magazine as she thus diagnosed her child. ‘Have +you seen these pictures of Malcolm’s, Beppo? +Putrid the way he panders to the public nowadays.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gales sat on the arm of her chair to look +while Mrs. Travers, exclaiming that she was +<a id="page-77" class="pagenum" title="77"></a> +<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">éreintée</span>, extended herself on the sofa, lighting a +cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here’s Celia, Mummy. Did you know she was +coming? How delightful!’ Clive, from his place at +the window, had stood looking over them all with +his cool, aerial gaze, very much to his mother’s eye +the hovering archangel, uncertain of where, on an +ambiguous planet, to place his foot, and as he now +left the room she suspected that it was with relief. +</p> + +<p> +‘Celia who?’ Mrs. Jessup raised her eyes to enquire. +‘Will you have any neighbours you can talk +to here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why shouldn’t we? If we come here to live, why +shouldn’t other intelligent people?’ Hester rejoined. +‘It’s Celia Bowen, a very old friend of Clive’s. She +came to that party when Lionel played—don’t +you remember?—and he evidently found her more +worth talking to than any of us. She plays the +violin.’ Hester spoke tersely. +</p> + +<p> +‘The thin fair girl—who looked like Clive?—But +I thought she’d died in Switzerland long ago! +How dreadful of me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Jessup taking +out her lip-stick and equipping her mouth for the +new encounter. +</p> + +<p> +‘Help my mother-in-law with the tea, Beppo,’ +said Hester, and Mr. Gales sprang from the arm of +<a id="page-78" class="pagenum" title="78"></a> +the chair to pass the cups. He was full of goodwill +and though she found him impudent Monica did not +dislike him. +</p> + +<p> +Celia, facing them all with her gentleness, rather +as Clive faced them, made Monica think of Milton’s +lady confronted with the Comus rout. She belonged +with Clive, not with the rout, and did not Hester, +whose eyes were on her, feel it? ‘But I <em>have</em> been +here all the time, you know!’ she was saying as she +entered. Clive had been asking why he so seldom +saw her. She was cool and gentle, but surprised, and +she said, as she came to kiss her friend and be introduced +to the circle: ‘I didn’t know you had a party, +Monica.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do lie down,’ said Hester, indicating the sofa +from which Mrs. Travers had arisen. ‘You must be +tired; it’s so hot, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was evident that Hester intended to be kind, +thoughtful and efficient, but Celia, who would as +soon have thought of taking off her shoes and stockings +when she came out to tea as of lying down, +laughed a little nervously as she said: ‘Thanks so +much!—But I’m not a bit tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Oriana is, at all events,’ said Hester, who +still stood, rather gauntly, in the middle of the room +in her straight blue dress. ‘We’ve had a very tiring +<a id="page-79" class="pagenum" title="79"></a> +afternoon, up at The Crofts.—What sort of people +owned it? Their ideas of decoration were absolutely +grisly.—We shall have to scrape it—inside +and out—beginning with the rockery!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—the rockery! Poor dears!—It was the +pride of their lives! They said to me, when they +were going: “At all events we are leaving the new +people a lovely rockery!”’ Celia laughed again, taking +the chair that Clive placed for her. ‘It is bad, +of course; but it has some nice things on it—don’t +scrape too ruthlessly:—and they were rather dears, +and had a darling cat!’ Celia was talking with a +touch of her headlong girlish manner. Hester confused +her a little, and Mr. Gales’s cheerfully admiring +gaze. ‘A yellow Tom, you know,’ she said, +‘with blue eyes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jessup was also surveying her, but not admiringly, +seeing in her, Monica imagined, a trivial +example of the capitalistic drone. ‘A cat? And +what have they done with it?’ she demanded. +‘People who have a stained-glass Romeo and Juliet +in their lavatory window might have been capable of +turning their cat out to starve, I feel!—I don’t +need to be told what sort of people they were, +Hester!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Try some of these cakes, Celia.’ Clive placed +<a id="page-80" class="pagenum" title="80"></a> +himself before her and smiled down upon her as +she murmured, disconcerted: ‘Turned it out! Why, +it was their treasure! They carried it away in a +hamper.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do these cakes remind you of, Mummy?’ +Clive went on, keeping himself between Celia and +Mrs. Jessup. ‘Do you remember that hot day at +Chartres when we stopped at the pastrycook’s and +bought wonderful cakes for tea—cakes like these—on +our way back to the hotel?—Do you remember +the ill-tempered <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gardien</span>—and the black kitten +we found wandering in the cathedral?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What a tribute to my cakes!—Of course I remember.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘When did you eat the cakes of Chartres, Hester?’ +Mr. Gales inquired, reclining now above Oriana on +the back of the sofa as he fanned her with a newspaper. +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t eat them. It was Clive; long ago.—Some +more tea, please, Monica.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You and Clive must go some day,’ said Monica, +filling the cup. ‘It’s the most beautiful cathedral in +the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We must all four go,’ said Clive. ‘You and I and +Mummy and Celia, Hester.—To think of your +never having seen Chartres!’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-81" class="pagenum" title="81"></a> +‘But I have seen it.’ Hester drank off her tea and +rose as she spoke, pushing back her chair. ‘During +the war. The windows were all muffled up.’ +</p> + +<p> +She showed rather flagrantly that Clive’s suggestion +of a quartette had ruffled her and glancing first +at her and then at her son, Monica protested: ‘If +you’ve not seen the glass, you’ve only seen it asleep; +with its eyes shut. Clive must take you. You must +go again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I don’t want to go again,’ said Hester. ‘It’s +the most beautiful cathedral in the world, no doubt, +but it’s dead and done with; that’s what I feel +about it. It’s like a terrible, beautiful skull, looking +away over those endless plains.’ She walked to the +window and pulled up the blind. ‘When is the taxi +coming, Clive? Isn’t it late already?’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive was scanning his wife’s averted countenance. +Was it really his suggestion about Celia +that had so perturbed her? Yet she did not seem +angry with Clive; she smiled round and up at him +as he joined her at the window and said, laying his +hand on her shoulder: ‘Not quite time yet. It’s +hot, isn’t it?—I think I could open this a little +further—may I, Mummy?—Yes; that’s better. +Sit in the draught, darling. You’re tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a skull, Hester,’ Monica sent the arrested +<a id="page-82" class="pagenum" title="82"></a> +ball rolling again. Mr. Gales, Oriana, and Mrs. +Jessup were now bending their heads with wild +laughter over some further atrocity discovered in +the pages of the magazine and she and Clive and +Hester and Celia seemed alone together. ‘More like +the moon, as one sees it sometimes in daylight, in a +blue sky.—Do you remember that we saw Chartres +once like that, Clive, coming by train up from +Bordeaux? It floated over the plains; from miles +away we saw it; it looked transparent, impalpable; +it was heavenly rather than terrible.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester seemed to listen absently. She had not +taken the chair Clive put for her and still stood +looking out of the window. ‘Well, the moon <em>is</em> a +skull,’ she said. ‘Here is the taxi, Clive.’ +</p> + +<p> +For some moments after they were gone Monica +and Celia sat in silence. One might have thought +that a much larger party had been there, Monica +thought, looking slowly about her oddly disordered +room, where a pile of magazines sprawled on the +floor, the cushions of the sofa lay tossed and cigarette-ends +and ash were scattered freely. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what are you thinking of them?’ she enquired, +looking across at Celia with an ironic lift of +the lip. +</p> + +<p> +Celia was watching her, quietly. ‘Of them? +<a id="page-83" class="pagenum" title="83"></a> +Hester’s friends? They seem very good-tempered.—But +I was thinking about Clive and Hester, and +how happy they are. I was thinking that it’s the +greatest success.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean their marriage? Yes. I suppose it is. +Yes. They are very devoted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One sees it in the way they look—or don’t look—at +each other.’ Celia slightly smiled. ‘They are +always aware of each other—and understanding +each other. It’s the greatest success;—and you +mustn’t suppose, you must be sure, Monica.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps I am sure. Perhaps that’s the trouble +with me,’ said Monica, after a moment. ‘It’s a +success which shuts me out; because I can’t understand +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not?’ Celia still smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know you always thought me wrong,’ said +Monica. ‘I know you always thought I didn’t appreciate +Hester’s qualities.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Wrong? Did I? Anyway—she is different now. +Don’t you feel that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s happier. She is completely happy; completely +satisfied. She has everything she wants, if +that is what you mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, perhaps it does come down to being +happy,’ said Celia. ‘And perhaps nobody who isn’t +<a id="page-84" class="pagenum" title="84"></a> +happy and satisfied, <em>is</em> himself. Being unhappy +and dissatisfied twists people so, doesn’t it? Not +that Hester was twisted, exactly; she was always +straight.—But I have a feeling now, remembering +how she was when I first saw her, that she had her +back against a wall. There is no wall now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think that she had her back against a +wall in the very least, my darling child; I think she +was straight—as a ramrod—because she had +spent her life in hitting out against the world—with +complete success. I think she saw me with +<em>my</em> back against the wall; and so I was. If there +seems no wall now, it is only because I manage to +act as though I could step away if I wanted to. As a +matter of fact, I can’t move an inch. She is there, +close to me—whichever way I stir.’ Tears now +came to Monica’s eyes, the checked tears of her +wretched afternoon, and she put her handkerchief, +angrily, to her eyes. ‘I don’t mean that she forces +herself on me; I mean that Clive puts her there, +between us, and that she dares me to forget her +for a moment.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She can’t help it if he puts her there. It’s his +loyalty, don’t you see?—because he is so afraid +that you want to put her out.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If he was afraid—of anything connected with +<a id="page-85" class="pagenum" title="85"></a> +my happiness—could he have brought her down +here, set her here, at my door, her and her friends?—I’m +bound and gagged and pinioned, Celia, and +laid at Hester’s feet.’—The scorching simile returned +to her.—‘He doesn’t know it, poor darling;—no +man ever knows these things;—but she does; +she knows that I have to swallow anything she presents +me with, without a grimace;—like Mr. Gales +and his twittering little mistress!—If Clive had the +least bit of fear for me, for our relationship, his and +mine, he would know that I ran away to hide from +him!’ And the hot tears rose and she pressed her +handkerchief angrily against them. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, then—why did they come? What made +them come at all?—if it wasn’t simply because +they thought it would give you pleasure?’ said Celia +after a moment, finding her way, and Monica’s +tears were checked as she, too, tried to think why +they had come. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because Hester wished to display her generosity +to Clive; because she wished to please Clive,’ she +found.—‘I don’t know why, unless it’s that.—Forgive +me, Celia; you see me as the tigress mother; +the hateful tigress mother. Perhaps I am.’ She +dried her eyes and sat gazing out at the green. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; it’s only that you are so different, you and +<a id="page-86" class="pagenum" title="86"></a> +Hester.’ Celia’s downcast eyes seemed studying a +difficult move in chess. ‘He must see it; Clive must +have seen it from the first, and from the first it must +have made him miserable. Only he loves her so +much that he feels sure you would, too, if you could +really get to know her.—Perhaps you will, Monica,’ +and Celia raised her eyes showing her friend the +only possible move out of her predicament. ‘Perhaps +you will, after all. His love can’t be so mistaken. +There must be so much to love in Hester—if +she makes Clive happy.—Can’t you trust that, +Monica, and try?’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica’s eyes dwelt on the girl’s delicate face. +‘What does it mean to you, their coming here?’ she +asked. ‘I’ve been wondering about that.—I’m +afraid they weren’t thinking of me—or of you +either, when they came.’ +</p> + +<p> +Celia leaned back in her chair and looked across +at her. ‘I’m not a wounded doe, Monica,’ she said, +and she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a wounded doe?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ Celia returned her gaze with a defiance almost +gay; ‘though I am sure you feel me that, you +and Norah! I was awfully miserable when it all +happened, of course; so miserable that I got ill; that +couldn’t be pretended about and I didn’t try to pretend, +<a id="page-87" class="pagenum" title="87"></a> +with you, did I? But I’m not pretending now. +It’s over.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You have, really, cut him out of your life?—What +queer creatures we are, Celia.—It almost +hurts me to hear you say it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I don’t mean that. I’ve not cut him out. +But it’s over—in the way of hurting. It’s all become +rather like the cathedral floating over the +plains, you know, something rather terrible; but +beautiful, and very far away,’ said Celia. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-6"> +<a id="page-88" class="pagenum" title="88"></a> +CHAPTER VI +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">onica</span> saw Captain Ingpen once again +before the summer was over. He came down +seldom, it seemed, leaving most of the ordering of +his new home to Norah’s efficient hands, but on +going one afternoon to have a practice with Celia +she found him at the cottage, seated in the window +behind Norah and the tea-table, stretching +out one hand to stir the cup of tea that stood on the +window-sill beside him and turning the pages of a +book with the other. He was an inconsiderate person; +she had said that of him, on sufficient evidence, +she thought, and his desultory manner as he sat +there now, reading his book and drinking his tea, +reinforced the opinion. He was not surly or discourteous +in his withdrawal; but he was certainly +not assiduous, and it vexed Monica a little to see +that he treated her dear Celia with as little ceremony +as he did his niece. As she greeted them all +she felt that her smile, though including, passed +him over intentionally, and hoped that he would +feel the edge of its aloofness. He remained standing, +dark against the window, for a moment after +she had taken her place, his head bent forward, +<a id="page-89" class="pagenum" title="89"></a> +as though the ceiling were too low for him, and +she saw that he was looking across at her as he had +looked the first time they had met; and recalling +her impression then, a slight feeling of discomfort +grew in her as she became aware that even after +resuming his seat he continued to look at her and +not at his book. Perhaps he did not know, sitting +against the light as he was, that she observed this, +but she suspected suddenly, as his silence and his +scrutiny persisted, that he did know, and perhaps +expected acquiescence on her part. Again old +memories were revived in her, of pursuing suitors. +She remembered even, while she chattered on to +Celia and Norah, all unaware, the man in India, +Charlie’s friend and brother-officer, who had dared +one day to make mad love to her in his absence. +She remembered her rage and his folly of despair, +and as she sat there before Captain Ingpen a little +flame of angry colour rose up to her cheek, anger +with herself that this stranger should have the +power of awakening such memories in her. He sat +crouched a little forward, a finger between the pages +of his book, raising his cup to his lips now and then, +and reaching it out once over Norah’s shoulder, to +ask in the coolest tone for a fresh one, and, as the +flame of the old memory sank, Monica was able to +<a id="page-90" class="pagenum" title="90"></a> +ask herself, whether it was that he admired her and +was willing that she should know it, or whether it +was that he was sorry for her. The one was almost +as absurd and incensing as the other, yet, as she +talked and laughed, making Celia and Norah laugh +with her, she grew more and more aware of her unhappiness. +It was as if something passed between +her and the silent stranger; as if she could not keep +something from him. He heard, as well as she, that +her laughter rang false; he as well as she knew that +grief burned in her heart. There was a complicity +of consciousness between them, for he, too, was unhappy +and he, too, knew that she knew it. +</p> + +<p> +She would have liked to escape, to evade the +practice, when tea was over, but Celia had brought +out her violin and when Norah said: ‘I must be +about my work;—will you stay and listen, Uncle +Godfrey?—Do you mind his listening?’ it was +settled, with no word said, that he was to stay and +she not to mind playing the Brahms sonata to him. +He changed his seat as she and Celia took their +places. He moved into Celia’s vacated corner of the +sofa, where it was true that he could listen more +comfortably but where, also, he could continue to +look at her as she sat in profile to him at the piano. +But, when they began to play, she saw that he was +<a id="page-91" class="pagenum" title="91"></a> +no longer looking. He clasped his hands behind +his head and stretched out his long legs, and sat, +absorbed, brooding, his heart enfranchised and +appeased, she knew, as was her own heart, by the +splendour and magnanimity of the music. She +played her part well. And Celia played well. Captain +Ingpen did not look up at them when they had +finished. He remained sitting in his corner, his +hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed before +him. Only when she was definitely moving towards +the door, did he rise to go to open it for her and +Celia to pass through, and as she gave him her +hand in farewell, she could no longer interpret the +cold dark glance that floated, from far away it +seemed, to rest as if with a bitter physical pressure +upon her. ‘He cares for music, that speechless person,’ +she said to Celia at the door. And Celia said: +‘It’s difficult to be sure of anything he cares for; but +I feel that, too. He always sits and listens when I +play.’ +</p> + +<p> +And after this meeting six weeks passed; Clive +and Hester had been settled in The Crofts for ten +days, the summer was over, before she saw Captain +Ingpen again. On the October afternoon she had +turned her steps in the direction of the woods that +lay, across the fields, behind her cottage; not that +<a id="page-92" class="pagenum" title="92"></a> +the woods were a favourite walk of hers; her favourite +walk took her in the opposite direction, up past +The Crofts to the hilltop; but she knew that Mr. +Gales was at work in the dining-room and did not +care to risk encounters. She foresaw, indeed, that +she would now seldom walk past The Crofts. +Clive would be in town, Robin at his little local +Montessori school; if Hester saw her from the house +or garden, she would feel constrained to greet her, +and one of the conversations that Hester seemed to +find easy but that Monica felt laborious, would +ensue; so the dull woods would be her frequent +portion. +</p> + +<p> +They were singularly dull woods, she thought, as +she approached them this afternoon, drawn in duns +and russets on a linen-grey sky. It was a windless, +heavy day, and when she stepped in among the +closely serried ashes and alders—all untended and +unthinned so that they grew poorly, the dense underbrush +rising about them—she was aware of a slight +feeling of stupefaction, as if she entered a dream. +</p> + +<p> +The woods were crossed by sluggish streams—or, +rather, ditches—choked with the fallen leaves +of a rainy summer, and in passing over each one, +on its narrow plank, she felt as if she sank still further +into the dream and left each time more of the +<a id="page-93" class="pagenum" title="93"></a> +past behind her. Everything was still, except when +once, from a high branch, a jay screamed loudly. +Suddenly, at a little distance, she saw the figure of +a man approaching her. +</p> + +<p> +She had come to one of the streams to find the +plank which lay across it half eaten away by the +damp, and she had paused, about to turn back, +when she recognized Captain Ingpen. She remembered +then that the woods belonged to the Old +Manor Farm and that he must be in possession. +He had seen her, that was evident; and since she +wore her grey dress and black hat he probably recognized +her, too. It would seem uncivil to turn +away, and she did not want to stand and wait for +him; so, summoning resolution, she crossed the +plank with wary footsteps and went forward, noting, +as she approached him, Captain Ingpen’s +heavy shoulders and narrow hips; so heavy above +and so spare below was he, that, with the something +prowling in his gait now perceptible, he made +her think of a gaunt strong forest animal. +</p> + +<p> +Curious, lonely creature, wandering as solitary +as herself. He went with the damp tawny woods and +with the harsh cry of the jay and she was glad to see +him, so she told herself. He offered surmise, significance +to her cramped and troubled mind. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-94" class="pagenum" title="94"></a> +‘How do you do?’ she said, smiling upon him +with a smile consciously kept unconscious. ‘Do you +remember me? We’ve never spoken, I think, +though we have met.—These are your woods, +aren’t they? I must be trespassing.’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not reply for a moment, standing still in +the narrow path and resting his curious gaze upon +her; hard, empty, yet assessing. And if she were +starved for people and events, what was he? So she +asked herself, to escape the feeling of discomfort and +uncertainty the pause evoked. They had never +spoken; and to speak like this, with the light dismissal +of all that had, indubitably, passed between +them, had in it, she knew, something of a definite +rebuff. But a rebuff was necessary in dealing with a +man like Captain Ingpen. One must either rebuff +him, or seem to accept what he might mean. So she +spoke lightly, while thinking of his loneliness and +of how inadequate for his needs would be the delicate +viands her hunger craved. Distant memories +crossed her mind; strange, perilous names; of +tribes and mountains: Hindu Kush: the Duránis; +the Ghilzáis; adventure, danger glimmered behind +them. Meat; freshly killed meat, was what those +tiger eyes were asking. Why was he here in these +dank English woods? So she kept her discomfort at +<a id="page-95" class="pagenum" title="95"></a> +bay, scanning him with her well-equipped gaze, and +he answered her at last. ‘Yes; I remember you. +Very well. You played Brahms. Yes; these are +my woods, I believe. I have hardly found my way +about the place yet.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned, and as, after a moment’s hesitation, +she went forward, he walked beside her +in the narrow path. After all, Monica said to +herself, she had intended to go to the end of the +woods. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you really think of settling here?’ she asked, +pursuing her own train of thought, for he said +nothing and she knew that he was still looking at +her. ‘Have you given up India?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘India has given me up,’ said Captain Ingpen. +‘I can’t go on there. I have been too ill and I am +getting too old for the sort of life I like. I can’t +stand being scorched or frozen any longer.’ His +voice was as curious as his gaze; so low that one +would expect it to be soft; yet so harsh that it +startled one. +</p> + +<p> +‘And you think that you will be able to stand +being rained on? England’s a very damp place, a +very sodden place, after India.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think it’s getting old that’s sodden—everywhere,’ +said Captain Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-96" class="pagenum" title="96"></a> +‘You can hardly speak of getting old yet in that +sense.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are always old when you are past your +work,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +She did not intend to enter upon personal expostulations +or encouragements, yet since, as Norah’s +uncle and as country neighbour, Captain +Ingpen could not remain a stranger, she was willing +to listen to whatever confidences he might feel +impelled to impart. And indeed after a moment he +went on: +</p> + +<p> +‘The only reason I am here is because it is near +London and the India Office, and I have some +writing to occupy me. One of those atrocious books +that one spends the evening of one’s days perpetrating +and that no one ever reads—except a +few jealous contemporaries. Maps and statistics, +you know, and photographs of oneself standing +among one’s native friends. Norah being here was +something of a reason too; her mother is the only +one of my relatives I could ever endure; I can’t be +near her as she lives in Shropshire and is married to +a poisonous parson; but Norah is a good girl and +would see after one if one were ill.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you like your house?’ asked Monica. +</p> + +<p> +He was making no definite appeal for sympathy +<a id="page-97" class="pagenum" title="97"></a> +yet how clearly she recognized the vanity in him and +the something pathetic that went with a manly +man’s vanity; something boyish and endearing. +Still, she would not gratify it. She asked no question +about the relations he could not endure, and +made no protest about the atrocious book. ‘How +do you like your house?’ was all that she vouchsafed +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, here it is.—How do <em>you</em> like it? Come +and look at it,’ said Captain Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +They had reached the end of the wood and there +indeed, beyond a hedge, stood the low, ochre-coloured +Old Manor Farm, a very plain and not +unpleasing dwelling, long lapsed—or risen—from +its original utilitarian purposes, with a trellised +arch over the doorway and three plots of dilapidated +snapdragons on the lawn before it. Monica had +only seen it from the road, and, standing still to +survey it, found herself placing it with some surprise +in its new aspect. +</p> + +<p> +‘I had no idea one came upon it like this,’ she +said. ‘It’s not so bad, is it?—I should take down +that trellis if I were you, and do away with those +flower beds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would you? I know nothing about gardening. +I am a perfect savage about all that sort of thing. +<a id="page-98" class="pagenum" title="98"></a> +Norah intends a border under the wall, I believe. +Come and look at it,’ he repeated, opening a small +wicket-gate in the hedge. +</p> + +<p> +Monica hesitated, a strange apprehension seizing +her mind as she stood beside Captain Ingpen in the +sombre wood and looked at the ochre-coloured +house. Those sluggish streams had been Lethes; +to pass through the hedge would be to forget the +past; and though Clive was taken from her irretrievably, +memory was precious; she had come to +the end of everything except memory—was not +that always the fate of the old? And if she passed +through the wicket with Captain Ingpen, would she +not jeopardize her one possession? It would be like +entering a new life. And she had nothing to do +with new lives. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes were on her, and as she raised her own +she thought that she detected in their narrow +scrutiny a mocking challenge: ‘Are you afraid?’ did +they not say? ‘of me? and of the difference that +I may make?’ It was childish to harbour such +fancies. Her courage, her sense of humour rose to +answer him. ‘Yes, I must look at it,’ she said, and +she went through the hedge and walked beside him +up the gravel path. +</p> + +<p> +The side of the house that gave on the wood was +<a id="page-99" class="pagenum" title="99"></a> +patched with damp stains. A jug stood inside a +grated larder window. She wondered if his servants +took care of him. He was the sort of man who would +make his own coffee, with a machine, on the breakfast-table. +Yes, he would have good coffee, thought +Monica, her competence reassuringly asserting itself +as he ushered her into a bare, flagged passage +and then into a brightly furnished drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘The dining-room is opposite,’ he said, ‘and +there are six bedrooms upstairs. I am going to turn +two into a big study and get a view. It’s too God-forsaken +to sit here with nothing to look out at +except that grass-plot.—Here is a comfortable +chair. My man will bring us some tea.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tea? Oh, no, thanks, it’s far too early;—I +must get back for tea.’—He did take things for +granted.—‘If you look at the room, and not out +of the window, it’s rather nice in here, all the +same.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s not bad, is it? Norah helped me with it. +Big chairs and cheerful colours, and the latest +things in art.’ +</p> + +<p> +On the walls indeed there hung some very vigorous +landscapes, and on the mantelpiece were two +or three carved animals that reminded Monica of +those that Hester domiciled. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-100" class="pagenum" title="100"></a> +‘It’s a very unexpected sort of room to find in a +house like this,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is it? Is anything unexpected nowadays?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—I should not have expected Norah or +Celia Bowen to have chosen those pictures:—they +are very modern girls in some ways, no doubt; but +their taste has never developed further than Sickert +or Wilson Steer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, they didn’t choose those.—I picked those +up, just after the war, in London and Paris.—Will +you have a cigarette?—They are not what I +call modern girls, those two; they seem to me survivals.’ +He held a match to light her cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of the fittest? I hope you think so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know that I think so,’ Captain Ingpen +was no longer being vain and boyish; his massive +maturity glanced at her dispassionately: ‘They +will take what is given to them; they won’t take +what they want.—I like the modern girl for doing +that;—or trying to.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps my two are wise enough to know that +you can rarely keep what you take. It is what is +given that we really keep, I think.’ +</p> + +<p> +Captain Ingpen’s eye rested on her; his odd, light, +hot eye. ‘That sounds rather religious, you know,’ +he observed after a moment, and Monica, who had +<a id="page-101" class="pagenum" title="101"></a> +not thought of it in this light, who had only thought, +instinctively, of defending her two against the other +sort of modern girl (Hester, of course, was the other +sort) said: ‘Perhaps it is. Most things come to +religion in the end.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’m not religious,’ Captain Ingpen remarked. +He certainly was not. He had no need to +tell her that, Monica reflected, feeling a stir of pity +for him, the ageing, stiffening creature, prowling +about the bright cage with its easy chairs and irrelevant +modernities. She liked feeling a stir of pity. +It was pleasanter to feel pity than fear; though, +now that she came to look at him in his cage, she +could tell herself that the fear amounted only to a +sense of wariness. One kept one’s eye on him, that +was all; one was wary; as one might be with even a +caged lion. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve seen too many religions to be religious,’ he +went on after a moment. ‘If I’m anything I’m a +Buddhist;—an admirable solvent of all religions. +But though I accept the metaphysics of Buddhism +I prefer life to Nirvana. The only bother about +life is that it doesn’t prefer us.—It leaves us in the +lurch!’ And Captain Ingpen gave a laugh that was +like the jay’s discordant cry. +</p> + +<p> +Yes: it did indeed. He was at the other end of +<a id="page-102" class="pagenum" title="102"></a> +the room, smoking, walking up and down, his hands +behind his back, and in her chair by the fire Monica +forgot him, utterly forgot him for a moment, as she +sat and pondered this echo of her thoughts. Was +that not exactly what life had done to her—after +all the hopes and strivings? It had done worse than +merely leave her; it had left her in the lurch. She +saw the posture;—bent; arrested; passive and +painful.—The lurch, in which one was fixed and +tormented. Yet she, too, perhaps, like Captain +Ingpen, preferred even the lurch to Nirvana. ‘I +suppose because one goes on hoping,’ she heard herself +say. +</p> + +<p> +It was the insidious, dangerous habit, and she +had not known till now that it would carry her so +far. She rose, disconcerted, as she heard that she +had spoken the words aloud. ‘I really must be +going,’ she said. ‘You must let me come for tea +some day.—I shall have some plants for your +border if you care for them.—I like your house, +inside; better inside than out. It is rather dreary +out, I think. But that can be helped, too.’ She had +picked up her gloves and stood buttoning her coat +at throat and hip, and, making no comment on the +suddenness of her decision, Captain Ingpen led her +out into the hall, only saying: ‘I will walk back with +<a id="page-103" class="pagenum" title="103"></a> +you, then. I’ve not begun the book yet. I’ve all my +time.—Wait a moment.’ He left her on the +threshold. +</p> + +<p> +She stood in the doorway looking at the snapdragons +and wondering anew at the things he took +for granted. She had not expected to have him +beside her on the way back. She had, perhaps, been +intending to escape him. Then she heard his footstep +sounding along the stone passages and as he +appeared before her she saw with surprise that he +carried a hatchet in his hand. ‘I follow Norah’s +counsels with regard to chairs and borders,’ he +remarked, stepping out before her, ‘and I will now +follow yours about the trellis. Stand a little inside;—it +might fall on you.—It’s a farmer’s house with +the trellis, isn’t it? Now we will transform it into a +gentlemanly residence,’ and, the surprise warming +to amazement, Monica saw him lay the hatchet +with fell strokes about the base of the harmless +structure. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!—Wait!—Do wait and think it over first!’ +She did not know what to say. The flimsy supports +came crashing down; the poor old tattered crimson-rambler +drooped on its fastenings. ‘Really this is +reckless!’ she cried, half amused, half indignant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not the least reckless,’ said Captain Ingpen, +<a id="page-104" class="pagenum" title="104"></a> +wielding his weapon with a sort of indolent enjoyment. +‘I accept your judgment. Nothing could be +less reckless.—Now there is a mess! Can you step +through it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You <em>are</em> reckless. You enjoy destruction,’ +Monica said, still with her startled laugh. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that’s true enough; when it’s of rubbish.’ +He held out his hand. She steadied herself on it and +sprang; but her ankle struck against a spar of +splintered wood and she found herself precipitated +into Captain Ingpen’s arms. For a moment of confusion +and anger, anger against him—and against +herself for suspecting him—she did suspect that +they closed about her. ‘My fault,’ she heard him +say, calmly:—or was it calmly? ‘You are not +hurt?’—He placed her on the path. +</p> + +<p> +‘My ankle is a little hurt, I think.’ She hoped +that she, too, spoke calmly, or seemed to: and her +tumble would explain her hurried breath, her +heightened colour. He was observing her colour, +and then he looked down at her ankle. ‘Yes; your +stocking is torn. Are you angry with me?’ he +asked, and his ambiguous smile rested on her; ‘I +only meant to satisfy your taste about the trellis; I +didn’t mean you to hurt your ankle.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I’m not angry. It’s not really hurt.’ +<a id="page-105" class="pagenum" title="105"></a> +Monica moved along the path. But she was angry, +and the more for his having asked it; and she suspected +him now of knowing what she felt and of +enjoying her predicament and of inwardly jibing at +the embraced Victorian lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, do look at the house before you go,’ he +said. He had moved beside her. ‘And tell me that +you think it improved.’ He was completely master +of the situation. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at the bare façade. ‘Yes; it is +much better. You might have a rose there, trained +over the door. Not a crimson-rambler. I am glad +that’s gone. Some nice old-fashioned yellowish rose +to go with the colour of the house. Yes; it’s really +very nice like that. Recklessness has its uses.’ +</p> + +<p> +The breeze had risen and the wood rustled at +hand, darker now and more melancholy. ‘I will go +back by the road,’ said Monica. ‘There are too +many insecure planks to cross in the wood.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I was just thinking when I met you,’ said +Captain Ingpen, ‘how easy it would be—if one +managed to break one’s neck in a tumble—to disappear +in the mud of one of those ditches and never +be heard of again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They <em>are</em> rather grisly streams,’ Monica admitted. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-106" class="pagenum" title="106"></a> +They walked in silence then between the hedgerows. +A sense of excitement remained from her +anger with Monica. Her thoughts were no longer +occupied with Captain Ingpen and his daring; they +had turned to Clive; not dreamlike now, not far +away or forgotten. On the contrary, he stood out +sharply in her mind; sharp, small and near, and, for +the first time in her life, it felt to her as if she looked +at her son coldly. Was he not weak? even a little +fatuous? Was it not fatuous to thrust his wife on +her as he had now done, imagining that the enforced +intimacy would compel affection? The pain of the +summer day when he had shattered all her joy +returned to her, deepened by this strange sense of +alienation. He had said that it was Hester’s idea, +not his; he had said that Hester made him see her +loneliness; he had understood her joy so little as to +tell her that, and look for response and gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Ingpen’s voice broke in strangely on her +thoughts. ‘But what do you suppose one goes on +hoping <em>for</em>?’ +</p> + +<p> +So far had she drifted on the dark current of +her mood that she looked up at him almost with +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +‘You said one went on hoping. You were thinking +about preferring life to Nirvana.—What does +<a id="page-107" class="pagenum" title="107"></a> +one go on hoping for?—At our age? Do you +know?’ +</p> + +<p> +Was this dark tumult life? And the sluggish +dream of the wood Nirvana? She felt herself +struggle, with herself, and, it seemed, against +Captain Ingpen. But she would not attempt to +evade him. That might involve her in some undignified +mishap. She armed herself with what she +could secure of cool sincerity. ‘One hopes to feel +again the things one has felt; the things that have +given life its value.’ She heard the words and they +were lifeless; yet she had believed in them. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah. Yes; just so. But at our age—for you are as +old as I am, I suppose—it’s rather idiotic, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps not. Perhaps not idiotic. There are +always the grandchildren,’ her bitterness found. +How much good, indeed, was Robin going to do her;—since +Hester would never believe that she could +do him any? +</p> + +<p> +‘Grandchildren? Have you grandchildren?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I have a grandson; four years old.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Really. That surprises me. You are not grandmotherly. +But one forgets how obsolete the grandmother +type has become. Grandchildren?’ he repeated. +‘Are they really worth hoping about?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think so.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-108" class="pagenum" title="108"></a> +‘No you don’t. I can’t believe it.’ He did not +look at her. He walked beside her, his cigarette +hanging at the edge of his lower lip, giving it a disdainful +projection. ‘Why not face it? Why not own +that life is an illusion? We get nothing that we hope +to get. Or if we get it, we never keep it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never?’ She, too, looked before her. Was this +what he had seen in her face that afternoon at +Norah’s? +</p> + +<p> +‘Never. You know it as well as I do, since you +are a brave woman. You often say it to yourself. +No love lasts. That is what we want, of course. +Not only to get it, but to keep it. It doesn’t last.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No love?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not one. Haven’t you watched it in your own +life? In other people’s? There may be a perfect +time, a perfect relation; but hardly is it grasped and +realized before it begins to change. It is swept +away; or broken. Everything fades, Mrs. Wilmott. +Everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was horrible to hear him riveting her chains +upon her. His words seemed to knock great iron +nails into her heart and, as she heard them, Charlie’s +face flickered, remote, unsubstantial, to the +tune of an old waltz of the nineties. And there +went Clive, looking down at Hester, who held him +<a id="page-109" class="pagenum" title="109"></a> +by the hem of his coat. Something cried out in her +then and rose up and wrenched itself free of the +manacles. Of course she loved Clive. Even if he +forgot her. Even if she could do nothing for him. +It was only in a nightmare that she could hold him +off and watch him. +</p> + +<p> +‘One goes on loving,’ she said. ‘It is the love we +give we keep.’ She was speaking more to herself +than to Captain Ingpen. But he too needed help, +and she was sorry for him. +</p> + +<p> +‘So one flatters oneself. One goes on as long as +one has hopes of receiving something back. I don’t +count myself more stable than the rest of the phantasmagoria. +Perhaps what we go on hoping for is +God;—the thread the beads are strung on. I suspect +that the thread is even more of an illusion than +the beads.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All the same, we do prefer life to Nirvana. Our +preference may have a meaning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t look for the thread,’ he jibed. ‘It’s not +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s as much there as the beads. There is something +we care for, call it beads or thread.—Are +you trying to frighten me?’ she asked, and her +glance, with its kindness, had recovered its integrity. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-110" class="pagenum" title="110"></a> +‘I am trying to make you own you are a companion +in misfortune. One likes to have a companion. +One likes to feel one isn’t alone, you +know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I know,’ said Monica. And the strange fact +was that she and Captain Ingpen were together and +not alone. Let it rest at that for the moment. ‘And +now, what do you think of <em>my</em> house?’ she said. +Oddley Green was reached and they were approaching +her cottage. ‘It’s very cheerful, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Damnably cheerful,’ said Ingpen, with a laugh +almost boyish. ‘I think I like mine better. It +keeps up no pretences at all events.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I live up to my pretences,’ said Monica, also +laughing. ‘I <em>am</em> cheerful, you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I know about your cheerfulness.’ His eye +rested on her with the glint of its challenge. ‘You’re +not going to ask me into it, I suppose, lonely as I +am? You’ve had enough of me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For the moment I have: but I am going to ask +you if you care to dine on Saturday night—and +play bridge afterwards. My son and his wife are +coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The father and mother of the grandchild?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; my only son.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very dear, then, I suppose? And are you fond +<a id="page-111" class="pagenum" title="111"></a> +of your daughter-in-law? Mothers never are, are +they?’ He was not impudent, but she did not know +why not. She must accept him, if she accepted him +at all, on his own terms. She felt that she accepted +him yet kept him at the distance she intended as she +said: ‘Very fond. She is a charming young woman: +very clever and interesting.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Does she take what she wants, or what she is +given?’ Captain Ingpen enquired, and Monica said: +‘Oh—she’s quite modern; you will approve of her.’ +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-7"> +<a id="page-112" class="pagenum" title="112"></a> +CHAPTER VII +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">onica</span> went up to London on Saturday, +making the cheerless railway journey that +plunged one so soon from the menaced countryside +into the sordid suburbs. One might pass all one’s +life snugly ensconced in the heart of London and remain +almost unaware of this encompassing wilderness. +She returned to the heart, now, as an outsider, +and there was almost a sense of adventure in +taking a taxi at the underground station, after the +added journey from Liverpool Street. She looked at +London and was aware of London, now, as an outsider +is aware; just as she looked at and was aware +of Clive. A large luncheon-party in Hyde Park +Gardens restored to her some of the old sense of +adequacy. She saw herself there as a still significant +woman to whom black was always becoming, and a +friend said over coffee: ‘My dear, you are a marvel.—You +look ten years younger than any of us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Living in the country puts one into cold storage,’ +Monica answered. And keeping one’s face set +to a ready brightness was preserving, doubtlessly. +</p> + +<p> +After lunch she bought some salted almonds—of +which both Clive and Hester were fond—and +<a id="page-113" class="pagenum" title="113"></a> +fruit for her dinner, had tea with Margaret Orde, +whose father was now dead and who had come to +live in Bloomsbury, and on the Liverpool Street +Station platform met Norah, also returning from a +day in town. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s such a dismal extension of one’s life—this +station—isn’t it, Norah?’ she said, greeting her +young friend. +</p> + +<p> +‘I always rather like it. I always think it’s rather +exciting,’ said Norah. ‘It makes the country all the +nicer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But it becomes part of the country in one’s +thoughts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But that’s a very wrong way of looking at +it,’ said Norah laughing; and she was right of +course. +</p> + +<p> +When they were established in their third-class +carriage, their parcels disposed in the rack above +them, Monica said: ‘Your uncle is coming to dine +to-night with Clive and Hester. I didn’t know that +he was settled in until the other day. I met him and +saw his house. You have done it all charmingly, +Norah, but it looks rather desolate all the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It <em>is</em> a desolate place,’ said Norah, ‘and I can’t +quite see him there; but it seems to suit him all +right, and he’s got an awfully nice oldish couple to +<a id="page-114" class="pagenum" title="114"></a> +take care of him.—His servants are fond of him. +He is that sort of person. I begin to see what mother +used to mean when she said he was endearing, in +spite of everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In spite of what?’ Monica asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’m afraid Uncle Godfrey has been rather a +bad lot. It’s just as well you should know it if you +are going to be kind to him,’ said Norah. ‘And anyway +you are almost sure to hear about it—since he +had to leave the army because of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because of it! Oh, poor man!—In what sense +a bad lot?’ She could not associate Captain Ingpen +with anything disgraceful; only with things dangerous +and difficult. Norah’s words inflicted an odd +blow on her heart. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—just in the usual sense; about women. He +started his career by a love affair with his Colonel’s +wife in India, years ago; and it all came out +and there was an awful row and he was permitted +to retire;—that’s the proper expression I think. Of +course I was too young to hear anything about it; +it’s only from what mother has said; because Mrs. +Ingpen was a friend of hers. They got married after +her husband divorced her. I remember great family +wrangles because father wouldn’t let mother ask her +to stay. You know what a darling mother would be +<a id="page-115" class="pagenum" title="115"></a> +about things like that. She used to brave father and +go to stay with Mrs. Ingpen, in Sussex, and once +when I was in London at a concert with mother I +saw her. Very pretty; too pretty; very much made +up and very peevish; but, as mother said, one +couldn’t wonder at that; Uncle Godfrey led her +such a life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, dear!—He was not faithful to her—after +all that she had braved for him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Anything but faithful. I will say, from my +glimpse of her, that she struck me as the sort of +woman a man might make love to but not at all +the sort he would care to marry. The wistful siren +type, you know; I can’t stand them. I don’t think +mother was really very fond of her:—only very +sorry. Anyway he made her miserable and she +wouldn’t divorce him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Swept away: broken: everything fades,’ thought +Monica. ‘Did she go on caring for him, then?’ she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose she did. Mother said she always believed +he would come back if she held on. But he +never did come back and she died a year or two ago, +still holding.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor woman,’ said Monica. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, poor woman; but it’s rather mean all the +<a id="page-116" class="pagenum" title="116"></a> +same, don’t you think?’ said Norah, ‘to hold a man +if he wants to be free?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Does a man like that want any further freedom +than he takes?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—if there was someone whom he couldn’t +get unless he married them, he would want it, +wouldn’t he? And it’s rather revengeful to keep a +man against his will I think.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But it must be rather difficult not to be revengeful +under her particular circumstances,’ said Monica. +She seemed to feel the rusty cut in the heart +of Captain Ingpen’s peevish wife. +</p> + +<p> +It was late when she reached home and she had +only time to arrange her fruit and flowers before +dressing for dinner. The parlour-maid announced +Captain Ingpen as she tied the last knot of her tea-gown +and she stood for a moment feeling a sudden +reluctance that recalled to her, not so much Captain +Ingpen and his ambiguities, as her own girlhood +when, all dressed before a dance, she had used to +stand at the head of the staircase in her father’s +house and feel afraid, but rather deliciously afraid, +of all that might befall below. The old waltz tune of +the nineties surged into her mind again and she remembered +that Charlie had befallen her at a dance. +She had worn a tight pink satin bodice and a full +<a id="page-117" class="pagenum" title="117"></a> +tulle skirt and her great-grandmother’s pearls—pearls +sold long ago during the hard years. How +Charlie would have grieved could he have known +of all her struggles. She was glad he had never +known, and as she went down the stairs she kept +her heart fixed in pity and tenderness on Clive, so +full of hope and anxious happiness; on Charlie, +lying far away in his Indian grave. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Ingpen was in the lower room, bending +his massive head to one of Charlie’s water-colours, +and as he turned and looked up at her standing on +the steps above him, she saw that he found her +beautiful. She preferred not to think of Captain +Ingpen’s capacity for appreciation. If it had been +fear she had felt just now, it had not been the +delicious fear of girlhood and there was almost a +sense of anger in her as she asked: ‘Do you know +my India?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, slightly. I know most of India I imagine.’ +He was looking at her with a faintly provocative +touch of amusement, rather as he had looked when +she hurt her ankle.—‘Beautiful; that is what you +are; and I don’t care how many grandchildren you +have,’ was what his eyes were saying, though he +asked, with a sort of indulgent acquiescence, as +though he accepted her terms: ‘Did you care about +<a id="page-118" class="pagenum" title="118"></a> +India?—what you saw of it? Were you there for +long?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Only two years. No, I didn’t care for it at all;—but +my India was only an extension of South Kensington, +with all the defects of that type of society +and none of its virtues. I didn’t like Indian architecture—those +nasty teeming temples;—and I +didn’t like the Indian landscape, or the climate; it +oppressed me.—And all those mysterious dark +servants; the impossibility of personal relations +with the herds of people who took care of one.—No; +I hated it.’ She felt that she chattered a little. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are these your work?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; they are my husband’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t think them yours somehow.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was wonderful indeed to see how much of South +Kensington and its standards dear Charlie had put +into his water-colours. They were very guileless, +very conscientious and disastrously picturesque. +It had made him very happy—thank goodness—to +paint them and give them to her. Yet glancing at +them for a moment she saw, as she had never paused +to do before, that the pictures that Hester’s friends +painted had indeed performed a useful function. +They, like Captain Ingpen, had swept away rubbish. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-119" class="pagenum" title="119"></a> +‘I hear my young people,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +He did not follow her to the upper room. He +paused to glance at the books on a shelf and the +goldfish in their bowl. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, darling.’ Clive had come in first and taking +each other’s hands they kissed each other. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Mummy,’ he returned, and he held her off +and surveyed her. ‘How lovely!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You remember this dress?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather! It’s my favourite.—Hester has a +lovely dress to-night, too; put on for the first time, +specially for you.—Lovely!’ he repeated looking +her up and down. And gently lifting her hands, so +that the long, black, transparent sleeves slid back, +he said: ‘The arms of Helen as well as the tresses, +Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be absurd, Clive!’ Captain Ingpen was +behind them. She had heard his step and Clive, +startled, evidently saw him over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is my son, Captain Ingpen. Clive, this is +Norah Unwin’s uncle.—Where is Hester?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s just coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +Captain Ingpen, though not taller than Clive, +seemed to tower above him in bulk and darkness +and maturity. He bent his head to him rather as he +had bent it to Charlie’s water-colours. ‘I’m afraid +<a id="page-120" class="pagenum" title="120"></a> +it’s a hopelessly dismal place; woods and house,’ he +said, as Clive made some comment on the Manor +Farm.—‘You found the woods specially dismal, +didn’t you, Mrs. Wilmott?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you could do a great deal with them,’ said +Monica. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, for instance?’ asked Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you could have those ditches dug out and +drained. And you could plant blue anemones—and +primroses—in the clearings. I think primroses +would grow there. I only wish I had a wood +to play with.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That little wood behind us is full of primroses in +the spring, you know,’ said Clive. ‘And that <em>is</em> +yours now, Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester appeared in the doorway as he spoke and +Monica saw at once from her aspect, as she paused +there, her eyes turning to her husband, that the +evening, to her, had some special significance. If +Clive was hoping that Hester would please his +mother, Hester was hoping—was not that it?—to +please him. Or rather was it not that, sure of pleasing +him, she displayed for him her equipped readiness +to do all that was requested of her. The new +dress, Monica recognized it at once, had been requested, +and as a tribute to her own taste for pretty +<a id="page-121" class="pagenum" title="121"></a> +clothes. Hester had never, in Monica’s sense, +dressed at all; and this dress was fashionable; almost, +to her fastidious eye, absurdly so; yet it +strangely became the young woman; Monica had +never seen her look so nearly beautiful. Her throat +was set in a thick circle of red coral beads; her figure +wrapped in fringed red and silver; and so naked was +she in her modishness that she made Monica think, +with her high dark head and gleaming liquid surfaces, +of an Indian princess, standing beside some +pool from whose waters she had just arisen. Her eyes +were turned on Clive and Clive was smiling at her +with the tender reticent radiance of some secret code. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; they are happy: yes—they understand +each other,’ thought Monica, and for a moment her +heart was glad, seeing that unity. +</p> + +<p> +And now Hester’s eyes rested on the stranger +who stood behind her husband. +</p> + +<p> +‘Captain Ingpen, Hester; our neighbour; Norah’s +uncle you know.’ Monica took her hands in hers +murmuring as she kissed her: ‘It’s lovely, the dress; +quite lovely, my dear.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester was still standing on the threshold and +Captain Ingpen had advanced into the light. ‘We +have met before, I think,’ he said smiling. ‘Isn’t it—wasn’t +it—Hester Blakeston?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-122" class="pagenum" title="122"></a> +‘How do you do,’ said Hester. She was not +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +‘I heard you were married, but I never heard to +whom. This is delightful,’ said Captain Ingpen, and, +though he did not look delighted, he continued to +smile at the young woman. +</p> + +<p> +‘How amusing that you should know each other,’ +said Monica, while Hester moved slowly forward +and came to stand beside her husband. ‘And that +you should be neighbours without yet having found +each other out.—When was it that you met?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In London; after the war.—Whom did not one +meet in those days?—eh, Mrs. Wilmott?’ smiled +Ingpen. ‘You have every right to forget me if you +choose.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—I don’t forget you at all,’ said Hester. +‘Where is my shawl, Clive?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you left it upstairs—or in the hall?’—Clive +was going to look but Hester checked him; +‘It’s in the car. I remember. How tiresome of me. +Will you get it?’ She walked away to the fireplace +at the other end of the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wasn’t she interested in Russia? Didn’t she +perform great feats for such a young creature—just +fresh from Girton if I remember—and write some very +remarkable articles about Dostoievsky +<a id="page-123" class="pagenum" title="123"></a> +and the Bolsheviks?’ Captain Ingpen at their +distance enquired, politely and with lowered voice, +casting a glance upon the silvery form of the Indian +princess, her slender limbs outlined against +the flames. Strange, thought Monica, that Hester +should first have been presented to her awareness +as boyish and in rubber boots. She could imagine +nothing more feminine or more alluring than the +translucent figure drooping before the fire. Captain +Ingpen did not look allured, however; he looked +rather ironic, as though the memory of the young +creature and the Bolsheviks made him smile inwardly. +</p> + +<p> +‘That was in the past before I knew Hester. +She still performs feats, or is quite ready to do so: +she is wonderfully equipped; wonderfully secure.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Almost frighteningly so, eh? She always frightened +me, I remember, so very young and so very +fierce she was, and believed that every problem was +just about to be solved—by the Girton young—here +and now, in England’s green and pleasant +land.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I never thought of Hester as harbouring illusions.’ +Monica smiled a little dryly, for she could +admit no confidences with regard to Hester. ‘And +they have solved a good many problems, the believing +<a id="page-124" class="pagenum" title="124"></a> +young—haven’t they?—Are you cold, +Hester?’ she went forward and joined her daughter-in-law +at the fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +‘I haven’t enough clothes on,’ said Hester, still +leaning her hands on the mantelshelf above her +head and still looking down at the flames. ‘That is +the bother of these smart dresses;—one can wear +only one layer under them and that a thin one. I do +feel a little chilly. Thanks, Clive.—Yes; I will put +it on.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive had returned with the folds of a coral shawl +dripping from his arm and as he put it round her he +said: ‘You haven’t caught cold, have you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not in the least. It’s only this silly dress of +yours,’ said Hester, holding the shawl against her +breast as she moved to a table, took a cigarette and +leant to light it at the lamp chimney, her small, +illumined face cold and concentrated. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have only time for three whiffs,’ said +Monica. ‘Dinner will be ready in half a minute.’ +And Clive said, smiling at his wife: ‘Hester is +horribly wasteful of her cigarettes; it’s her only +extravagance.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica had always loved to look at her son +across the dinner-table, their own little table for +four in the Chelsea flat, when he had been the most +<a id="page-125" class="pagenum" title="125"></a> +dependable of hosts, and she had not so seen him for +years. The contrast between his face and Captain +Ingpen’s struck her anew as they sat round the +candles and crystal and white napery, and it was +not so much now between youth and maturity as +between two different kinds of life. Clive’s face +was like a high taper burning upward; Captain +Ingpen’s like a half-consumed log, charred, jagged, +a sullen red smouldering along its edge. How could +she, even for a nightmare moment, have thought of +Clive as weak, she wondered, looking across at him +and noting the pure, meditative hollow cast by the +reflected candlelight above the bow of his upper lip. +</p> + +<p> +He and Ingpen were talking about the new book +on India. ‘Things quite as grim and equally true +could be written about us, couldn’t they?’ Ingpen +was saying, eating his soup and glancing sideways at +Clive, a hard, appraising glance. ‘I know all those +festering Hindus too well, though my time has been +mainly spent among the people who were destined +by nature to be their destroyers—the people we +prevent from preying on them.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was very affable, very suave, and Clive was +very courteous, but already, as she listened to them, +Monica felt that they were not going to like each +other. Neither was Hester going to like Captain +<a id="page-126" class="pagenum" title="126"></a> +Ingpen. Wrapped in a stubborn silence, she had refused +soup and was crunching salted almonds, her +elbows on the table. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s very perverse to say that things as grim and +as true could be written about us; I don’t accept +that for a moment,’ she said, since Clive did not +seem inclined to take up the challenge. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you?’ Ingpen turned his eyes on her and +she felt a new edge in their raillery. ‘And what do +you know about it? What does any woman know +about our civilization? All you see is the tidied-up +world we men present to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good Heavens! Where have you been living +during the last twenty years! Do you really imagine +that we don’t do as much tidying up as you do!—You’ve +been a Rip van Winkle among the warrior-tribes!’ +laughed Monica. ‘And indeed, even before +we gained all our modern freedoms, our function +has always been to tidy up after you!—Hasn’t it, +Hester?’ and she appealed for support to the avowed +feminist. But, closely enveloped in her rosy shawl, +Hester crunched her almonds and made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +‘But exactly;—exactly,’ Ingpen was softly and +rather disagreeably laughing. ‘You tidy up after us. +It’s what you’ve always done, what you always will +do—and very creditable it is to you. After we’ve +<a id="page-127" class="pagenum" title="127"></a> +finished with all the dirty, discreditable, necessary +work that underlies every civilization, you’ll bring +your mops and pails and tidy up! You do, I grant +you, keep us much cleaner on the surface, here in +Europe; but just as much foulness and iniquity +seethes underneath as in India; and there’s no hope +of a warrior-tribe to wipe us out.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are the warrior-tribes so just and upright?’ +Monica was a little disconcerted. There was a snarl +perceptible beneath the supple surfaces of her +tiger’s good manners and she wondered if he might +become, in his hostility towards life, a little unmanageable. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are clean in comparison with us; there’s +that to be said for them,’ said Ingpen, while Clive, +helping himself to fish, glanced at him coldly. +‘They have evolved no sewers and no sewer-rats. +The moment you get civilization—or, in other +words, sewers—you get sewer-rats. What happens +to our civilization, I suppose, is not the warrior-tribes, +but the sewer-rat;—as we see in Russia.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Our rats will find us a more difficult mouthful,’ +Clive commented, frostily smiling, and at that +Hester spoke, raising her head and fixing her eyes +upon her husband: ‘And who do you mean by +rat?’ she enquired. ‘Oppressed people? Exploited +<a id="page-128" class="pagenum" title="128"></a> +people? The English working classes? I can assure +you that there is quite as much civilization to be +found among them as among their so-called betters, +and very much more hope for the future. I think it +is they who are going to do most of the tidying up;—and +I agree that there’s a great deal to be done.—But +they won’t devour anybody, as the wretched +Russians had to do; it is uneducated to draw any +comparison between the Russian despotism and our +democracy;—they will be perfectly decent and +kind through all the reorganization, you may be +sure of it; as they always have been.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive remained, looking quietly at his wife while +she delivered herself of this homily, which was not, +it was evident, directed against him. When she had +finished he said, smiling with just a touch of quizzical +reassurance; as though he calmed and sustained +her: ‘Quite right, dear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; quite right, Mrs. Wilmott!’ Ingpen echoed, +bowing across the table towards her. Had she +touched him in her youth and ardour? He, too, +smiled, and his smile was not sardonic. ‘We all +agree that the British working man is the best of +good fellows—if also one of the stupidest. No +doubt he will evolve a very tidy world for us; all +garden-cities, greyhound-racing, cinemas and cheap +<a id="page-129" class="pagenum" title="129"></a> +beer. Fortunately I shall be in my grave before it +arrives.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ said Hester, flashing a +fiery glance upon him. +</p> + +<p> +When Monica was alone with her daughter-in-law +in the drawing-room, she prepared herself for +trenchant comment on the reactionary guest, but, +saying not a word of Captain Ingpen, Hester extended +herself on the sofa, remarking, as she +stretched out a nonchalant hand for a cigarette: +</p> + +<p> +‘Monica, I’d rather you told Robin no more +fairy-tales when he is with you. He came home the +other day very much over-excited, with his head full +of captive princesses and dragons. He’s a nervous +child; I’m anxious about him already; and it doesn’t +make my task the easier.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica had been but too well aware during the +meal from which they had just come that her dinner +was far from a success, but not till she heard this +request did she know how much ill-temper had +seethed beneath Hester’s composure. So unexpected, +so unprovoked were her words, that she felt herself +struck suddenly upon the cheek and tears almost +rose to her eyes with the sense of tingling aggression. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Hester, what nonsense!’ she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was quite aware that you would think it so,’ +<a id="page-130" class="pagenum" title="130"></a> +said Hester, drawing at her cigarette and watching +a ring of smoke float above her head. ‘But I must +insist upon my own point of view nevertheless.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A child who has heard no fairy-tales is illiterate,’ +said Monica, standing across the room near +a table and resting her finger-tips on it as she +surveyed the languid form of her daughter-in-law. +She kept herself from trembling. ‘Fairy-tales are +as much a part of a child’s heritage as Shakespeare +and the Gospel of Saint John!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Our modern ideas of a child’s heritage are very +different from those of your generation,’ Hester returned. +‘We understand children’s minds in a way +you had no opportunity of doing. You were as ignorant +of psychology as your grandparents were of +evolution.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A great deal of your modern psychology will +prove as obsolete in a generation as a great deal of +Darwinian evolution has already proved, my dear +Hester.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t imagine that anything essential in either +will become obsolete,’ said Hester. ‘Jibes at psycho-analysis +will be forgotten as completely as jibes at +our monkey ancestry.—Of course people try to +make fun of what belittles and frightens them.’ +And, waiving the general question, she went on. +<a id="page-131" class="pagenum" title="131"></a> +‘Shakespeare comes at his own time to a maturing +child; I shall begin to read the historical plays to +Robin as soon as he starts English history; and the +Gospel of Saint John, no doubt, when he is old +enough to take an interest in religious myths. But +for a nervous, imaginative boy like him, fairy-tales +are definitely harmful. I’ve no theory against them; +that would be silly and pedantic; but from my +study of Robin’s reactions I’ve come to suspect +that they put a child’s mind into the attitude of +panic and credulity that is at the root of all human +superstitions. It’s only a step, after all, from +Beauty and the Beast to the Three Wise Men +and the Star.—We have a great deal of useless +and harmful lumber to rid ourselves of, my dear +Monica.’ +</p> + +<p> +Never had Hester so displayed her arrogant assurance. +Never, Monica realized it in the midst of her +anger, had she heard her make so long a speech. +Anger was flaming up, though she tried to stifle it, +and it was shot through by all sorts of fiery memories:—The +black eyebrows and the dusty black +cloak lined with red; the Registrar’s office; the jibing +friend sitting with Mr. Gales on the stair—flashed +and crackled on the upward flame. +</p> + +<p> +‘We differ in our definition of lumber. It’s a step +<a id="page-132" class="pagenum" title="132"></a> +from Beauty and the Beast, if you will, to the Three +Wise Men and the Star, but a step a child’s mind +distinguishes quite as quickly as ours;—superstition +doesn’t come into the question at all.—What +a bleak, ungarnished world you seem to inhabit, +Hester.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m not justifying my world to you,’ said Hester. +‘I’m only asking you not to take my child into the +world of fairy-tales.’ She rose as she spoke. Clive +and Ingpen were entering and Clive was saying, +with a somewhat tightened utterance: ‘What about +fairy-tales, Hester?’ He was glad to be done with +Captain Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +Hester made no reply. She walked away to the +fireplace and, again leaning her hands on the +mantelshelf, smoked on, her back turned to them. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s only that Hester has been forbidding me to +tell them to Robin,’ said Monica. She could not help +it. It was the untamed girlhood in her and the impulse +of vengeance flamed up as her anger had done. +She smiled as she spoke, moving forward to the +card-table and seeing reflected from Clive’s face +how white and flashing was her own aspect. ‘They +aren’t allowed to modern children, it seems.—Are +you sorry you used to hear about Saint George and +the Dragon and Puss in Boots, Clive? Do you +<a id="page-133" class="pagenum" title="133"></a> +think they did you harm?’ She glanced again at her +son as she placed the packs of cards. +</p> + +<p> +His face had taken on the stiffened, watchful look +that it broke her heart to see. And Hester said no +word. Hester the aggressor was wise and crafty; +she said no word in accusation or self-exculpation. +She stood there smoking in her coral-red +shawl. +</p> + +<p> +‘I adored fairy-tales,’ said Clive, looking from +her to Hester and back again. He spoke carefully +and his mother felt his care as a sword in her +heart. Oh, no, he would never take her part against +Hester, however Hester misused her! ‘Only;—Hester +thinks Robin rather unusually nervous, +you see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I do see. I think there may be other reasons +for his nervousness. He is never nervous when he is +with me.—But I’m not dreaming of rebellion.—It +would be useless to do that, I know.—Shall we +cut for partners?—Will you come, Hester?—It’s +a dreadful privation for a grandmother, Captain +Ingpen. Fairy-tales are the only function left to a +grandmother really.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Everything is changed since our young days, +isn’t it?’ said Ingpen. He had joined her at the table +and as she met his eyes she had a strange sense that +<a id="page-134" class="pagenum" title="134"></a> +he and she were united against Clive and Hester. +He understood and sustained her as Clive understood +and sustained Hester. His massive strength +upheld and quieted her. ‘You gave your child +sweetmeats and the modern mother gives hers antiseptics,’ +he smiled. ‘You were very naughty and +self-indulgent, no doubt; but we have still to see +which method produces the best results.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester had now come forward. ‘If you don’t +mind, I’ll play with Clive,’ she said. ‘I’m not good +at bridge and he understands my game.’ She spoke +with perfect self-possession. In contrast to Hester’s +composure Monica was aware that her own outburst +appeared as undignified. She had behaved like a +fool. She had put Hester in the wrong before a +stranger. Clive could not feel any sympathy for +her, seeing her do that. She had been a fool and +her heart burned with the consciousness of folly as +they sat down and shuffled and dealt. +</p> + +<p> +It was true that Hester was not good at bridge. +At all events she was not good to-night. She was +perhaps not as composed as she pretended to be. +‘Our trick, I think,’ said Ingpen when, at the end of +the first round, she put out her hand; and, drawing +it back quickly, she muttered: ‘Sorry.’ But she held +her head high and kept her eyes on her cards and if +<a id="page-135" class="pagenum" title="135"></a> +at last she and Clive were beaten, it was not a +shameful defeat. Clive indeed was playing very +well. ‘He is sustaining her,’ thought Monica. +</p> + +<p> +‘We are well matched,’ Ingpen commented at the +end of the next round. ‘He understands her game +and I already understand yours.’ He glanced at +her, slightly smiling, and Monica saw that Clive +observed the glance. +</p> + +<p> +Now they were bidding for the next lead. Clive +had dealt and went one spade. Imperturbably Ingpen +said: ‘Three hearts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Three spades,’ said Hester instantly, and Clive +smiled across at her, thanking her for her promptitude +and courage. But Monica, astonished out of +her anger, looked round at the girl. She herself held +an excellent hand of spades. Clive had the lead and +Hester laid down her hand, black with disastrous +clubs. There was a moment’s silence; then Monica +said: ‘It was a mistake, Hester. Take it back.’ She +was even sorry for Hester, seeing the look of wild +fury that swept across her face as she stared down +at the cards. ‘What did I say?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘You said three spades. Take it back, my dear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If course I won’t take it back.’ She rose to her +feet, leaving the hand lying and pushing back her +chair. ‘I’m sorry, Clive. I’ve been an ass and you +<a id="page-136" class="pagenum" title="136"></a> +must pay the penalty.’ Walking away to the steps, +she descended to the lower room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall we really go on, Clive?’ said Monica. ‘It +was a mere slip of the tongue.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had been looking after his wife and as his eyes +came back to his mother she saw that they were +hardly aware of her. ‘Of course we’ll go on.’ So +they went on and Monica and Ingpen swept up +twelve tricks. +</p> + +<p> +When the slaughter was accomplished, Clive +jumped up and went to the steps. ‘It’s all over! +Come back!’ He stood smiling down at his wife, +again almost quizzically. So united were they that +he could venture to tease Hester out of her bad +temper. +</p> + +<p> +And indeed, from where she sat, Monica saw +that, as she appeared from below, she lifted her face +to her husband, as if with a murmur of compunction. +</p> + +<p> +‘Better luck this time,’ said Ingpen. He was +shuffling now, with lean, skilful hands. He wore an +odd ring, a little too large for him; it slipped forward +when he dealt and Monica fastened her eyes +upon it so that she need not look at Hester and +Clive; a flat gold ring circled by two broad bands +of black enamel. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-137" class="pagenum" title="137"></a> +‘You mean, I think, better play,’ said Hester. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ smiled Ingpen. ‘You were wool-gathering. +That’s bad luck.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon. I was not wool-gathering,’ +Hester retorted, her head high, her eyes on her traducer, +while a deep colour rose to her cheek. ‘It was +a slip of the tongue.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, I can’t believe that,’ said Ingpen, tossing +the cards to their places; ‘because you would hardly +have meant to say three clubs, eh? That wouldn’t +have done you any good, would it?’ He spoke benignly, +almost paternally, as if to a forward child +who must not be left in possession of an illusory +triumph. Hester bit her lip, drew hard at her +breath, and fixed her eyes upon her cards while +Clive cast a glance of cold repudiation upon his +mother’s guest. +</p> + +<p> +They played in almost unbroken silence after +that. Monica and Ingpen exchanged a word once or +twice but neither Hester nor Clive spoke, and she +understood too well their withdrawal. +</p> + +<p> +‘And now I think we must go, Mummy,’ Clive +said when the rubber was played and he and Hester +beaten. ‘Hester has a rather full day before her to-morrow +and oughtn’t to be late.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—don’t go on my account, I beg,’ said +<a id="page-138" class="pagenum" title="138"></a> +Hester, tossing the end of her shawl over her +shoulder. ‘I’m not in the least tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am, then,’ said Clive, and Monica wondered, +hearing the note of dryness in his voice, if even +his patience had worn thin. +</p> + +<p> +She did not press them to stay. Beset by bitter +fears and bitterer self-reproaches, she only prayed +that they would go before Ingpen so that she might +not be left alone with them. Clive in that case +might attempt some strained reconciliation and she +knew that she could bear no more. +</p> + +<p> +They all went to the table where whiskey and soda +and barley-water were set out and now, as they +drank, it was Clive who contrived a few utterances. +‘How’s Robin’s fountain getting on, Mummy?’ he +asked, and he politely enquired of Ingpen if there +was a good garage at the Old Manor Farm. Dear +Clive; he would always try, at least, to help her out. +Then they were gone, both kissing her good-night, +and for a moment, as she stood by the table looking +after them, her mind was filled with the imagination +of what they would be saying as they sped away +from the evening she had offered them: ‘Rather +grisly, wasn’t it?’ That might well be Hester’s +sober comment. And Clive might reply: ‘And what +an odious man Mummy has picked up. I hope he +<a id="page-139" class="pagenum" title="139"></a> +didn’t utterly enrage you.’ She gazed for a moment +at these visions with a bitter heart and then, looking +round, saw that Captain Ingpen was gazing at her. +But, whatever his ambiguities the other day, there +was to-night no failure in his understanding. He did +not conceal from her that he saw and pondered on +her plight; but he made no comment on it, only saying, +kindly and gravely, as he looked about him—rather +as Robin had done: ‘I like this room. I like it +much better than mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well;—it’s a growth; it’s all my life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I know. That’s just it.—I like your life,’ +he said, moving to the door, and bending his head to +a picture here, a book there, as he went:—it reminded +her again of something feline; but endearingly +feline; the kindly interest a cat may take in a +new environment. ‘How peaceful you’ve been,’ he +said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well; I don’t know about that.’ Monica went +beside him. ‘I haven’t had an easy life in some +ways. I worked very hard for a great many years, +and had anxieties.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I know. Norah told me. All the same +you’ve been peaceful.’ They were in the hall now, +and again he paused, to look at a row of engravings +that hung there:—French cathedrals; Amiens, +<a id="page-140" class="pagenum" title="140"></a> +Rheims, Beauvais, Chartres, Bourges and Vézelay;—all +the cathedrals she and Clive had visited together. +</p> + +<p> +‘Isn’t that lovely of the interior of Amiens,’ she +said. ‘It’s like a white foxglove, I always think; all +rising lightness and grace.—You’ve seen them?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Only Chartres.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s nothing to compare to Chartres, of +course.—You remember this view from below?—And +this of the West front?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pretty well. Unfortunately I didn’t see the +windows. It was during the war and they were +covered up.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should rather like to see it quite dark like that. +It would be another sort of sublimity.—You ought +to go to all the French cathedrals one day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I must,’ said Ingpen; ‘I must take Norah and +your fragile young friend and see them all.’ He +looked round at her from the pictures. ‘Will you +come, too? Why not all four of us go and live in +France and see cathedrals?’ +</p> + +<p> +Was it a covert recognition of her plight? She +smiled it away. ‘One might find a worse way of +spending the evening of one’s days.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean it, you know.’ He scrutinized her. ‘You +were right about this climate. It’s sodden. Why,—after +<a id="page-141" class="pagenum" title="141"></a> +one’s done one’s work, married off one’s +children, kept the warrior-tribes from devouring the +Indians—why not loaf and enjoy oneself in a country +where there are good beds and good cooking?—and +these for an object? The four of us would find +plenty of occupation. We would constitute a perambulatory +colony in ourselves and the young +people would take care of us if we fell ill,’ and Ingpen +smiled upon her. ‘Let’s run away,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s just what one can’t do,’ said Monica. +Whether he were serious or not she could not tell. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t quite know why not;—but it can’t be +done;—because of this, I suppose.’ She indicated +the room behind them. ‘The growth; the life. It has +its roots; it holds one down;—one would soon +wither if one left it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—I have no roots; nowhere in all the +world have I any roots,’ said Ingpen, ‘and I’m +withered already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So that you can run whenever it becomes too +sodden.’ She gave him her hand, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I can run. It remains to be seen whether I +shall,’ said Ingpen. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-8"> +<a id="page-142" class="pagenum" title="142"></a> +CHAPTER VIII +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> did not see Clive or Hester for the next +two days. Clive had already made a habit—she +had hoped he would feel it so—of stopping to +see her on his way to and from the station; light, +unemphatic, but reviving moments, allowing no +time for any sense of pressure. But he did not +come either of those days and she had no glimpse +of Hester; who was, no doubt, deeply engaged in +feminism at Mrs. Travers’s. +</p> + +<p> +From her windows she always watched for Robin +being led to and from his school. His shortest way +lay on the other side of the green and she had suppressed +the desire to call out to him and have him +stop; Hester, she felt sure, would not approve of +that; but every day the sight of his little figure was +a sad solace to her. +</p> + +<p> +She was returning from her afternoon walk on +the Tuesday when she saw Robin on the other side +of the green with his nurse and she paused for a +moment debating whether she might not justifiably +cross over and walk beside him to the turning up to +The Crofts; and as she told herself that abstention +was still her wisest course, since the recent storm +<a id="page-143" class="pagenum" title="143"></a> +had centred round Robin, she saw that he had seen +her and heard his silvery little voice call out: +‘Grannie! Grannie!’ And leaving his nurse’s hand +he came running to her across the short thick grass +where geese grazed and a group of village dogs +wrestled together in the sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +Monica stooped and held out her arms to him. +It seemed to her as she enfolded his eager little +form that he was far more hers than Hester’s. +What right had dark Hester to this golden little +boy? Only the shape of his eyes reminded her of his +mother; the white showing under the iris, as hers +did;—the shape of his eyes and the faint tone of +olive colour where the gold of his cheek merged into +his neck. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can’t I come and see the fountain, Grannie?’ +he said, while Nurse followed him smiling. Nurse +was a great friend of Monica’s, whose attitude towards +servants was untheoretic and spontaneous. +Hester’s relations with hers, she had observed, were +not very successful. Hester thought, perhaps, too +much of their rights and too little of their happiness; +and Nurse, she suspected, was old-fashioned and +ignorant like herself and did not like to have Robin +made to tell his dreams. ‘Can he come in for a +moment, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is Mrs. Wilmott +<a id="page-144" class="pagenum" title="144"></a> +expecting you back immediately?’ It was +grievous to her, bitterly grievous, that she must ask +leave to see Robin. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m sure he can come in for a little, Ma’am,’ said +Nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Fountains on a lawn, especially on a lawn as +small as hers, were very distasteful to Monica, but +the cement basin had already been made at the side +of the house, where cook and Miriam could see it +from the kitchen window, and already the pipes +were laid and the sods with which the devastation +was to be repaired, piled in readiness. ‘We can’t +make the water play quite yet, I think,’ she said, +leading Robin by the hand, ‘and there’s a good deal +to do to it still, you see. We must have plants +growing round the edge, and some more, perhaps, +at the bottom, for the fish to hide in. It will all +need consideration. But there’s plenty of time; we +shan’t want to put them in till spring. I only wish +we could tell them what is going to happen. It +would make the winter pass more quickly for +them.—It’s lovely looking forward to things, isn’t +it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; it will make the winter pass much more +quickly for us, too, won’t it?’ He gazed down into +the basin. ‘What are their names?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-145" class="pagenum" title="145"></a> +‘The fishes? Well I never thought of naming +them. Can you think of any good names?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d like you to think,’ said Robin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall we call them Milly, Tilly, and Lacey, +then?’ Robin had loved reading ‘Alice.’ ‘Alice,’ +she trusted, would not be forbidden, though what +the psychological difference between the White +Knight and Saint George might be she did not +know. +</p> + +<p> +‘Milly, Tilly, and Lacey—who were in the well. +Yes,’ said Robin whose pleasure was always gentle. +He gazed thoughtfully down into the empty basin. +‘And we’ll give them ants’ eggs instead of treacle.—Can’t +we put in some of the plants now, Grannie?’ +</p> + +<p> +He had on a little dark blue hat and coat; the +shade was not quite right; it was in a softer, more +Japanese blue that she had dressed Clive at the +same age. Still, in any colour he looked adorable. +He stood beside her holding her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly we can put in a few. There they are, +in the pots. I’ll get a trowel and fork, and wouldn’t +you like to cut some flowers for your room, Nurse, +while we work? The Michaelmas daisies and +chrysanthemums are still lovely.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was like being back in Clive’s childhood again; +<a id="page-146" class="pagenum" title="146"></a> +it reminded her of Aunt Janet’s, where they had +worked together in the garden. Perhaps Hester +would allow gardening as her perquisite. Hope was +flowering in her once more, with a sense of excitement, +of elation, as she went into the little lobby +and found the gardening utensils. ‘She can’t say +that gardening and goldfish make him nervous,’ +she thought. ‘His eyes are the same shape as hers, +but not in the least the same colour; golden-brown +at deepest: while hers are almost black.’ +</p> + +<p> +When she returned, drawing on her gardening-gloves, +the basket on her arm, she saw that Captain +Ingpen was leaning on the gate looking over at +Robin, who, all unaware, was earnestly setting the +plants in their pots upright around the edge of the +basin. She saw him with no faltering in her elation. +His presence had lost its element of fear. He +had been only kind the other evening, and understanding. +She was glad to see him, she knew that, +even as she told herself that she must not ask +him to stay to tea since Clive, to-day, might stop +to see her. But she could ask him in for a little +while and going to the gate she opened it, smiling +at him and saying: ‘Come and help us, +won’t you? We are making a home for our goldfish.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-147" class="pagenum" title="147"></a> +Ingpen remained for a moment standing outside. +‘Is that the grandchild?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. That is the grandchild. Do come in.—Or +are you busy?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m never busy nowadays. I never shall be busy +again. But I didn’t stop to get myself invited. I +was only passing and saw the little boy, and that he +had a look of you.—Not much though. He’s more +like your son.—It’s your fault if I stopped—for +having such pleasant things to look at in your +garden.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But do come in, if you find it pleasant. Robin, +this is Captain Ingpen. He is going to help us. +Here is your basket, Nurse. Pick anything you +like.’ +</p> + +<p> +The day was lovely. The pale, high October sky +arched benignantly above them; a robin sang and +across the green a bonfire was sending up indolent +curls of smoke and the spicy scent went with that +of the chrysanthemums. Monica, making Robin +known to Captain Ingpen, felt a lightness of heart +to which she had long been a stranger. This might +indeed have been her youth again and this child +Clive. It was just so that Clive would have gone +forward, shy but courteous, to put out his little +hand and say: ‘How do you do.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-148" class="pagenum" title="148"></a> +‘But why,’ said Ingpen, after shaking hands with +Robin, ‘if it’s a fountain, is there no water?’ His +worn tweeds touched with leather went with the +day; his cap was the colour of old thatch and cast a +shadow, like thatch, over eyes bent on the basin but +observant of Robin. ‘I want to see the water, don’t +you?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Robin answered, ‘Yes,’ and came to stand beside +him, attentive to what might result from this potent +presence. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hadn’t thought of water till everything was +finished and the fish installed,’ said Monica. ‘But +I don’t see why it shouldn’t be turned on now. +There must be a tap ready.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course there must. Everything essential is +ready as far as I can see. All that’s needed are the +fountain and the fish. I remember the fish. Shall I +go and fetch them, and find the tap on my way +back? Your maid will show me,’ and Captain Ingpen, +on whom nothing, apparently, was lost, turned +his eyes on Miriam and cook watching at the window. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall we really put in the fish? Isn’t it rather +cold for them?’ Monica asked, while Robin, between +them, turned his gaze from one to the other. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all too cold; and by the time winter +<a id="page-149" class="pagenum" title="149"></a> +comes they’ll be acclimatized. Your basin is too +deep for freezing. Let’s set them free by all +means. I don’t like waiting, do you?’ he addressed +Robin. +</p> + +<p> +‘No;—but not if the fish will catch cold,’ Robin +said, apprehensive yet trustful, and Ingpen, on his +way to the house, replied: ‘I understand fish. +They won’t catch cold.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He looks as if he understood, doesn’t he, Grannie?’ +said Robin, when Ingpen had disappeared. +‘It will be nicer than waiting for spring, won’t it? +And you know we might be dead before spring.’ +Robin certainly had an anxious mind. Monica +smiled reassurance at him as she answered: ‘We +might, though it’s not likely; I’m so strong and +you’re so young.—But it will be much nicer not to +wait.—Oh, see!—Isn’t it lovely, Robin!’ A jet +of silver had leaped high into the air. +</p> + +<p> +‘There. That’s better, isn’t it?’ said Ingpen. He +came from the house carrying the globe of goldfish +in his hands and stood beside them to look. The +slender silver lance wavered and sprang against the +blue and in the basin the water crept higher and +higher, reflecting sky and cloud. Robin stood in an +astonishment of gladness and over his uplifted face +the eyes of Monica and Ingpen met in a look of peace +<a id="page-150" class="pagenum" title="150"></a> +and understanding. Yes; strange, scarred man; his +heart was not ungentle. He understood a child. He +understood the day and the fountain’s beauty. +Monica smiled at him. She would never fear him +again. +</p> + +<p> +Now he was giving the globe into Robin’s keeping +and helping him to tip the goldfish into the water. +Their hands, the small and the large, dipped slowly +beneath the surface and the dark head and the fair +bent together as the fish, amazed, paused at the +entrance of their prison and then sped forth. +Round and round they went, and, wildly it seemed, +from side to side, emblems of happiness, and, looking +up at her, Robin whispered: ‘Which is which, +Grannie? Which is Milly and which is Tilly and +Lacey?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Robin!’ called an icy voice behind them. +‘Robin! Come at once! You ought not to be here at +this hour!’ Icy. Like a sword; cutting down happiness. +Monica turned to see Hester looking at them +over the hedge. She had come down in haste, for +she wore no hat, and she was pale, very pale; and +angry; her eyes were the eyes of the indignant Byzantine +Madonna. ‘Come at once!’ she repeated, +looking at her child and setting the gate open, adding +as she just glanced at her mother-in-law: ‘Let +<a id="page-151" class="pagenum" title="151"></a> +me know, please, when you think of keeping him +another time.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica stood silent, gazing at her daughter-in-law. +Hester’s tone and manner so astonished her +that she could find no words. +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen had risen to his feet and in the midst of +her disarray Monica noticed that Robin looked up +at him, as if for reassurance or protection. +</p> + +<p> +‘I met him, Hester.—I thought he might come +in for a moment and see the fountain,’ said Monica +now. She felt her heart throbbing violently in her +side. She could not apologize to Hester before +Captain Ingpen, yet she was ready to do almost +anything rather than display explicit warfare. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know. So I see. But you ought to have sent +Nurse to tell me. I must always know where he is. +Come Robin, do you hear me?—at once.’ And +Hester, standing still outside it, opened the gate +more widely. She had not yet acknowledged Ingpen’s +presence; now she nodded, coldly, curtly, and +muttered: ‘How do you do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Run along then, darling. Good-bye for to-day.’ +Monica kissed the distressed little face. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-bye,’ Robin murmured. ‘Good-bye,’ he +repeated, turning to Ingpen and lifting his face to +be kissed by him also. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-152" class="pagenum" title="152"></a> +Nurse, alarmed, had come running with her +flowers, and saying no further word, Hester took +her child by the hand and walked away. +</p> + +<p> +A silence followed this departure. Monica slowly +turned and walked down the garden beside her +herbaceous border and, after a hesitation, Ingpen +followed her. She had come to a standstill at the +foot of the lawn when he joined her and was looking +out at the fields and hedgerow elms. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I go?’ he said. ‘Or may I say I am sorry +for grandmothers?’ +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour ago it would have been impossible +for Monica to imagine herself allowing Captain +Ingpen to say he was sorry. But now their eyes had +met in that look of peace. ‘My little grandson is +nervous;—do you wonder at it?’ she said. ‘Though +I own that I never saw Hester lose her temper with +him before.’ She tried to speak quietly, but her +voice shook with shame and fury. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was angry because you had kept him without +asking leave,’ said Ingpen. ‘Isn’t it always so—between +a woman and her mother-in-law? I don’t +know anything about these domesticities, but such +antagonism seems to me to be inherent in the relationship.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And what ought mothers-in-law to do?’ Monica +<a id="page-153" class="pagenum" title="153"></a> +questioned, leaning over to her border and nipping +off here and there a withered flower. ‘If they +don’t die when their sons marry—what are they +to do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Withdraw, I suppose,’ said Ingpen after a pause, +watching her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, withdraw; that’s what I did. That’s why +I am here, in the country. Only they followed +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, yes; Norah was telling me yesterday that +they had just come.—Was that against her will? +Your son doesn’t look to me a person to force his +will on a recalcitrant wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was by her will.—It was her idea.—It was +on my account they came,’ said Monica, and as she +broke and broke the withered flowers with fingers +in which she felt her anger still thrilling, she wondered +at circumstance that had brought her to such +confidences. ‘I don’t understand; I can’t understand.—I +have never understood her. Perhaps it +is my fault. I never saw her lose her temper before.—Perhaps +it’s my fault. She feels that I don’t care +for her.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen said nothing to that. He remained, taking +a few steps here and there on the lawn, watching +her while she picked the dead flowers, filling her +<a id="page-154" class="pagenum" title="154"></a> +hand, pressing them together, tossing them out of +sight under the densely growing autumnal plants, +and she felt herself quieted by his silent comprehending +presence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Give up hope; that’s your trouble,’ it seemed to +be saying to her. ‘You were foolish enough, my +poor friend, to allow yourself hope a little while ago. +There’s no place for it, at our age. If you didn’t go +on hoping you would not suffer so.’ But he himself +said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they walked back towards the house +together. The fountain still held its quivering silver +lance against the sky. ‘And you think the fish are +all right?’ said Monica in a deadened voice. ‘Robin +is a sad little boy. He expects things to die. I +don’t want to run any risks with the fish.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They won’t die. They’re all right,’ said Ingpen +absently, his eyes on her. ‘He’s not like you, the +little boy, is he? You expect things to go on.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I want them to go on;—something of them to +go on—desperately,’ said Monica in a low voice. +She was betraying herself to Captain Ingpen. She +was saying exactly what he expected her to say. +But he would not mock her now. He was suffering +with her. He walked on with her to the gate. ‘Yes. +He’s sad; but you’re desperate,’ was what he said. +<a id="page-155" class="pagenum" title="155"></a> +And looking round at her, with a twist of his bitter +smile, he added: ‘That’s why we understand one +another, you and I. Think over what I said. I +mean it. Come to France.’ +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-9"> +<a id="page-156" class="pagenum" title="156"></a> +CHAPTER IX +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">P</span><span class="postfirstchar">erhaps</span> that was really the best thing she +could do, Monica thought, sitting at her solitary +tea-table in the still room afterwards. Hopelessness +was flowing over her, hopelessness of +herself, now, more than of the predicament; she +herself, she saw it plainly, was, as much as Hester, +the predicament. She was too young, too fierce, +too unsubmissive to life. She could not give up Clive +or Robin, that extension of Clive. As long as they +were there and she loved them, she must suffer from +the lack of them; and as long as Hester was there +she must lack them. Why not make some excuse of +health or purse—and go to France;—not with +Norah and Celia and Captain Ingpen, that was a +friendly absurdity;—but go;—far away; so that +she might be removed, and finally removed from +Clive’s life. Then she could remember him; as +if he were dead. +</p> + +<p> +As she was thinking these thoughts—half believing +them, but only half—she saw his car drive +up. She rose to her feet, pressing her forefinger +hard against her lip, and, as she stood there, it was +<a id="page-157" class="pagenum" title="157"></a> +Robin’s face that came to her; Robin startled, +frightened, his happiness all broken. That was +what Hester had done to Robin; and she must not +do it to Clive again. She was always breaking +Clive’s happiness. It grew up; it sought the light—and +she broke it off. It was cruel; she must not be +cruel. ‘Help me not to be cruel,’ she muttered, with +the child habit of prayer that had never left her. +And, as he came in, she saw that Clive, too, had +equipped himself. He was pale, but he was smiling, +and he came towards her almost as little Robin had +done, almost as if he was calling out to her and +wanted her. Then, as he took her hands, his face +altered: ‘Why, Mummy,’ he faltered, ‘you’ve been +crying.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had not known it. She was unaware of tears +in her eyes and on her cheeks. Was it not only that +her hot parched gaze betrayed her? +</p> + +<p> +‘Crying, Clive?’ she, too, faltered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—what is it? Oh, Mummy—are you so +unhappy?’ +</p> + +<p> +They were back, mother and son, in the past; but +she now seemed the child, for she was in his arms +and the tears had come indeed and though she still +heard herself saying, far away, ‘Help me not to be +cruel,’ she was sobbing helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-158" class="pagenum" title="158"></a> +‘What is it?—Oh, Mummy, what is it?’ Clive +murmured; and his face was full of fear. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am foolish.—I mind things so foolishly.—It’s +only that Hester has been here——’ +</p> + +<p> +As she named his wife she felt that Clive’s flesh +contracted, contracted and shrank from her; as +though she laid hot iron on it, and as she felt him +shrink from her the lava flood of her misery heaved +and overflowed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester was angry with me.—Because I kept +Robin for a little. I didn’t ask him to come.—I +knew better than that!—I am well trained.—He +called to me and wanted to see the fountain. +And Hester came for him and found him with me—and +was very angry.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stillness was about them. His arms had slipped +down from her but he held her hands—tightly—as +he intently thought. +</p> + +<p> +‘There must have been a misunderstanding,’ was +what he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid not. No, there was no misunderstanding.’ +She drew her hands from his and dried +her eyes. Her tears were checked and thoughts—cold, +fiery, rapid—sped through her mind, as she +scrutinized her peril and the relief of truth; and under +her thoughts her heart seemed sinking from her. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-159" class="pagenum" title="159"></a> +‘Tell me what happened, will you?’ Clive spoke +in a dry, deadened voice. He remained standing in +front of her, but he looked away; he, too, was taking +counsel with himself. ‘You have every right to see +Robin, of course,’ he said. ‘That was one of the +reasons why we came here;—so that you should see +him.—That was one of the reasons Hester wanted +to come.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How much Hester wants me to see Robin was +displayed the other night, wasn’t it? She takes +away with one hand what she makes a parade of +giving with the other.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he glanced at her askance; +but he pleaded with her; he would not face the truth. +‘Truly you misunderstood; I promise you did. I +asked her about it—about the fairy-tales, you +know, at once. I told her I did not agree with her. +Of course she was miserable. She had not meant to +hurt you. It’s only that she cares so about her ideas;—and +she’s been worried about Robin.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She may well be worried about him. He was +happy with me this afternoon and when he saw her +she frightened him.—It’s frightening to a little +child to see his mother insult his grandmother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mother, you are very unfair.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had walked away from him in the dusky +<a id="page-160" class="pagenum" title="160"></a> +room and stood at the window looking out, and his +voice, trembling yet austere, followed her. ‘You are +unfair to Hester. She is not capable of what you +think. I mean—Hester may have lost her temper; +but she could not have insulted you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sorry, Clive. I felt it so; and so did the +stranger who, unfortunately, was present—and +whose presence did not restrain Hester. Captain +Ingpen was there and saw it all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ingpen! What had he to do with it!’ Clive +stood where she had left him but his voice was +altered and as she turned she saw the frosty anger +of his face. +</p> + +<p> +‘What had he to do with it?—Your manner is +very strange, very unbecoming, Clive. He had +nothing to do with it except that he was there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And how did you know what he felt? What +right had he to feel anything about you and Hester? +I begin to see. I begin to understand. Hester +doesn’t like him. She came for Robin and found him +with that man—and it made her lose her temper. +She doesn’t like him,’ Clive repeated, ‘and I +wonder you do, Mummy, I do indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Was it Clive who spoke such words? Clive who +thus inconceivably arraigned her, seizing the specious +pretext so that he might shield Hester? +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-161" class="pagenum" title="161"></a> +‘You forget yourself, Clive.’ She tried to speak +quietly; she was right and Clive wrong; she had the +advantage and she must speak quietly. ‘Your +solicitude for your wife makes you forget yourself. +I cannot consent to have my friendships proscribed +by you and Hester.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your friendships? Why, you don’t know the +man! You saw him for the first time the other day!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What is that to you, if it was so? One may like a +person very much in a day. I have met Captain +Ingpen three times and feel him almost a friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So I see. So I saw the other night. Please remember, +then, that he isn’t our friend and don’t +discuss Hester with him—as I gather you have +been doing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well, Clive; very well. All I have to say, +then, is this—and then I will ask you to go:—I +have not discussed Hester with him. Hester insulted +me in his presence and I saw that he felt it an +insult.—But he said not a word against her. It +was I who said, to explain, to exculpate—that she +had lost her temper:—that is all. I insist on your +understanding what passed between me and Captain +Ingpen. I have not discussed Hester with him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well. Have it as you wish. I will go.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One moment more.—Since you and Hester +<a id="page-162" class="pagenum" title="162"></a> +object to my friends—I have a right to ask you +why. What are Hester’s objections to Captain +Ingpen? and yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive had turned on his heel, and now paused, +not looking at her: ‘Mine were based entirely on +what I saw of him. I don’t like his manners.—I +thought him too—easy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see. And Hester? You object to his manners +and she to his morals, I suppose. I did not know +that the modern woman kept our old scruples. I +certainly imagined none in Hester. If she has heard +stories about his love affairs, or saw irregularities in +his past, let me tell you that I am perfectly aware of +all that can be said against him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Love affairs?’ Clive had now completely turned +and was staring bitterly at her. ‘Who cares about +his love affairs? Hester hardly knew the man. But +can’t you see for yourself how a reactionary cynic of +his type would antagonize her? He sneers at everything +she believes in.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So I am to be insulted by Hester because my +friends are not Socialists and feminists.—What I +feel about hers—about Mrs. Jessup and her sister—and +Mr. Gales and his mistress—and all the +others—I won’t go into.—What I have had to +put up with at their hands!—If you talk about +<a id="page-163" class="pagenum" title="163"></a> +manners;—about easy manners!—However—. +All that I have to say to you, then, is, that I cannot +satisfy you and Hester and forbid Captain Ingpen +the house.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We won’t go on wrangling, Mother. You are +talking extravagantly. You know I have not asked +you to forbid him the house. All I have asked is +that you should not discuss Hester’s shortcomings +with him. And now I had better be going. Good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-bye,’ said Monica. She turned to the +window. She held back wild tears. If only death +would take her! He could leave her like this. If +only she could die!—But Clive was not gone. He +still stood there, behind her. ‘Mummy.’ That was +what she heard. She turned and looked at him. +‘Mummy,’ he repeated; and she saw the supplication +of his face. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive—Clive——’ she faltered, holding out +her arms. He came into them. He put his head +down on her shoulder. And suddenly she felt that +he had broken into sobs. Never, never since his +childhood, had she seen Clive weep. He had +hidden from her, during those years after the war. +The abysses of his suffering were revealed to her as, +aghast, yet melted to an ecstasy of tenderness, she +<a id="page-164" class="pagenum" title="164"></a> +heard the dry, rending sobs. ‘Oh—Clive—Clive!’—she +murmured. He was in her arms. +They had sunken on the window-seat and his face +was pressed against her breast;—‘Oh, Clive—what +have we been saying to each other—you and +I?—Forgive me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.—It’s I.—It’s I who have been wrong,’ +he uttered with difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +‘No! No!—I am your mother. It is for me to +understand.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s I!’ Clive repeated. ‘If I were stronger I +could make you see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I do see.—I see that you must be loyal.—I +see that you must love your wife.—I should not +have spoken as I did. I have been very wrong.—Wrong +and disingenuous.—Yes, Clive, disingenuous. +It was not as bad as I said.—Not as bad as I +felt it to be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless you, Mummy.—Bless you for saying it.—She +hurt you. She startled you.—I understand +what happened. It was because she was hurt and +startled.—She is fierce, like you, when she is hurt.—It +was only because of him.—She didn’t mean +to insult you.—Oh, please see that, Mummy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I see it. I saw it when I said it. It was +almost a lie when I said it. Words are so dreadful, +<a id="page-165" class="pagenum" title="165"></a> +Clive.—They pin us down to what we do not really +mean.—No; Hester was harsh, peremptory; that +was all.’ Ardently, with a passionate tenderness, +she unravelled the past, forgetting all but her need +for unity. ‘And—I wish you didn’t dislike him—but +what you say of Captain Ingpen is true;—I +felt that, too, about his manners. I see what you +see in him—although I like him so much that when +you attacked him it made me angry.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course it did,’ said Clive. ‘Of course I see +why you like him.’ His weeping had ceased. He +spoke with utter weariness, his head still leaning +against her breast. ‘We always see alike. That’s +the trouble, isn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do we? Always see alike?—Why is it the +trouble, Clive?’ But, feeling a sudden stillness in +him, feeling that she must not probe the avowal +of his exhaustion, she said: ‘You haven’t seen the +side of him that I have. He doesn’t show it easily. +But he is strong and kind. There is something +almost beautiful in him, Clive;—though of +course he is a bad man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bad! Darling Mummy!’ Clive actually +laughed, faintly. It was like wine upon her lips to +hear him. ‘What a funny Victorian word!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know. But it’s true. He has been bad, poor +<a id="page-166" class="pagenum" title="166"></a> +fellow; perhaps is bad still.—But when one is as +old as I am one has a right to like the bad. Oh, +Clive—you have made me so happy!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have I, darling?—That’s beautiful of you,’ said +Clive in his exhausted voice. +</p> + +<p> +Yes; she was happy. So long as she could hide +herself with him, in him, there could still be happiness; +the happiness of closed eyes, stopped ears. +Everything was shut out but their nearness. Hester +was forgotten. Clive allowed her to forget Hester;—was +it because he was so tired? He was so tired +that it might have been as if she were to gather him +up in her arms and carry him to bed, her little child +again. +</p> + +<p> +They sat in silence for what seemed to Monica a +long time, a silence so profound that she felt it, at +last, lapping insidiously at the ramparts of her contentment. +If they were silent for too long they +might remember too much and Clive felt that, too, +perhaps, for he raised his head, not looking at her, +and, lifting her hands, kissed them gently, first one +and then the other, holding them clasped in his as +he said, finding his words with such care that it was +as if he sifted them out and laid them in a symbolic +mosaic before her: ‘You see, you’ve always been so +much more than a mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-167" class="pagenum" title="167"></a> +‘Can one be more, Clive?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Mothers take advantage. You have never +taken advantage.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Till just now, you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +He sat for a moment longer, holding her hands, +then rose, still holding them and looking at her with +his gentleness that could be almost stern. ‘Perhaps. +But it was my fault, too. We put it behind +us, don’t we? It’s forgotten and wiped out. Or, if +we must remember—only that because of it we +understand each other better. You will help my +weakness—that’s what I mean, Mummy; because +you are my friend as well as my mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are not weak, Clive. You are the strongest +person I know.’ She felt it indeed as she sat +looking up at the archangel face, intent with its demand +that she should be worthy of his faith in +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m weak because I can’t bear +things. I lose my footing. It’s as if the tide bore me +out, or as if my breath gave way.—Perhaps it was +the war.—If I could only be tough;—grow another +skin;—not feel so much more than there’s +any good in feeling——’ He broke off. ‘All a sort +of weakness, you see.—Mummy, I’ll go now. +Hester will be wondering what has become of me.—Bless +<a id="page-168" class="pagenum" title="168"></a> +you.’ He leaned to her and kissed her. It +was as if in leaving her he placed a gift in her hand +and closed her fingers upon it, whispering: ‘Don’t +look.’ +</p> + +<p> +The moon had risen and the stars come out. She +went to the dim clock and saw that it was past +seven. Clive had had no tea. Up there at The +Crofts Hester must indeed have waited for him, +wondering. First the child and then the husband:—Would +that be what she would be saying to herself? +It was so women’s minds moved; poor, wretched +women, dramatizing their griefs. To see Hester, +with herself, as one of them, brought a pang of +actual pity for her. It was good to be able to pity +Hester and the balm of her contentment still +breathed upon her as she stepped out into the quiet +evening, delicious with its smell of darkened earth +and fading smoke. She walked up and down the +lawn, looking at the stars. What sorrow and what +happiness were hers. For the first time she knew +the unity brought by shared suffering, and in securing +her insight, under the illumined sky, she felt +herself, if only for a moment, lay hold of some deep +secret of life. Only through such sorrow was such +happiness distilled. She must be worthy of it; +worthy, or it would melt from her grasp; and it +<a id="page-169" class="pagenum" title="169"></a> +fell like a thick dew upon her heart while she +walked there in the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Miriam had turned off the fountain but the basin +was still brimmed with water and, when she came +back to the house, she bent to peer at the goldfish, +drowsing, it seemed, three motionless little shadows, +among the reflected moon and stars. All would be +well with Milly, Tilly and Lacey. Captain Ingpen +had promised her and Robin that they should come +to no harm and he was a man to be trusted. Robin +trusted him. And, thinking now of Robin and of +her friend, she turned away and her eye was drawn +to a sharp, small glint of light lying on the ground; +not a glow-worm at this season, too small, too bright +for a glow-worm. She stooped and found Captain +Ingpen’s ring half embedded in the sods and remembered +how he had held the globe under the water +with Robin. The ring must have slipped from his +finger when he raised himself. She wiped the mud +from it and put it on and went into the house, closing +her hand upon it, for even for her middle finger it +was too large, and to feel it thus recovered and protected +warmed her kindliness towards the owner; it +was like a piece of his life that she held. He would +miss it, for it was a ring he cherished; he was not a +man to wear a ring unless it had meaning for him +<a id="page-170" class="pagenum" title="170"></a> +and he would certainly have felt its loss at once had +it not been for Hester’s eruption on their halcyon +hour. She still thought of him as she went upstairs +to dress, remembering that Clive had laughed when +she called him a bad man, and taking comfort from +the remembrance. Clive had said that he understood +her kindness; but that had been a concession +to their need of unity. He did not understand it; +and he would never like Captain Ingpen. But Clive +had not repudiated him, and she must find what +comfort she could in that fact, for though she had +said in her anger that he should not proscribe her +friendships, it had been of Hester, not of Clive, that +she had been thinking; she knew that she would find +little savour in a friendship repudiated by Clive. +</p> + +<p> +The lamp and candles were waiting for her in her +room and she took off the ring and laid it with her +own rings on the dressing-table while she washed +and changed. And, while she sat between her candles, +dressing her hair, she glanced at it once or +twice, lying there in the little tumbled heap of +pearls and diamonds. It looked old, a mourning-ring +perhaps, that had, perhaps, belonged to some +ancestor; a sorrowful ring somehow; but then Captain +Ingpen was a sorrowful man. That was one +reason why she liked him; he understood sorrow. +<a id="page-171" class="pagenum" title="171"></a> +Perhaps—her thoughts flowed on while she twisted +and bound her hair—the reason one felt him bad +was because he had never been worthy of sorrow. +‘That’s the difficulty;—for all of us,’ Monica said +aloud, and she took up the ring and held it to the +light and examined it, and, seeing that it was engraved +inside, put on her glasses to look more +closely at what might be some quaint posy. But +there were only four initials and a date;—not an +old date—she bent her head and turned the ring +to the light to read:—not 1718 or even 1818;—it +was only the other day; only ten years ago:—G. I. +from H. B. 1918.—‘G. I. from H. B. 1918,’ she +repeated slowly, looking up at the candle-flame. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-10"> +<a id="page-172" class="pagenum" title="172"></a> +CHAPTER X +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">C</span><span class="postfirstchar">aptain</span> Ingpen called next morning while +she was at her letters after breakfast. She had +felt sure that he would call early. He would miss his +ring and he would hope that no one else would find +it, and as she rose to meet him she wondered if +yesterday’s episode could cover the pallor and fixity +of her face; for her sleepless night had ravaged it. +It had been with more than a hateful surmise that +she had battled; there had been a hope as hateful. +She had seen the vast form of a tidal wave rear itself +on the horizon and had lain all night wondering +whether its crash and engulfing was to sweep Hester +out of their lives;—fearing, hoping, hating herself +for the hope, yet not knowing whether to fear most +or hope most that what seemed a wave was a mere +cloud that a word with her friend would dissolve +into thin air. If Hester was swept away, Godfrey +Ingpen would be swept too; and Clive would be +shattered. And as she saw Captain Ingpen and +went forward in the bright morning light and smiled +upon him, her integrity was restored to her; it was +the cloud she hoped for; the cloud that he was to +disperse. She waited for him to speak first. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-173" class="pagenum" title="173"></a> +‘I hope I am not being tiresome, coming so early,’ +he said, and he looked exceedingly affable and easy, +yet, her perception sharpened to a razor edge, she +imagined that he was watching her as she watched +him. ‘I’ve lost a ring, an old ring I’ve worn for +years. It occurred to me that it might have slipped +off in the fountain yesterday. May I go and have a +look?’ +</p> + +<p> +Still smiling and still silent, Monica went to the +mantelpiece and took the ring from a little porcelain +box that stood there. She held it out to him on the +palm of her hand: ‘I thought it might be yours,’ she +said. +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen as he came forward was looking not at the +ring, but at her. Did she still only imagine that he +sounded her dexterity and her disingenuousness? +‘Was it in the fountain?’ he asked.—‘Thanks, +most awfully.’ He slipped it on his finger, not taking +his eyes from hers. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; on the ground, and found by the merest +chance. I was walking in the dark and the moonlight +struck it. It was half buried already. It’s quite +possible that by daylight you would not have seen it +at all. You might have trodden it under foot and it +would have been lost for ever.’ +</p> + +<p> +Was he not wishing, with all his heart, that it had +<a id="page-174" class="pagenum" title="174"></a> +been? For a moment she saw, clearly and horribly, +that he did not know what to do; that she baffled +him. And she went on, marvelling at her own resource, +‘It doesn’t look like a man’s ring, somehow; +it looks like a great-grandmother’s ring.’ She stood +with her back to the mantelpiece facing him, her +hands locked behind her. +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen now looked down at the ring and turned +it on his finger and smiled, still very easily. ‘You +are not far wrong,’ he said. ‘It isn’t a man’s ring +and it belonged to a great-aunt, a racy old lady, very +much of a figure in my boyhood.—My mother was +brought up by her and she was fond of me. She +left me the ring when she died. Harriet Beaton was +her name.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica met his eye; his eye with its straight upper +lid cutting across the pupil; his eye so candid +and so calculating, and as she met it she remembered +that he had spent his life dealing with warrior-tribes. +Calculating candour had been his frequent +weapon. And suddenly she was sick at heart—seeing +the tidal wave glide forward, and a trail of +fiery mockery sped through her as she thought: +‘Ah, my friend, you are as swift, as adroit as I +am;—but your memory has played you false. +You should have looked, again, at your ring before +<a id="page-175" class="pagenum" title="175"></a> +you said that. You have forgotten that there is a +date engraved inside it.’—Yet—was it just possible +that Aunt Harriet Beaton had lived to a great +age and died in 1918? +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I must be off.—You are busy,’ said Ingpen. +There had been a pause, a heavy suspended +pause, like a weight held in the air between them, +and it seemed to come down with a thud and crash +as his voice broke into it. ‘There is nothing worse +than losing things, is there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; there’s not,’ said Monica. She had remained +standing on the stone kerb of the fireplace, +a little lifted above the floor, so that their eyes were +on a level as they looked across at each other. +</p> + +<p> +‘I never minded anything so much in my life, I +think,’ said Ingpen, who had not moved to go and +who still turned his ring while he looked at her, ‘as +losing a dog once, in Marseilles. It was my fault. I +had just landed; and there was a great crowd; and I +ought to have had him on a lead. I looked for him +all day and all night.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you never found him?’ Monica asked, after +another pause, in which she wondered whether there +were some symbolic intention in this reminiscence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I found him. The heat was terrific and he +had run all day, half demented I suppose. And he +<a id="page-176" class="pagenum" title="176"></a> +had been stoned to death. They thought he was +mad. A West Highland terrier he was; such a pretty +little fellow. They spoiled him horribly.’ +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, while he spoke, thus dryly, Monica +saw that strange hot tears had sprung to his eyes. +She put her hands before her face, ‘Oh. Don’t.—Don’t.’ +She did not know what it was she begged +him not to do. ‘I can’t bear it,’ she murmured. +‘There can’t be anything worse.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; there can’t, can there?’ said Ingpen. ‘And I +ought to have had him on a lead. It happened +twenty years ago, but I wake up in the night and +think of it.—Well, good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was gone and she had not uncovered her face. +Trembling suddenly, spent, she went to her writing-bureau, +sank on the chair and leant her forehead on +her hands. What did it mean? What was she to do? +Must their friendship be stoned to death? She sat +there, for how long? motionless, except that from +time to time she moved the papers on her desk—glancing +at them from under her hand: Edith’s +letter about the invalid child;—she must answer +that; it had to be sent to the sea: the coal bill;—it +must be cut down; the kitchen range was very +wasteful; it might save money to get a new one: the +tickets for the English Association lecture and the +<a id="page-177" class="pagenum" title="177"></a> +long envelope from the Bank with the certificates to +be signed. +</p> + +<p> +But was it possible, really possible, that for all +these years Hester had lived a lie? Must she choose +between stoning the poor lost dog and tacitly sheltering +Hester and her former lover, assenting to the +deception, making part of it? She, too, to lie to +Clive and keep him in his fool’s paradise? Oh, +loathsome, hateful girl, creeping surreptitiously into +their lives like a hidden fire, sitting there in her +black cloak, extraordinarily quiet—like an octopus +in the dark, holding its prey. And as the memory +came, half suffocating her with the horrible old +sense of hatred, it lighted a sudden shape unseen +till then, yet evident, substantial, once made visible. +How far did the betrayal go? Was it not only in the +past but in the present too? Was the contempt, the +hostility displayed by Hester towards Ingpen and +expressed to Clive, merely a blind and subterfuge, +merely part of the murky artifice? Was it all +planned and plotted between them? His coming, +and theirs, at the same time?—Their coming down +Hester’s idea, as Clive had assured her.—How impossible, +now that she saw it, to think otherwise;—though +the thought tore at her heart as she saw it +sweeping Ingpen, too, into the murk and foulness.—Oh, +<a id="page-178" class="pagenum" title="178"></a> +this could not be borne! This was too much +to bear! And it might still not be true; for there was +Aunt Harriet and, her arms laid out before her on +the desk, her hands clenched, Monica stared at +Aunt Harriet—the racy old lady with grey side +curls and stiffly flowered silk dress. Even if Aunt +Harriet were fiction—even if she were fiction, he +would be justified in dexterity to shield a friendship +innocent, passionate and shattered. ‘It still may +not be true,’ Monica muttered, rising to her feet. +‘They may have been friends, great friends.’ And +she stared out of the window and saw now, not the +nebulous figure of Aunt Harriet, but Ingpen’s eyes +fixed upon her, measuring her suspicion, measuring +her knowledge, asking himself: ‘Has she read the +inscription?’ Oh, no! No! The ring had its history. +1918. During the war. What did the phrase bring +back? Chartres and the muffled windows; Ingpen’s +head bent to the engravings in the hall; Hester’s +repudiating, sullen eyes as she said it was like a +skull. They had been at Chartres together and Ingpen, +ten years ago, would have been engaged in no +platonic friendship with a girl of twenty-two, a girl +who could look as Hester looked the other night;—and +she flashed on Monica’s eye naked and silver +and rose, in the new dress chosen for the old lover. +<a id="page-179" class="pagenum" title="179"></a> +How wonderfully they had acted. How marvellously. +She was a loathsome girl, and she had known +it from the first; and he a conscienceless, a crafty +man; and she had known that from the first;—although +he had smiled at her over little Robin’s head, +with the released fountain shining above them;—although +the strange, hot tears had come to his eyes +in telling of his little dog.—‘It’s not to stone him.—What +did he mean by that?—It’s not to stone +him—if I must see the truth.’ She pressed her +hand to her forehead standing in the sunlight that +flowed warmly about her.—‘I must see the truth: +because of Clive. Then I can judge. If they are +here together—betraying Clive—they must go; +they must both go.’ And still the tearing was at her +heart, and she remembered his tears and saw, not +his dog now but her own little Jeremy, who had died +so quietly with his head laid in her hand.—Was +that not all that he had asked of her? +</p> + +<p> +She felt now that her tears were trickling from +beneath her fingers and that they brought a lassitude, +almost an appeasement.—Death, peaceful +death; the thought of death, of rest, had often of +late come to her mind. All that there was to do, all +that remained of life, was to think of Clive, to secure +him. And she was to see Norah that afternoon;—the +<a id="page-180" class="pagenum" title="180"></a> +memory had come with the tears and the +sense of appeasement; she could find out from Norah +whether Aunt Harriet had ever existed. That was +the first step. But she must lie down; for she felt as +though she had passed through a long illness. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-11"> +<a id="page-181" class="pagenum" title="181"></a> +CHAPTER XI +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> was only half-past three when she started, and +she would be half an hour too early for Celia and +Norah’s tea-party, but they would be glad to see her +and there would be thus an opportunity to make +some casual enquiry about Aunt Harriet. Clive +and Hester were to come, and Captain Ingpen +would surely be there: more surely because of this +morning; his was the task of nonchalance and unawareness; +all that was left him to do was to watch +her and to hold his hand, hoping that by some +stroke of fortune she would be baffled and perhaps +satisfied. Her heart was sick and heavy in her side +as she thought of him, and with him now came the +thought of Jeremy and of the other little dog;—but +the lassitude that had fallen upon her tumult was in +itself a strength. What she needed was stillness and +calm; and it gave her this. She could promise herself +that even the sight of the three together, Hester, +Ingpen and Clive,—would not make her quail, and +as she stepped out into the sunlight, the heavy beating +of her heart, the bright hot sun, brought back, by +some odd trick of association, just such another day +in London, twenty-five years ago, when she had set +<a id="page-182" class="pagenum" title="182"></a> +forth down the dusty little street in West Kensington +to make her way to the unknown London of the +City and publishers’ offices for her first business +interview. She had been horribly frightened, no +doubt, though not until this minute had she known +it—so armed had she been with Clive and Winchester +and Oxford—and looking back, really +understanding at last that girl of twenty-five years +ago, she saw her as incredibly ignorant of herself and +of life. Until then she had only seen life from the +deck of a ship, her father’s gallant craft, with its +stout engine throbbing beneath one, its pennons flying +above. But now her father was dead, and she +was to know what it was to swim in the open sea +alone, and the first intimation of the contrast had +come to her from the manner of the editors who received +her. Until then, in her relations with men, +she had met with implicit homage, with deference +or assiduity, and had taken them for granted +as a woman’s due. It was revealed to her, now, in +the cool jocose eye, the note of familiarity that +greeted her, that to the employing male a woman in +search of work was in a very different category from +a woman secure and independent. The editor was +kind and had agreed to take her series of articles on +the French countryside; but her cheek had oddly +<a id="page-183" class="pagenum" title="183"></a> +burned as, not waiting for the lift, she had run down +the steep, echoing stone staircase. Things, perhaps, +were better for women now;—because of Hester +and her kind. And as she paused thus, looking back +into the past, she saw Hester approaching her from +across the green. +</p> + +<p> +Hester had just come down from The Crofts and +was evidently arrayed for the tea-party in her best +dark blue coat and skirt. She wore a red silk jumper +and a small red hat, and, among the geese and ducks +and care-free dogs, advanced with steady deliberation. +Monica stood still at her gate, fixing her with +a guarded eye. Her instinct that morning in meeting +Captain Ingpen had been well justified; she had +waited for him to speak first. She would wait for +Hester to speak first now. +</p> + +<p> +There was no hesitation in Hester’s demeanour +and, as far as Monica could perceive, no calculation. +Her eyes were set in mauve circles, almost as +though she had wept—but Monica could not imagine +that Hester had been weeping—and the ageing +lines that ran along her cheeks were apparent and +seemed to drag at the corners of her mouth with a +bitter savour. And what she said at once—what +she had come to say—was: ‘I am very sorry about +yesterday, Monica. Clive told me that you felt I +<a id="page-184" class="pagenum" title="184"></a> +had been rude. I didn’t mean to be and I beg your +pardon.’ +</p> + +<p> +So unexpected were these words, so astonishing to +Monica’s ear, that for a moment she felt that Hester +had struck her between the eyes. She stood there +stunned. Then, as the singing in her head subsided, +she saw a clue given into her hand. Hester suspected +nothing and, because she was unsuspicious, might +reveal everything. Her apology was part of her +plot. How little it could cost her to apologize to +Clive’s mother when she had everything to gain by +keeping him quiet. It was of Clive she was thinking. +She would never dream, Monica was sure of +that as she looked at her, of casting him off. She +intended to keep husband and lover. Monica felt +herself armed and she seized her opportunity. +‘That’s very nice of you, Hester, very nice indeed,’ +she said; ‘I <em>was</em> rather startled.’ And she went on, +not too casually—for of course Hester would see +that she intended to make herself disagreeable: +‘But really—after what Clive told me, I perfectly +understand. It wasn’t really me you were +angry with at all, was it?—though of course at the +moment I could not be expected to see that.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester’s eye lighted from its brooding calm. It +fixed itself on her mother-in-law and the sullen, +<a id="page-185" class="pagenum" title="185"></a> +dragging line in her cheek deepened. ‘What Clive +told you? What has Clive got to do with it?’ she +questioned haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why—he has everything to do with it. He +found me very much upset; and he was upset, too. +He was as much at sea as I was really—to account +for your temper, though he felt sure that I misunderstood +you;—but when I told him that Captain +Ingpen was there, everything became clear. +Your dislike of him—because of the past—was so +intense.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ah. That did draw the blood! Not a shred of +doubt—or of hope—survived in Monica as she +seemed to see it trickle, as though from a dagger +blow. This was to taste, in one sharp moment, +knowledge and hatred and vengeance. For Hester +was white to the lips. White, with the gauntly +circled eyes, as she stood there and as she said: ‘Because +of the past? What do you mean? I don’t +understand you.’ +</p> + +<p> +No; she did not; nor should she. Hester should be +left to grope, irate, perplexed and meshed, until she +tumbled into the pit dug for her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, you had known him—very well, I suppose,’ +said Monica. ‘And I suppose you had quarrelled +with him, since the sight of him could discompose +<a id="page-186" class="pagenum" title="186"></a> +you as much as it did yesterday, and the +other night. I understood the other night, too, +and your behaviour to me then, after what Clive +said.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester carried a small, stumpy sunshade—a red +sunshade that matched her hat and jumper (all was +very nicely thought out)—and now her hands +grasped it tightly and fiercely, as fiercely as though +she restrained herself from hurling it at her mother-in-law’s +head.—‘Clive never said it! Clive could +not have said such a thing! I never spoke of him to +Clive!’ she exclaimed, and her lip lifted from her +teeth as she clenched them in what was almost a +snarl of fury. The blaze of the conflagration was indeed +revealing. A wide landscape, till then unseen, +leaped into view. Clive had not dared to tell his +wife of his surmise. His mother remembered now +how deep had been his discomposure. Clive, too, +had his intuitions. And through it all—all that she +was seeing—Monica was aware that Hester, at all +events, was telling no lies and that, illumined by the +lurid moment, she was looking almost beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +She could not pause for Hester’s beauty. She held +her thought steady, like a sword in her hand, and its +edge was in her voice as she said: ‘That’s very +strange: That shows Clive’s insight. I did not +<a id="page-187" class="pagenum" title="187"></a> +gather from him how long or how well you had +known Captain Ingpen, but what he made me see +was that you disliked him so bitterly that you could +not control yourself in his presence. If you had said +nothing at all of him to Clive, it only shows us how +deeply he felt it for himself. He understands you +through and through, doesn’t he, Hester? You are +touched, I am sure, by such devotion and such insight.’ +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of the Byzantine Madonna were on her +as she uttered these penetrating phrases; the old +image reasserted itself and Monica found herself +wondering at them, the great irises almost encircled +with white, so wide, so fixed was their ominous stare; +down at her; across at her; as if from high up, as if +through the half-pagan, half-sacred darkness of a +vast basilica. Stonily, repudiatingly, Hester stared +at her and, in all her cruel security, Monica felt as +if a rigid hand had been thrust out from hieratic +vestments to push her away, to strike her down, to +annihilate her. ‘You know nothing about Clive and +me,’ said Hester, ‘absolutely nothing. You never +have. I am not touched. He had no right to say +such things to you and not to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No right to defend you? No right to tell his +mother that he understood his wife?’ Monica found +<a id="page-188" class="pagenum" title="188"></a> +the words with difficulty. Her sword had been +turned in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t need defences,’ said Hester, moving now +away. ‘When I want Clive to defend me with you, +I’ll tell him so. He has no right to make up stories +about his wife in order to placate his mother and +then to conceal from her what he has been doing.—But +that side of it concerns him and me;—not +you.—That is all I have to say.’ She walked off +towards the station-road. +</p> + +<p> +‘You remember, perhaps, that Celia and Norah +expect you to tea?’ Monica slightly raised her voice +to follow her with an icy conciseness. ‘I understood +that you and Clive were coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester paused to listen, her back to her. ‘I perfectly +remember,’ she said, not turning her head. +‘I don’t care to come. I don’t care to smile and pretend +after this scene; you give me too much of it to +do as it is. I shall take the train to town and not get +back until after dinner:—you may tell Clive so if +you see him. I am not such an actress as you are.’ +She walked rapidly away. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, there’s that.’ Monica heard herself utter +the absurd comment as she stood still and watched +Hester disappearing round the corner of the road. +‘There’s that,’ she repeated and, slowly turning, she +<a id="page-189" class="pagenum" title="189"></a> +walked in the opposite direction. She felt struck, +stunned, rather than enraged; and after she had +walked for a little while it came over her that a sick +admiration for Hester coloured her detestation. +Yes, Hester undoubtedly was guilty, and had been +her victim, or, rather, her trapped quarry; yet, without +insolence, without retort, could any creature +have contrived more indubitably to preserve dignity +in overthrow? She had avowed nothing; she had +denied nothing. ‘She hasn’t a fibre of weakness in +her; or of meanness,’ Monica thought, hardly aware +of the strangeness of such a tribute at such a +moment. ‘I almost understand why they both fell +in love with her.’ Something inviolate, unconquerable +in herself recognized and did homage to the +strength of her mortal enemy. +</p> + +<p> +It was already half-past four when she reached +Norah’s, and she saw Celia in the garden, bareheaded, +in a very lovely little grey dress. Here was +Celia and Hester was walking away to the station. +It almost seemed to Monica, as she opened the +gate and went in, that Hester was walking out of +their lives. After her anguish, her lassitude, her +stupefaction, it was now an oblivious blitheness that +overtook her; the reckless mood of a fairy-tale make-believe. +Here was Celia; Clive would soon be here +<a id="page-190" class="pagenum" title="190"></a> +and everything was to end happily as it ought to +have done years and years ago. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, my dear child,’ she said, going up to her. +‘What delicious weather—and you match it.—That +darling dress.—Where is Norah? Are you +expecting anyone except just ourselves?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Only the tiniest little tea-party—for Clive and +Hester;—Captain Ingpen, Mr. and Mrs. Fellows, +Rosemary Dixon and Lady Tyler. Norah is in the +drawing-room with Lady Tyler now. She came +early so that she could go early. She has a meeting +at the other side of the county, as usual, and she’s +talking Women’s Institutes, as usual. I’m afraid +poor Norah will have to be Secretary after all. +Her hens won’t exonerate her,’ laughed Celia, who +was merry to-day. ‘Your dress is a darling, too, +Monica,’ she went on, clasping her hands on her +friend’s arm. ‘You are dazzling in black and white,—only +that’s too violent a word for anything so +soft and bright.—You are like Helen of Troy, as +Clive always said—there’s something so ageless, so +“is this the face” about you, and you always smell +of violets,’ Celia sniffed at her cheek.—‘I’m sure +Helen did too—fresh violets out of the wood.—Oh, +Monica, isn’t it your doing that Captain Ingpen +is going to plant all sorts of lovely things in his +<a id="page-191" class="pagenum" title="191"></a> +wood—for the spring? I am sure it is; it’s such a +dull wood now; nothing grows there you know except +a few bluebells. Won’t it be too wonderful to pick +anemones and primroses? He says we shall.—Norah +thinks he is really settling in and beginning +to like it here, and if he is it must be because of +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +A pang shot through Monica’s heart as she heard +the happy babble. Was it possible—even yet—that +it was because of her? Was it the tired dog laying +its head in her hand? But for Clive, how little +power the past would have had to harm the present, +if that were so. A dark confusion hung before her +eyes, obscuring Celia and the light fairy-tale, bringing +back the thoughts of the wood;—that apprehension +of leaving Clive behind her if she went on +with Captain Ingpen. To stay her hand now would +be to leave Clive behind; it would be to betray +Clive if she paused to listen to the voices of pity and +tenderness that whispered in her heart. He was a +crafty, an ambiguous, an unscrupulous man, and +she remembered suddenly—Celia’s fond words of +praise brought it back, placing her in a category +where beauty still had power—that a thread of +flame had passed between them, quenched from all +rising, as if by a pressure from her foot, yet, perhaps, +<a id="page-192" class="pagenum" title="192"></a> +leaving her not unscathed. ‘Yes; look deep +into your complicity,’ she told herself, while she +walked so calmly, held by Celia, and seemed to +listen to her; for was it not complicity to understand, +even though she had quenched the thread of +flame, why Hester had loved him desperately and +loved him, perhaps, as desperately now?—to understand, +even, why she loved him more than Clive? +</p> + +<p> +There was no flame in Clive, was that it? He +was light, not fire; he illumined, he did not burn; and +did she not understand the deep craving to perish, if +need be, in the flame? She felt herself tremble inwardly +as her thought, so coldly it seemed, gazed at +Captain Ingpen’s ambiguous homage. Yes; he was +an unscrupulous man, for he had come seeking the +old passion and had dared to pause and offer homage +on his way. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did Clive tell you that he took me for a drive on +Saturday?’ Celia said. ‘Robin came too and sat on +my lap and we had a dear talk. It made me feel,’ +Celia smiled round at her with unclouded candour, +‘that everything might come back again. I had tea +with him and Hester afterwards and she was so +sweet to me, in her funny, terse way. I know that +Clive hopes very much we are to be friends.’ +</p> + +<p> +It would satisfy Celia to be illumined. She +<a id="page-193" class="pagenum" title="193"></a> +craved no flame. Monica’s mind still followed the +probing simile while she asked, schooling her voice: +‘Do you feel that possible?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perfectly possible. I feel as if it had begun already,’ +said Celia. ‘We might never have made +friends in London, but we may be friends here in +the country. Her London, I mean, could never be +mine, but her country may be. It’s quite different, +isn’t it? One wants such different things in the +country.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One always wants affinity, I think.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But affinity grows, Monica. And funny little +things can make it grow.—I’ve never really seen +Hester in her own home before,’ said Celia, her eyes +on her friend. ‘And she showed me her new dress, +that red and silver dress she got for your dinner; I +never imagined Hester showing her dresses or caring +about them, but she ran up to fetch it, when Clive +asked her to—so eager and pleased—and she +looked at me with such an earnest, wistful look, and +said: “Do you think she’ll like it?” as though she +were outside and wanted to come in. And I felt +such a queer little pang, Monica, for I knew you +wouldn’t really like it;—that it wasn’t a bit your +sort of dress. And when you feel pangs for people, +it makes you fond of them.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-194" class="pagenum" title="194"></a> +‘So you are already fond of Hester. That is indeed +a great step towards friendship.’ Monica could +not quell the irony of her voice. The emotion with +which she heard Celia’s guileless recital, touched +with the breathless, headlong quality as it was—brought +a sudden heat to her cheek. ‘I certainly +didn’t like the dress; it was a dress suitable to the +stage rather than to my little drawing-room; but I +very much admired Hester in it; as did everyone +present.’ +</p> + +<p> +Celia, arrested in her advocacy, looked at her +askance. It reminded her of Clive’s look the day +before. +</p> + +<p> +Norah called them in to tea. The Fellows had arrived +and Rosemary Dixon who bred Angora rabbits +and read French memoirs. Monica sat down by +Lady Tyler, a lean-faced woman harassed yet stimulated +by unnecessary public cares. Her garden was +her relaxation and Monica asked her at once about +her gladioli so that there should be no danger of +hearing about some new committee, and as she +talked, her thought passed to and fro over the pictures +Celia had put before it; Hester displaying her +dress and pretending that it had been bought to +please her:—Clive and Celia driving with Robin. +Perhaps, on that Saturday, Hester and Ingpen had +<a id="page-195" class="pagenum" title="195"></a> +already met and laid their plans. It would be part of +their plan that Clive should often take Celia out for +drives; with Robin. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fellows, the rector—a devout, submissive +man who had lost three sons in the war—was passing +the tea and as Lady Tyler hastily quaffed her +cup and rose, saying she must fly to her meeting, +Monica saw Clive’s face appear in the doorway, +Clive’s radiant face. She remembered, as she met +his eager eyes, that they had parted in love and +trust only yesterday and with painful effort her +mind constructed the full meaning of his radiance. +He had sent Hester to her with her apology. He +believed that it had been understood and accepted, +reconcilingly. He expected to find Hester with her +now and as his smile, sharp and shining, found and +rested on her, her eyes dropped before it. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re late, Clive,’ said Celia, ‘and so is Captain +Ingpen.—Is Hester with you?’ +</p> + +<p> +She had joined him and already his smile was +stiffened to the cold attentiveness. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was coming with Mummy,’ he said. ‘No tea, +thanks; I had some in the city before starting.—Is +she following you, Mummy?—You <em>have</em> seen +Hester?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I’ve seen her.’ They were standing there +<a id="page-196" class="pagenum" title="196"></a> +before her. What could she do for Clive? What +could she do for herself? Until she could see him +alone all that she could do was to present him with +a clear surface. She prayed that she kept it clear +as she looked up at the two before her and went +on: ‘She didn’t come with me and asked me to +tell you that she was going to town and wouldn’t +be back till after dinner.—Perhaps you and Celia +will come and dine with me—since you’ll be alone.—Robin +will be all right with Nurse, won’t he?’ +</p> + +<p> +And now, as she felt the intentness of their gaze, +she remembered that she had said no word to Celia +of Hester’s defection and knew that Celia as well as +Clive scented disaster. +</p> + +<p> +‘But—didn’t she?—I mean——Hadn’t Hester +anything to say to you?’ Clive’s light was all extinguished. +‘Don’t go, Celia.’ He laid a hand on the +girl’s shoulder as she made a movement to leave +them. He took refuge in Celia, who understood him +and Hester; who, already, was fond of Hester. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; stay, Celia,’ said Monica, glancing at the +girl’s pale face. ‘It was dear of you to send her, +Clive, and we had quite a little talk. Perhaps she +had some message calling her to town? She seemed +quite decided about it.—Though I reminded her of +the tea.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-197" class="pagenum" title="197"></a> +To see Celia standing there under Clive’s hand +gave her a cutting comfort. It put her out, but it +kept them, and the future, together. It was well, +even if it put her out, that he had Celia to turn to. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s bad of Hester,’ Celia tried to help them both +as best she could, ‘because the tea-party is really +given for her; but we know what a busy person she +is. Probably it was a message. Mrs. Travers may +have sent for her, Clive. You know she said on +Saturday that Mrs. Travers was in some difficulty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Perhaps it is Mrs. Travers.’ Clive looked +at her unseeingly. ‘But I don’t think so. I don’t +think I’ll dine, Mother’ (he called her ‘Mother’)—‘I +think I’d rather wait for Hester at home. Shall +we have a little turn in the garden, Celia? Isn’t it +rather hot in here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘May I come—alone?’ Celia stooped to her to +ask it. But it was less to ask than to look her tenderness, +to implore her to take heart. +</p> + +<p> +‘The truth is that my heart is broken, Celia’—that +was what Monica felt she would have liked to +reply. Even if Clive were to understand all and to +forgive all, how was she to forget that he could look +at her like that, with that pallid alienation? He saw +her as cruel; he believed her vindictive. She had +<a id="page-198" class="pagenum" title="198"></a> +driven his beloved to strange, uncharacteristic +stratagems, and as he and Celia left her Monica +heard an echo of her own specious voice as it had +found the prevarications which were all that she +could give him. +</p> + +<p> +She sat now alone in the drawing-room. The +evening was marvellously warm and still and all +the others were in the garden. It was part of old +age, Monica thought, closing her eyes and leaning +her head against the piano, that one could never tell +anybody that one’s heart was broken. No one +cared if old hearts broke; it was taken for granted +that they must break; and in silence. +</p> + +<p> +She was suddenly aware that somebody was looking +at her. It was as if a presence had, soundlessly, +entered the room, and opening her eyes she saw +Ingpen’s face outside the window. The sky behind +his head was like the sky in an early Italian picture; +pale yet deep in tone, still, remote and merciful; his +head was dark against it and his face featureless. +She only felt his intent gaze and knew that it had +searched and summoned her. It was so a ghost +might look in on one and she must look like a ghost +to him, gazing back, with her sorrowful face, from +the dusky room. So they might always remember +each other, the future, not the past, thus taking +<a id="page-199" class="pagenum" title="199"></a> +spectral shape between them. ‘Everything fades,’ +she thought. But this would not fade, for it had +never lived. They had never meant more to each +other than this interchange could give them. This +was their reality. +</p> + +<p> +He was gone. He would not come in. He would +not obtrude the jarring world of time on the moment +of possessed eternity. It was strange to know of this +man whom she must judge, condemn, and thrust +forth, how deeply, where eternity was concerned, +she could trust him. +</p> + +<p> +Voices of farewell were passing along the little path +that led to the garden gate and in a moment Norah +entered, exclaiming: ‘Why, are you all alone, Mrs. +Wilmott? I thought Uncle Godfrey was with you. +He must have gone as soon as he came;—what’s +the matter with him? My tea-party was rather a +failure, I feel, with him and Hester away. Clive has +driven Celia off to see the sunset from the hill and +she’s dining with you, she says. They asked me to +say they’d come back for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her heart might be broken but it could still rouse +itself and even feel again a stir of the fairy-tale as +she heard Norah’s cheerful tones. After all, why +not? Without phantasy, was not everything moving +in that direction? All her standards, all her tastes +<a id="page-200" class="pagenum" title="200"></a> +and traditions, shrank from hateful public rendings; +but Hester had walked away; and that ghost at the +window had no power over the present. Why should +not beautiful things grow up where old things had +been blasted? +</p> + +<p> +‘I won’t wait for them,’ she said. ‘I would really +rather walk back on this lovely evening, and I must +tell the maids that Celia is dining.—Won’t you come +too, Norah?—The hill over The Crofts, you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. The sunset is lovely from up there. No; I +won’t dine, thank you so much.—I’ve masses of +letters to write and Celia loves a <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</span> with +you.—It’s rather wonderful to see everything turning +out so well, isn’t it? You were right and I was +wrong about that, do you remember? Celia and +Hester seem really to have taken a fancy to one +another,’ said Norah. ‘And little Robin calls her +Aunt Celia.—She was very much touched.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Darling Celia.—Do you remember Sonia, in +“War and Peace”? Like Celia rather. The destined +aunt type. Perhaps that is what we must resign +ourselves to for her.’ Monica got up as she spoke +and moved about the room, remembering as though +from far away that there were still steps to be taken +and clues to follow before the key was in her hand; +the key to set Clive free. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-201" class="pagenum" title="201"></a> +‘I don’t find it in the least mournful to be an +aunt!’ Norah laughed. ‘All this talk about frustrated +maternity amuses me. Some of the jolliest +people I’ve ever known have been aunts.—It all +depends, like everything else, on whether you have +any money of your own.’ +</p> + +<p> +The clue was given into her hand and Monica +heard her own voice saying: ‘Speaking of aunts, +hadn’t you a rather wonderful one in your family?—An +old Aunt Harriet Beaton? This picture isn’t +of her by any chance?—I was hearing about her +the other day.’ She had stopped before a faint +pencil drawing of an old lady in a cap. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—how did you hear of Aunt Harriet!’ said +Norah, and Monica’s heart gave a great throb as +she heard her—whether of hope or fear she did not +know: ‘No; that’s not she. I’ve no picture of Aunt +Harriet. She <em>was</em> rather wonderful; but her name +was Allington, not Beaton; we have no Beatons in +the family. Mother used to tell us stories about her. +She travelled all over the world and made botanical +paintings of flowers in every quarter of the globe. +Mother has portfolios full of them.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica heard her own weak voice again. ‘A +great traveller?—Perhaps your uncle inherits the +taste from her. Yes; that is she. I muddled the +<a id="page-202" class="pagenum" title="202"></a> +name. Was she very old when she died? Did you +ever see her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I? See her? How could I? She was mother’s +great-aunt and died before I was born,’ said Norah. +</p> + +<p> +So the key was in her hand and heavy was its +weight. If only he had said nothing, nothing at all, +she thought, as she walked along the darkened +lanes, there might still have been a loophole; but +not now. One did not lie like that without a reason. +</p> + +<p> +It was dark when she reached home. The curtains +had been drawn and chinks of light showed between +them. Wondering at the foolhardiness that had +impelled her to ask Clive and Celia to dine, she +paused at the gate to draw breath. Now she had +Celia to face for the evening and she did not know +how she was to bear it. +</p> + +<p> +As she dressed she heard the car drive up and +then drive off again, in the direction of The Crofts; +Clive returning to wait for Hester. And in the +drawing-room Celia waited for her, holding her +violin, and Monica understood in a moment all that +had happened as she said, not able to control the +breathlessness: ‘Hester was up there, Monica. She +had come back and was up there on the hill: looking +at the sunset, too.—And, oh, Monica—please +forgive me—but did anything happen, between +<a id="page-203" class="pagenum" title="203"></a> +you and Hester, I mean?—Because they are +very unhappy; she and Clive are unhappy. She is +angry with him, I’m afraid;—because of what +happened.—Could you tell me, do you think? Do +you think I could help a little?—Because I feel as +if I understood you all and could, perhaps, make +things clearer.’ +</p> + +<p> +For one moment, as she looked at her, Monica +knew the wild impulse to break down before Celia, +to tell her all, to ask, indeed, her help and sympathy: +but, steadying her mind, as if over a whirlpool +vortex, she said, in a cold voice: ‘Yes; I think something +did happen, Celia, and perhaps, some day, I +shall be able to explain what seems strange to you. +But I can’t talk about Hester and Clive now. Not +till I’ve seen Clive again, alone. We must find +other topics.—Only this I’ll say:—Hester had no +right, not the shadow of a right to be angry with +him. Nothing passed between Hester and me that +gave her a right to be angry with Clive. Don’t try +to intercede for her, my dear. When I tell you my +story you will feel, I think, that it is Clive and I, +not Hester, who are in need of pity.’ +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-12"> +<a id="page-204" class="pagenum" title="204"></a> +CHAPTER XII +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">onica</span> knew when she waked next morning +that her ordeal was close at hand. Last +night had been a foretaste of it, though she and +Celia had taken refuge in music and had played persistently +for an hour after their silent dinner. There +was now the long day to be got through before she +could see Clive, and her bruised and trembling +heart shrank from the heavy hours. She wrote +letters all morning; sprightly letters, wondering at +herself as she turned the crisp sentences and made +the merry quips. She sat down to her piano and +doggedly practised the passages where she had +failed last night. And after lunch she started for a +long walk, telling Miriam that she would not be +back till after tea-time. Clive might stop to see her +on his way from the station. If he did not come she +would send for him. She was fixed on that. She +would not pass another night with this spectre between +them. To-night, before they slept, she and +Hester and Clive should know all. And meanwhile +she could walk and walk. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon lights were slanting over the quiet +stubble fields when she came, after a round that had +<a id="page-205" class="pagenum" title="205"></a> +led her through miles of country, to the little wood +behind The Crofts where the primroses grew in +spring. She had walked blindly, not caring where +she went, and when she found herself now so near +Hester, she knew a moment of panic. Not for anything +must Hester see her. +</p> + +<p> +She left the wood and climbed the hill with +hurrying footsteps, following a sheep-track that led +to the summit, where Clive and Celia had come last +night, and sitting down to rest for a moment she retraced +the scene; Hester’s dark form reclining here, +her angry eyes as she had raised herself and watched +the two approach her. What had Hester felt on +seeing them there, so confidently together? Had not +a dim presage crossed her mind of her own dispossession? +And how had she dared show anger towards Clive? +</p> + +<p> +From where she sat she could see Oddley Green +below her, her little house with its curling smoke +and the thin line of the fountain on the lawn; all the +roads laid out and the railway line with its bordering +copses; and then her eye was drawn suddenly near; +for there, appearing over the crest of the hill, was +little Robin in his blue linen smock, walking slowly +towards her, as if in sad meditation. Robin was a +sad little boy; she thought it again as she watched +<a id="page-206" class="pagenum" title="206"></a> +him. The deep flaw in his parents’ union revealed +itself, perhaps, in the child’s gravity. It was as if +he felt a lack in the very air he breathed. He did +not see her until he was quite near, and then, after +looking at her in amazement, he ran forward and +threw himself into her arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘My darling,’ said Monica, enfolding him and +looking into the troubled little face—‘what are +you doing up here all by yourself?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mummy lets me come here by myself sometimes,’ +said Robin after a moment; ‘we often come +up here together. It’s Nannie’s afternoon out to-day, +you see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.—But does Mummy know you are up here +now—alone?’ Monica smoothed back the fair hair +from his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said Robin, after a hesitation, ‘she doesn’t +know. But she told me to run away. She’s crying.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Crying!’ Monica’s voice could not control its +sharpness. ‘Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +Again Robin hesitated, as though inhibitions too +mature for his years strove with the childish hungering +for comfort. Then his own eyes filled with tears +and he lifted them to his grandmother, saying: ‘I +liked that Captain; he made the fountain go and +put in the fish, and I liked him. But why does he +<a id="page-207" class="pagenum" title="207"></a> +make Mummy cry?—He’s with her down there +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica felt her blood stand still. With her down +there now: and Hester was crying. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you see,’ she said, finding calm words +among blazing thoughts, ‘Captain Ingpen and +Mummy are old friends and old friends often have +sad things to talk of.—If I were you, darling’—she +was thinking intently and while she thought she +still stroked Robin’s hair and looked into his eyes, +‘I would run back home now and go quietly into the +nursery, and wait for Mummy there. She would not +like to think of you wandering about like this.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I’m not wandering. I’m with you,’ said +Robin. +</p> + +<p> +What truth was this, uttered by the innocent +lips? With her. Her arm held him more closely, +while her blazing thoughts paused and scorched her +and her mind, so girlish still, so inexperienced, +shrank from the visions that Robin’s words had set +before her. She rose to her feet involuntarily and +keeping Robin’s hand stood gazing down at the +fading October day. Hester had no right to Robin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Darling, I think you had better come back with +me,’ she said. ‘Mummy is busy with her friend and +Daddy would rather you were with me, I feel sure. +<a id="page-208" class="pagenum" title="208"></a> +Perhaps you could spend the night with me.—Wouldn’t +you like that, Robin?’ +</p> + +<p> +He gazed up at her with his pure eyes. ‘But I +can’t leave Mummy,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +A flush rose to Monica’s cheek. She felt herself +rebuked. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Only till +Daddy comes. He will fetch you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you come home with me?’ said Robin +after a moment. ‘Won’t you come to the nursery +and sit with me and wait for Mummy, too?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. I can’t do that!’ Monica exclaimed, to herself, +rather than to the child. ‘You come with me +till Daddy fetches you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mummy wouldn’t like it,’ said Robin, still eyeing +her; and as she looked down at his firm sad face +she saw Clive in him; Clive’s strength. ‘She +doesn’t like me to go unless she knows.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But she told you to run away.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She didn’t mean so far away. She meant the +nursery. Perhaps she’ll be there now, Grannie. I +think I’ll go back and see.’ +</p> + +<p> +Little angel; little faithful, trusting angel; loyal +like his father, and betrayed like him. What was +there to do but yield to such innocence? She stooped +and kissed his forehead. ‘Very well, darling; if you +feel that. Yes; run home.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-209" class="pagenum" title="209"></a> +When she had seen him disappear over the brow +of the hill she turned and walked swiftly down to +Oddley Green. She was trembling, shuddering with +fury and as she went her walk insensibly became a +run. She felt like a hare with the hounds at its heels, +and a terror was upon her that before she reached +safety she might see Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +Clive’s car stood before her cottage. He was +waiting for her. He was there, standing at the window, +watching her, as she came up the path. +</p> + +<p> +She stood for a moment in the hall and put her +stick very softly into the stand, as though afraid of +waking someone. As she entered the drawing-room +Clive turned to her from the window but he did not +move towards her. Miriam had set the tea-table in +readiness; the kettle whispered on its stand. Absurdly, +grotesquely, she heard herself saying, as she +paused by the door and glanced at her son: ‘Will +you have some tea?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, thanks,’ said Clive. He did not move. He +watched her as she sank down on a chair beside the +door. ‘I want to talk to you, Mother,’ he said. +‘Are you too tired? Would you rather go up and +rest first? I can wait. I can wait for as long as you +like.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I am not too tired,’ said Monica. She could +<a id="page-210" class="pagenum" title="210"></a> +sit upright on the chair and she certainly could not +go and rest while he waited. +</p> + +<p> +Clive leaned back against the window-frame, +his arms folded. ‘It’s this,’ he said. ‘You are +cruelly unfair to Hester; and you always have +been.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I see. Yes;—I thought that was what you +were going to say,’ said Monica. ‘Won’t you sit +down, Clive? You look tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I’d rather stand.—You do own it, then. +You do see it. From the very beginning it has been,’ +said Clive. ‘And from the very beginning it has +spoiled everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not everything, Clive? You have had your +happiness. She didn’t see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; that’s true. Hester didn’t see. She’s simpler +than you and I are and she didn’t expect to be +cared for; didn’t ask it, or didn’t think it made any +difference. That was a little stupid of Hester,’ said +Clive, and across the room the white sincerity of +his face flashed at her like a sword. ‘She had never +met a relation like ours. Her own family life had +been wretched. She didn’t in a way take parents +seriously; just as a girl of her type doesn’t take the +past seriously; doesn’t know that it counts, counts +horribly, in the present. They are stupid in that +<a id="page-211" class="pagenum" title="211"></a> +way,’ Clive repeated, staring down for a moment +at the floor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, since she was too stupid to see, what do +you blame me for?’ asked Monica. This was all +irrelevant; this was all enmeshing; but she must let +Clive speak. She could not strike him down among +these thickets of misunderstanding. But the briars +sprang up with every word she uttered and Clive +was eyeing her with a look of scorn as he answered: +‘She did see. She began to feel I was unhappy. She +was not too stupid to feel that, though I tried to +hide it from her. I tried to hide from you both, to +pretend to you both that you got on and that I was +contented with your relation. I thought that if I +went on pretending long enough it might grow; you +might begin to see her a little more truly, and do her +some degree of justice. But Hester saw what you +failed to see; that I was wretched. And how are we +to go on now, when you show her as well as me that +you hate her?’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica sat silent, her eyes on the floor. It was +true that she hated Hester now; it was perhaps true +that she had hated her from the beginning; and with +reason. Clive was looking at her but she could not +look at him, and if he had had a lingering hope it +died then, for she denied nothing. ‘I see it all now,’ +<a id="page-212" class="pagenum" title="212"></a> +he said, and he turned to the window and looked out +as he spoke. ‘I see now why you came down here; to +get away from her. I see why you couldn’t pretend +to be glad when we came. We can’t help hating, I +suppose; but it does seem to me, Mother, that we +can help being unjust. It does seem to me that you +might have put out your hand to her, and all that +she was trying to do for us both—when once she +had realized that I was suffering.’ +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up at him. ‘It seems to me, Clive,’ +she said, her lips moved faintly and the words just +issued; ‘that it was always I who held out my hand +and Hester who did not even see it and walked past +it. It seems to me that it is you who are cruelly +unjust. What you said a moment ago is the truth. +Hester never thought about me at all. She didn’t +care a jot whether I cared for her or not. All that +she cared for was to have you, and to keep you; and +while she cared to keep you, I did not exist.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s not true! It’s not true!’ Clive cried, and he +turned to her again and eyed her, fiercely, yet +supplicatingly. ‘You don’t understand a girl of +Hester’s type. She hasn’t your codes and symbols; +she doesn’t feel or express things as you and I do. +You don’t dream how shy and sensitive and apprehensive +she is, under that firm surface.—She’s had +<a id="page-213" class="pagenum" title="213"></a> +to keep firm, poor darling—because she’s always +had so much to face. She didn’t know how to please +you and didn’t realize when she was displeasing you.—She +was in the dark, always; for I always knew. +Nothing was lost on me. You and I saw eye to eye, +while she had to walk on in the dark and trust +me.—And she has trusted me. She’s never once +faltered or turned away; till yesterday; when you +pushed her too far.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh; I pushed her too far yesterday? How did +Hester put that to you? What form did her arraignment +of me take;—and of you?—For Celia informed +me that she was angry with you, too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She was angry with me because you garbled +my interpretation of her to suit your own purposes. +She told me that she’d gone to you, as I +asked her to, to beg your pardon, and that you +had sneered at her and thrown her contrition in +her face. She told me that you hated her and that +she could bear it no longer. It was the truth, +Mother. Even Celia sees it. Even Celia sees that +you hate my wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive,’ said Monica, ‘I must talk to you now.’ +It was growing dark. His flashing face was dim to +her as he stood there, leaning back, his arms tightly +folded across his chest. Monica leaned forward and +<a id="page-214" class="pagenum" title="214"></a> +pressed her hand against her brows. ‘You have +said what Hester has told you to say, and now I +must speak. I am not going to defend myself. All +that is past. Perhaps what you say is true. I may +have hated Hester from the beginning. But if I did, +I know now that I had reason to hate her.’ She +dropped her hand and looked across the room at +him. ‘She is a bad woman,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +He leaned against the window staring at her with +no change of countenance. It was only the look of +cold attention that met her, as though, in a trench, +he awaited the approaching bomb and computed +where it was to fall. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s a Victorian word.’ She remembered the +other day and his faint laugh. ‘I don’t mean it in +that way. I mean it because she has deceived you. +Hester, when she came to you, had things to hide; +things to fear. Before she met you she had a lover.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was silence, deep silence for a moment. +Then he said: ‘I knew that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You knew it? Since when?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Since the beginning,’ said Clive. ‘She told me +at the very first; down in Cornwall.’ He looked +across the room at his mother and it seemed to her +now that it was a look of hatred. She had uncovered +Hester’s past; and his; with all its suffering. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-215" class="pagenum" title="215"></a> +‘I see.’ She forced her lips to speak, but could not +force them to speak without a horrible irony; her +astonishment, her panic, were like a tempest shaking +her. ‘I see. After such confidences, such forgivenesses +asked and granted, it was natural that I +should feel something very strange in you; as I did; +and in her;—when you first brought her. That +explains everything, really.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive was silent for a moment, taking full cognizance +of her intention. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in the +sense you mean. To think in the way that you are +thinking, where Hester is concerned, would be an +impossibility to anyone who loves her. I was not +writhing with male jealousy. I was not feeling her +damaged goods;—as little as she was herself. That +is precisely what you do mean, isn’t it?’—Yes. +He was looking at her with hatred. She felt it flowing +into her as if every vein were an inlet for a +deadly poison.—‘If I was strange,’ he said, ‘it +wasn’t only because of those sad things in her life +and because I knew that you would feel as you do +feel, if we were to tell you of them. It was because +Hester and I had faced things you never dreamed +of; horrible things; I in the war; she in Russia. +We weren’t ordinary happy young engaged people. +I had seen suffering that had nearly turned my +<a id="page-216" class="pagenum" title="216"></a> +brain, and she had seen cruelty that had seared her. +It was because of what we both had to hide from +other people that we came to care so much for each +other, at the first. We seemed, from the moment +we saw each other, to understand. As for her lover, +she wanted me to tell you, of course. And I refused. +I knew what you would feel,’ Clive repeated, and +on his sweet, pure lip she saw the echo of her own +cruel irony. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will admit—she has not so altered all the +codes and symbols you inherit from me, obsolete +as they are—you will admit that it is a natural +feeling.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perfectly natural. Nothing could be more natural;—like +all the rest of our primitive emotions. +You see yourself as the pure and Hester as the impure +woman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do I?’ It seemed to her that Clive had thrown +knives at her and that she felt them quivering in +her throat and side.—All that suffering that he +had hidden from her, his mother, and that Hester +had understood at a glance.—‘Perhaps there is a +meaning in the words, in spite of Hester’s code. +Do you subscribe also to the modern doctrine of +contemporaneity in love affairs? Are you a completely +complacent husband? If your wife had sad +<a id="page-217" class="pagenum" title="217"></a> +things in her past, are you willing that she should +have pleasant ones in her present?’ She was willing, +more than willing, to hurt Clive. He had done +more than hurt her. She could not live after seeing +that cold hatred burn in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ he asked sternly. +</p> + +<p> +Monica rose to her feet. She felt no weariness. +The poison of his hatred mounted in her, lending +her a horrible strength. ‘Do you forgive your wife +everything, and your mother nothing? Are you in +the plot that brought her lover here to live? Was it +acting on your part, too, the other night? Or must +I tell you—since they have hoodwinked you—that +Captain Ingpen is her lover?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you saying? You are mad,’ said Clive. +As she saw his face a ghastly happiness filled her +heart. He had been deceived. ‘You are mad,’ +Clive repeated. ‘It has become a disease in you, +your hatred.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ask her if it is a disease!’ Monica panted. +‘Ask her whose ring he wears! Ask her when +they saw Chartres together! Ask her why she +cried this afternoon when he was with her and +Robin was sent away!—I know it all! I have seen +it all!—You unfortunate, you hoodwinked, you +miserable child!’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-218" class="pagenum" title="218"></a> +He stood, his face ghastly, staring, incredulous. +‘She hates him,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Does she? Ask her how she hates him? She has +betrayed you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had stumbled forward—the bird with the +broken wing—as if with an impulse of escape, +and stopped in the middle of the room, staring +around him, seeing the way barred. His mother +stood before him. ‘Hester couldn’t lie to me,’ he +said. +</p> + +<p> +‘She has lied to you,’ said Monica. ‘You see now +why she was so anxious to come to live here; so that +I should not be lonely any longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +The thirsty vengeance of her voice drew his eyes +to her and he stood there poised, and looked at her +for a long moment. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he then +said. ‘If it’s true that he was her lover, it’s not true +that he is her lover now. If she has not told me, it’s +because she was afraid. Yes,’ he looked steadfastly +at his mother, drawing, it seemed, assurance from +her balefulness, ‘she’s been afraid of you; and of +me. She loves me with all her heart and soul; do +you understand? As I love her. Every drop of +her blood is mine and every drop of mine is hers. +Nothing could part us.—She wanted to tell me +everything long ago in Cornwall, and I refused to +<a id="page-219" class="pagenum" title="219"></a> +hear. I only knew that it was in France, long ago, +and that he was much older than she was and that +he’d broken her heart; I thought he was a Frenchman. +We never spoke of it again; not once.—And +he has followed her here. He has dared to come to +her and torment her while I’m away.—And you +have played detective and thought you would rid +yourself of her like that.—Good-bye, Mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not look at her. He brushed past her to +the door and left her standing there with her head +thrown back, her eyes dilated. Miriam found her +lying on the floor when she brought in the lamp and +she and Cook carried her up to her room and laid +her on her bed. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-13"> +<a id="page-220" class="pagenum" title="220"></a> +CHAPTER XIII +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> the night she woke after long, swooning sleep, +clear-minded. She had been dreaming of her +mother, who had, in the dream, come laughing to +the breakfast-table and said, as she stood behind +the coffee-urn: ‘I am going to become a Catholic to-day, +and you must all come and see me take the veil +at Brompton Oratory.’ It was a very characteristic +announcement. They had always, all of them, been +a family for sudden resolutions, and later in the +dream she saw her mother, dressed like a bride, +before an altar blazing with candles, and she herself +and Alison, her younger sister, were bridesmaids +and smiled at each other over the shower bouquets +of the period. Then they were both crying and +everything was dark and they were standing on +either side of a black catafalque and their mother +lay beneath; dead: ‘Of course we all knew that she +killed herself,’ said Alison. Not until this dream +had the truth been spoken—that her mother had +indeed taken the overdose purposely; but she knew +now that she had always known it. The dreadful +grief drifted above her like a pall of smoke and when +she woke she lay beneath it, thinking of all those +<a id="page-221" class="pagenum" title="221"></a> +she had loved, who were dead.—Her father, her +mother, Charlie, her brothers Christopher and +Martin, and the young sister Alison who had died +in girlhood, nearly breaking her mother’s heart—though +that had not finally broken until her father +went. And it was strange to think of them all ending +so sadly when they had been such a happy +family. And all were dead: for ever and ever and +ever. She felt herself repeating the words ‘For +ever.’ Such strange words. In form they seemed to +possess something; but it was only the dust of +oblivion. They were all gone; irretrievably submerged +in the salt, dissolving ocean of time, and +even the few sparkling memories that lingered on +in the minds of the living would soon be extinguished. +</p> + +<p> +Now, detached, emotionless, yet stricken to the +heart as if by a deadly drug, she lay and saw a vast +cliff rising as far as the eye could reach; as vast and +dark and towering as a tidal wave, reared eternally +against an abyss of empty space. And it plunged +beneath further than thought could fathom into a +sea of death. The cliff was the world, and line upon +line, like the minutely fretted ledges of a coral reef, +the human generations emerged, just above the +last sea-level, like a desperate striving crepitation +<a id="page-222" class="pagenum" title="222"></a> +of insects. The cliff was immutable. The sea, but +for its imperceptible upward movement, motionless; +only the line of life pulsed with a fierce, miniature +rhythm as the insects struggled up, always +up, always away from the engulfing sea, and fought +with each other, and tore each other down, and +mounted upon each other in their effort to escape +and rise above the creeping tide; all with a hallucinated +ardour of faith, their little eyes fixed on the +cliff that all sought unavailingly to scale. Then silence; +stillness. The tide of death had mounted and +they sank, generation after generation, line after +line; and the ledge of stilled consciousness that lay +just below the surface was as distant in reality, as +inaccessible and perished, as the ledges on which +the Pharaohs slept, or ape-like men lay curled in +profundities of oblivion. ‘Yes; that’s life,’ Monica +heard herself say in the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +When Miriam brought her her early tea, she +told her that she would spend the morning in bed +and see no one. ‘No one, Miriam, not even Mr. +Wilmott. I’m too tired after that horrid fall last +night.’ She knew that Clive would not come. It +was Hester she feared. A terror had waked in her +with her later waking and the ledge of life to which +she still clung was real to her again and the cliff and +<a id="page-223" class="pagenum" title="223"></a> +the sea half forgotten, a terror that Hester might +come and summon her forth to retribution. She saw +herself now as the creeping thing that Clive saw, +the thing he would have shown to Hester last night. +She had not thought explicitly of the revelation that +had been conveyed to her with Clive’s words; but +during the hours of stunned sleep all her awareness +of Hester had shifted and on waking to the direful +daylight she knew that she had traduced her and +had never seen her truly. The fiercely believed +myth of her present infidelity revealed itself for +what it was; the shadow cast by her own hatred. +Not only Ingpen’s face was there to dispel it—with +those tears—but Hester’s also; the face of +the repudiating Madonna. Such a woman, who had +from the first avowed all her past to the man she +loved, would not lie and creep clandestinely. She +had loved Ingpen and put him out of her life; and +if she had seen him yesterday it was because he had +sought her out; or because she had summoned him +to tell him that he must go. Yes; that must be the +truth. But she would not have seen it unless Clive’s +words had unsealed her eyes. ‘You know nothing +about Clive and me: you never have,’ came back +to her. It was the truth. Their lives had, from the +first, been founded on sorrows, acceptances, understandings +<a id="page-224" class="pagenum" title="224"></a> +from which she had been shut out. She +had no place in it. She had no place in any life. +She had become a mere parasite, a crawling, stinging +parasite; something too vile for contemplation. +So it was that he had shown her to Hester. Never, +never, in her shame, let her see Hester again. +</p> + +<p> +After lunch she got up and dressed carefully. +The day was bright. It was still warm enough for +her grey coat and skirt. She tied the knot of <span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">crêpe-de-chine</span> +beneath her throat, pressed her pretty hat +to its becoming level above her eyebrows, drew on +her soft grey gloves and slipped her wrist-watch +into place. Miriam had put a bunch of verbenas, all +bright, delicate colours, like an old sprigged muslin, +on her dressing-table, and she selected three,—deep +pink, pale pink and purple, and pinned +them into the lapel of her coat. Brightly, if with a +specious brightness, her eyes looked back at her in +the mirror, and, with the eddy of gold against her +cheek, she was the most serene and youthful of +ageing ladies. She tipped a drop of lavender-water +on her handkerchief before she went and tucked +it in her sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +Miriam met her at the foot of the stairs selecting +a stick from the stand. ‘Oh, Ma’am, you are too +tired to go out,’ said Miriam, who, trim and crisp, +<a id="page-225" class="pagenum" title="225"></a> +was a parlour-maid to match such a lady. ‘That +was a bad turn you had last night, and Cook and me +think you had better stay in bed and have the +doctor.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But see how well I look, Miriam,’ said Monica, +smiling. ‘I think I must have been a little bilious +and air and exercise are the best things for me. I +shall be in for tea. If Miss Bowen should come +with her violin tell her to go over her music until +I get back.—And, oh, Miriam’—no explicit +stratagem was in her mind; only a deep instinct led +her—‘I will put on my old georgette tea-gown to-night; +the sleeve is a little ripped, so please have a +look at it.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was no stratagem: but if anything unforeseen +should happen to her, Miriam would be able +to say that when last seen she had been quite herself. +Nothing, she felt as she walked swiftly away, +could seem more natural, more securely fastened to +the ledge. Miriam, afterwards, would even remember +the verbenas. +</p> + +<p> +What, she thought, walking so rapidly down the +station-road that the blood mounted hotly to her +weary cheek and she had to pause more than once +and draw breath—what if she took the 3.50 to +London? She could go to a hotel, telegraph to +<a id="page-226" class="pagenum" title="226"></a> +Miriam for her clothes, and then on to France or +Italy or Africa, anywhere where she might hide. +But as she approached the station she knew that +London was not her intention, nor foreign travel. +She turned aside into the woods that ran beside the +line and walked out into the country beyond and +along deep lanes and up over a common thick with +gorse bushes where she stripped a cluster of flowers +into her palm in passing by. She had always picked +gorse on this common, ever since she had come to +Oddley, held it until it was warm and sniffed at the +thick soft fragrance. To-day she picked and held, +but forgot to smell it. She lifted her wrist presently +and saw that it was 3.35. It was time to turn. So +she crossed the fields and climbed a gate and came +again to the railway woods, went through them, +creeping under the wire and up the steep embankment, +and stood for a moment looking up and down +the line. But, she remembered, walking on, if she +stood here she herself would be seen from a distance +by the engine-driver. A little further on the line +curved above the woods and she would be invisible +until the train was almost upon her. There +was plenty of time; and raising her wrist again to +look at her watch, she walked quickly along the +cinder path beside the sleepers and saw, as she +<a id="page-227" class="pagenum" title="227"></a> +approached the curve, a little gate, forgotten till +then, that, below her, opened from the copse to a +right of way across the line. All was fitted to her +need. She would stand here, just above it, as if she +had just ascended from the gate and was waiting +for the train to pass before she crossed. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can stand here to watch it pass,’ she thought, +‘and then go home, and no one will ever know. And +it will become to me only a desperate dream. +People have so often stood and watched trains go +by and had these thoughts. They mean nothing, +really.’ And she remembered that it was always +pleasant to see the tray of early-morning-tea +brought into one’s room. She could go home because +of early-morning-tea. And now in the distance +she heard the low humming of the approaching +train, growing in the air, and remembered Anna +Karénine and how she had read the book to Clive +one summer before the war. She had cried in reading +of Anna’s death and Clive had put his head +down on her shoulder and held her. +</p> + +<p> +The face of the train appeared suddenly above +the copses. It was like the face of a bee, so blank +and so intent, and the sinuous following body +lurched, fore-shortened, smoothly round the curve. +If she stood quietly to watch it pass, no one could +<a id="page-228" class="pagenum" title="228"></a> +find anything to note in her attitude (she was +aware of no explicit change in her thought, but the +memory of Clive had reminded her that something +intolerable hemmed her in closely, from which she +must escape);—and if, just as it approached her, +humming and throbbing, she stepped quietly before +it, or better still—her mind flashed pictures now—stumbled +and fell forward, Miriam could tell how +she had fallen last night. Her sight felt empty; her +heart had melted away; she was thinking of her +mother and of the dream: ‘Of course we all knew +she killed herself.’ It was as if her mother, above +the swift, hungry humming, were calling to her, and +she felt no fear, only laid her stick down quickly beside +her—for it would be horrid to be entangled +and impeded—and the insect whir of wheels and +pistons was close now, close——. +</p> + +<p> +What was this crash and impact?—Death? +She was dragged aside and struggled for footing on +the steep embankment. Great eyes were looking +into hers;—eyes of passionate reprobation; eyes of +the Byzantine Madonna, and the clutch on her arm +and shoulder of hard hands. ‘That would be a +rotten thing to do,’ said Hester, and her voice +floated like a wisp borne on the roar and current of +the train sweeping by above them. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-229" class="pagenum" title="229"></a> +Hester had no need to drag her. She went +passively; weak as a rag; like a criminal with gyves +upon his wrists. Once it was known, one could +never do it. She might almost be put into a lunatic +asylum. It would not be possible to pretend to +Hester. She remembered her stick lying beside the +line on the permanent way. Hester had seen her +lay it down. She had been watching her for how +long? She remembered that she consulted her watch +again and again. No; there was no use pretending. +So she walked on, held by Hester, into the little +copse which, thickly planted with pine trees, made +a whispering sound above their heads. Here Hester +paused, and as Monica felt herself released she sank +down upon the ground and covered her face with +her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Hester remained standing beside her, leaning +against a tree. ‘It would be a rotten thing to do, +wouldn’t it?’ she repeated, and a long time must +have passed. ‘What would have become of Clive +if you had? He would never have forgiven himself.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica stilled her shuddering breaths. She +forced her mind, from some vast dispersal, into the +channel of thought. It was like air entering drowned +lungs, cutting its way resuscitatingly. ‘It might +<a id="page-230" class="pagenum" title="230"></a> +have been an accident,’ was what she heard herself +say. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, he would have known it couldn’t have been +an accident, after your scene last night. It would +have been the most awful kind of vengeance, really,’ +said Hester. ‘But we won’t talk about it. Rest, +and try not to think.’ +</p> + +<p> +But Monica muttered: ‘No; no;—I didn’t mean +that. Try to believe that I didn’t mean that. It +was only that when I saw he hated me I couldn’t go +on.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester was silent for a little while, and in the +silence, over the whispering of the pine-trees, +Monica heard, far away, the deep breaths of the +engine as the 3.50 pulled out after its stop at Oddley +Station. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know, I think you are rather foolish,’ +Hester then remarked, bitterly, but with a strange, +impersonal bitterness. ‘You ought to know Clive +better than that. People can say anything, when +they’ve had a knock-down blow, can’t they? Clive +had been knocked flat. You understand that, I’m +sure. He doesn’t hate you. You couldn’t make him +hate you—whatever you did. It’s much more me +he’d be likely to hate.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica put down her hands and raised her head +<a id="page-231" class="pagenum" title="231"></a> +and looked up at her daughter-in-law. Hester still +stood leaning back against the pine-tree, her elbow +in her hand, her chin on her knuckles, looking before +her with a cold, intent look. Her lips were drawn; +her cheek sunken; but how pale and starry was her +forehead. Monica fixed her eyes on Hester’s forehead. +She had always granted that Hester’s forehead +was beautiful, and the shape of her dark, proud +head. She looked at her, carefully, for a long time. +And Hester, unaware of her scrutiny, remained +sunken in her own dark thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester, how did you know that I was here?’ +Something so new had come into Monica’s apprehension +that she was filled with dispassionate wonder. +‘What made you come?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Robin saw you,’ said Hester. She kept her eyes +fixed before her and spoke with a change of tone, +with relief, perhaps, at the adjournment of their +personal question. ‘He was on the hill and saw you +starting and came and told me that you were going +out. He looked so queer that I asked him if anything +were the matter and he said: ‘Grannie’s unhappy. +She can’t walk properly. She keeps stopping +all the time.’—Of course he was badly upset +yesterday—by me and Godfrey,’ said Hester, +uttering the name steadily, though after a slight +<a id="page-232" class="pagenum" title="232"></a> +pause. ‘Clive saw how upset he was, when he came +back last night, from you, and found him sitting +alone in the garden. That’s another reason, +you see.—For hatred, I mean.—A good reason, +don’t you think? Mothers oughtn’t to have pasts +that let their children in for such experiences, ought +they?—their nervous children.’ And now Hester +glanced down at her with a smile of cutting self-mockery. +‘So I ran up the hill,’ she went on, after +the comment, which Monica received with a deepening +absorption, ‘and I could still see you, on the +station road, walking very fast and, as he’d said, +stopping now and then. It didn’t need a nervous +little boy to see that something was wrong. So I +told him to stay in the nursery and that I’d find you +and cheer you up, and I ran down by the lane and +through the woods and I’ve been dogging you ever +since. When I saw you walking over the common +and picking gorse, I thought that perhaps you +didn’t mean anything. But when you came back +into the copse and crept under the wires and looked +up and down the line—and at your watch—I +knew; of course. So I followed you, keeping well out +of sight, till you stopped above the gate—I saw +how you were thinking it all out—and you didn’t +hear me when I got up close behind you; the train +<a id="page-233" class="pagenum" title="233"></a> +was coming and you were listening too hard for +that. I stood there, just below you, as if we were +waiting for the train together. I don’t think they +suspected anything;—though they must have +thought it odd—about your stick, and my dragging +you back so suddenly.—But I don’t think +they suspected anything, really.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica’s marvelling gaze remained fixed upon her +face. ‘I suppose,’ she said, after a pause, ‘that it +was for Clive’s sake you did it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know about that,’ said Hester, also after +a pause and again glancing at her. ‘I didn’t want +you to commit suicide.’ And again with the bitter +flicker of a smile she added: ‘And I can understand +wanting to get under a train just as well as you can, +Monica.’ +</p> + +<p> +Now a long silence fell. A golden sunset had +slowly embued the sky and through the openings +of the wood it slanted over the pine-needles to +Monica’s feet and fell warmly on her face and hands. +It was like a peaceful tide stealing in upon them, +and she was content to sit there and feel it take her, +hearing suddenly that the air was full of soft, +autumnal insect murmurs, rising and falling joyously, +while the brooding fields were like a mother’s +breast. She closed her eyes. It seemed to her that +<a id="page-234" class="pagenum" title="234"></a> +she slept, listening in her sleep to the joyous murmur. +She could rest safely, for Hester was there +beside her and would watch over her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester,’ she said suddenly, still with closed +eyes,—‘Hester, what did you mean by saying that +Clive might hate you? You must know that it was +because of you that he hated me; after what I’d +believed of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you believe it any longer?’ Hester enquired +after a moment. She had got out her cigarettes +and was smoking; looking up at her, Monica +saw her through a waft of smoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I believe it no longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because Clive told you I’d been straight with +him in the past?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not only that. That didn’t touch the present, +did it? No; it all dropped away.—Because of +what I felt of you and of Captain Ingpen. I saw, +when I woke this morning, that it could not be +true, of either of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester smoked, her eyes on the sunlit fields. She +wore her straight blue linen dress, with the narrow +black belt around her hips; rather like a French +child’s apron. She was bareheaded and looked like +a child. ‘All the same,’ she said presently, ‘I see +why you believed it. You don’t know anything +<a id="page-235" class="pagenum" title="235"></a> +about me, really, do you? and when you found out +that Godfrey and I had been lovers, all the rest +must have seemed inevitable. I understood, even +last night, when Clive came back, what had happened.—All +the same, I do rather wonder at you;—not +so much because of me and Godfrey—whom +you don’t know;—but because of Clive.—How +you could think, I mean, that Clive’s wife +would deceive him. But then you have never understood +what I feel about Clive; how I care for +him, I mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you mind telling me?—What you feel about +him? I always knew you loved him,’ said Monica, +after the long pause that followed Hester’s words; +‘but even loving wives do sometimes deceive their +husbands.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester knocked off the end of her cigarette and +held it away and looked at it, frowning. ‘I’d like to +try,’ she said. ‘I’d like to try to explain. It would +be a pity not to get it clear, wouldn’t it, while we +are like this.—What I mean is that I feel you would +understand anything I told you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure I should, Hester. Anything you told +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘About Clive, then. He was so different from all +the men I’d known. He made the rest of them seem +<a id="page-236" class="pagenum" title="236"></a> +so—grubby—somehow.—One can’t say why +one falls in love, can one?’ said Hester, ‘but perhaps +difference is one of the chief reasons. I suppose +Clive was almost the only gentleman I’d ever really +known—except Godfrey;—and he isn’t quite so +much of one, is he?—It wasn’t only that, of course; +that would seem so very trivial, wouldn’t it?—though +I don’t think now that it’s as trivial as I +once did.—The things you jibe at when you’re +outside seem so different when you’re inside.—My +father, poor old fellow, isn’t quite a gentleman, to +begin with;—rather a saint, but not quite a gentleman. +Clive is rather a saint, and a gentleman as +well. I was like a dull blade when he met me. He’s +sharpened and sharpened me;—by his difference; +by his belief in me; by having to live up to what +he takes for granted.—It has hurt frightfully, +sometimes, to see what he took for granted and +how far from it one was; but by the time one +had had a few turns on the wheel one was a good +deal sharper.—Of course that’s a clumsy metaphor.—He +makes one open like a flower; a tight, +hard, distrustful flower.—That’s more like it. +Godfrey never did that. He trampled one under +foot.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, Hester;—not under foot? Was he cruel? +<a id="page-237" class="pagenum" title="237"></a> +Must I believe it of him? Did you know I liked him? +It hurts me to have you say that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I saw you liked him. So do I,’ said Hester, +glancing at her. ‘No, he was never cruel. Never. +He was kind, always. But kindness can trample, +too, you know, if it’s blind. I only mean that he +tore me to pieces without meaning to, because he +was blind. It was because of him that my father +cast me off, you know. It would be utterly unfair to +blame Godfrey for that. I had all my theories, and +if it hadn’t been him it would probably have been +someone else. But my father came over to Paris +and found me living there, in sin, as he called it, and +cast me off. He is of that type and generation. And +although Godfrey was very sorry about it, and +wanted to make up in every way he could, he is of +the type and generation that would never dream of +marrying their mistress. He wasn’t free; and I never +thought about marriage; and I’m not blaming him. +All the same,’ said Hester, holding off her cigarette +and surveying it, the bitter savour on her lip, ‘I +don’t think I ever quite forgave him—among all +the other things I didn’t forgive—when I realized +that he looked upon me as a mistress. I’ve never +told anyone about this; not even Clive. I am telling +you because it makes you understand what I feel +<a id="page-238" class="pagenum" title="238"></a> +about Clive. He could never have made such mistakes +about me, even if he’d been my lover, and +not married to me. We love the people who don’t +make mistakes about us, don’t we?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Monica. What mistakes had she not +made about Hester? +</p> + +<p> +‘I think we’d better be going back now.’ Hester +tossed away her cigarette. ‘You can walk, leaning +on my arm, can’t you? Robin will be wondering, +poor lamb, and I must get back to him;—and you +must go to bed at once and have some hot milk with +brandy in it and then get a good long sleep.—Pretty +rotten for you, too, it’s been;—and don’t +think I don’t see it!’ And Hester smiled at her as +she held out her hand to assist her to rise. ‘Lean on +me,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +They went slowly along the little grass track that, +at the edge of the field, ran beside the copse. The +sun had set and a soft evening breeze fanned their +cheeks, but the golden light still enveloped them—the +light in which everything could be said, and +thinking of Hester’s smile just now, as she held out +her hand, a smile so sweet and childlike that it +brought again the sense of bewilderment and marvel, +Monica asked: +</p> + +<p> +‘Why did you think Clive might hate you, +<a id="page-239" class="pagenum" title="239"></a> +Hester? You haven’t told me that. It seems to me +that where there is such love as that between you +and Clive it is secure against all such danger.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester, sustaining her arm, walked beside her, +illumined in her blue against the pine-trees, and +glancing at her, as she kept silence, Monica saw that +it was with an effort that she now kept back her +tears. ‘Tell me, Hester,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can’t you see?’ said Hester, holding her head +high and keeping her eyes fixed before her. ‘It’s +partly you and partly Godfrey. He couldn’t stand +finding out like that. You will say that I ought to +have told him at once when I found that Godfrey +was living here. Perhaps I should have. Only I’m +accustomed, in a way, to protecting Clive. He goes +under so horribly, you know; while I’m as strong as +a horse. And I couldn’t bear to make him so miserable; +to bring it all up, after we’d said nothing for +all these years. He begged me to say nothing more, +when I told him, down in Cornwall. He didn’t want +to hear the name of the man who had made me so +unhappy;—though I did tell him that it was in +Paris, just after I’d left Girton; but he said we’d +forget it and that the only difference it made was +that I was the dearer to him because of what I’d +suffered. But I don’t think he ever really did forget +<a id="page-240" class="pagenum" title="240"></a> +it, poor darling,’ said Hester, smiling the bitter smile +over her unshed tears. ‘I think it haunted him and +tore at him, frightfully, and that the more we were +to each other the more he minded. His loveliness +unshackled him in so many directions, but somehow +it didn’t unshackle him in that.—I mean, he felt +about it, really, just as his father would have felt—if +you’d had to tell him such a thing. And that was +why, when I saw Godfrey again on Saturday night, +I was so dreadfully upset. I knew how Clive would +feel. That’s why I behaved so devilishly. I was so +upset that I had to set my teeth in something; and +it seemed to me that Godfrey was sneering at me +and taunting me. But he was upset, too. We had +parted with the most grisly quarrel—out there—at +Chartres, you see;—that’s why I hate Chartres, +Monica; do you remember?—and never to run into +each other again, or hear of each other, and then +find ourselves face to face between a husband who +hadn’t forgotten and a mother-in-law who didn’t +like you!—Well, you can see for yourself that it +needed strong nerves. Godfrey was clever that +night, wasn’t he? He played up well. I never +dreamed you would find out, or guess, and thought +I could manage it all and get him to go away and no +one the wiser. I thought, for a day or two, that he’d +<a id="page-241" class="pagenum" title="241"></a> +go of himself, and when I found he didn’t I wrote +and asked him to come and he told me—yesterday +when he was with me, you know—how it had +happened and the horrible ill-luck about the ring +and your seeing the initials.—I saw that ring, while +we played bridge that night. I gave it to him in +Paris; we found it together in an old shop and I +never dreamed he would have gone on wearing it.—He +gave me one too; a beautiful ring; but I went +out in Paris, after parting from him, and threw it +into the Seine. What a little fool I was! But I +couldn’t wear it myself and I couldn’t bear to think +of anybody else wearing it.—Well—I seemed to +see nothing while we played and while I made those +imbecile mistakes—except that ring of mine on his +finger.—He is going off first thing to-morrow +morning, Monica. He said at once that he would go. +“Give me one day to pack and settle accounts,” he +said, “and none of you will ever see me again.” He +left me, of course, before Clive got back. He never +made muddles about things like that.—But it was +too late, in a way. I mean, Clive found me crying. +Can you understand that?’ Hester’s arm was steady +under her mother-in-law’s hand, but Monica now +saw that a slow flush had crept up to her cheek. +‘I feel as if you would. I feel as if you would understand +<a id="page-242" class="pagenum" title="242"></a> +that one might not get over the man one first +loves, even if one loves someone else so much better. +He tore me to pieces and made me sick with rage +and shame, but I did love him most awfully, and +when I saw him again, yesterday, I knew that I +still did—can you understand?—And when Clive +came in and found me crying, I couldn’t deny it. +Why should one change because one is parted? +But Clive couldn’t understand. He said he’d half +killed you for my sake, because he trusted me, and +that he could never forgive himself and that you +had every reason to believe what you did—since +half of it was true;—and I was in a rage then +and said that all of it would be true, unless he +were careful.—We said terrible things to each +other;—for the first time.’ Hester spoke brokenly, +with short, hot sentences. ‘And though we were +horribly sorry afterwards and said we didn’t mean +it, it’s all there still, in our minds.—For even then—even +afterwards—I couldn’t tell him that I +didn’t still love Godfrey, too.’ +</p> + +<p> +They had reached Oddley Green now. Sad old +Mr. Fellows passed them, taking off his hat with a +gentle, mournful glance. Hester’s bare head and hot +cheeks must strike him as singular. Standing at her +cottage gate, a little further on, was Rosemary +<a id="page-243" class="pagenum" title="243"></a> +Dixon and Monica felt that Hester’s eye fixed itself +upon these neighbours with a look of desperation. +‘We will cut across the Green here,’ she said. +‘Rosemary won’t follow us. We don’t want to +listen to her latest impressions of Mademoiselle +de Lespinasse, do we?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; we don’t,’ said Hester, with a broken laugh, +and Monica now felt that it was she who watched +over Hester. +</p> + +<p> +They crossed the Green and reached safety at +the gate. The fountain was playing and Hester +was looking at it remembering, perhaps, the afternoon +of its release: ‘When will you come and see +Clive?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will he want to see me?’ Monica questioned. +She could watch over Hester for these last steps, +but she knew that she had no strength left in her +and she laid her hand on the gate-post as she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course he’ll want to see you. More than anything,’ +said Hester. ‘But you are neither of you fit +for it to-day. Clive is in bed with a temperature. +To-morrow will be better and I’ll tell him that I’ve +had a talk with you and that you understand everything +and that he mustn’t brood any more on what +happened between you yesterday.—That will be +right, won’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-244" class="pagenum" title="244"></a> +‘That will be right, Hester.’ Monica’s eyes were +fixed on her daughter-in-law’s face. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, good-bye, then,’ said Hester. ‘You’ll come +to-morrow, after that sleep, you know.’ She was +turning away when Monica put out her hand and +detained her. ‘Wait.—I want to say something +first.—I want to ask you something.—Do you +forgive me, Hester?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +Hester stared. ‘For what?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For misjudging you. For traducing you—to +your husband.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, if you call it traducing when, as Clive said, +half of it was true.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not the half I minded most; not the half he +would have minded most.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well; no; I see.’ Hester gazed at her with a new +attention. ‘But of course the other half, the old +half;—having a lover, living with someone you’re +not married to;—I suppose you really hate all that +sort of thing as much as my father did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not as he did. Certainly not as he did. I am not +thinking of that. I can’t judge that. That’s over. +It has nothing to do with me. I did traduce you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that’s over, too; forgotten and forgiven,’ +said Hester with her smile, strangely compounded +now of bitterness and benignancy. ‘You must forgive +<a id="page-245" class="pagenum" title="245"></a> +<em>me</em>, if it comes to that, for being so unutterably +the wrong person.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The wrong person?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. As you always found me. Wrong for you; +wrong for Clive.—He has made me feel it now.—Yes,’ +Hester turned her head away and the smile +still held her lip but Monica saw her tears; ‘I have +ruined both of your lives;—or almost.—He ought +to have married Celia, of course; as you wanted him +to.—Don’t you suppose I see that now?—Good-bye.’ +And Hester walked rapidly away over the Green. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-14"> +<a id="page-246" class="pagenum" title="246"></a> +CHAPTER XIV +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> was almost dinner-time. Miriam received her +back calmly and told her that no one had called. +‘But you’ve been too far, Ma’am,’ she observed, +and Monica agreed to go to bed again and have hot +milk and brandy. Already she was in a half dream +when Miriam brought it and very soon, after drinking +it, she fell asleep, her mind empty of every +image. +</p> + +<p> +When she woke it was late. Her room was dark +and all was still. She lighted her candle and saw +that her clock stood at half-past ten. The maids +had gone to bed. Across the green, on its hill side, +Clive and Hester, up at The Crofts, were, she +hoped, sleeping peacefully. Hester would never tell +Clive the truth about the afternoon; that would +be to grieve him too terribly; but she would have +told him that his mother could never again hurt +him as she had done. All would be well with the +young lives. And, suddenly, in the apathy of release, +of reconstruction, a memory, an image, shot +into her mind. She saw Ingpen’s head, dark against +the sky, looking in at her through the window. +</p> + +<p> +With the memory, a dreadful distress filled her; a +<a id="page-247" class="pagenum" title="247"></a> +new, a strange distress. The globe had turned again; +the daylight world of youth where Clive and Hester +lived and struggled, moved slowly round to darkness. +She was again in the sorrowful world of the +Old Manor Farm and remembered the scarred heart +of her friend. He was going early to-morrow morning. +He had promised Hester that they should never +see him again, and he would keep his promise. +</p> + +<p> +Monica rose and put her feet to the ground. She +felt feeble yet restored. It could not be. ‘No, it +can’t be,’ she said aloud, her own childlike voice +startling her as she heard it. She dressed quickly, +as she had dressed that afternoon; carefully—but +that she did not pause for flowers and lavender-water +and forgot her gloves. She crept downstairs. +The house was still. An old dark cloak hung in the +hall cupboard and she wrapped it round her. The +night was cloudy, moonless, the way solitary; but +even if she were seen she would not be recognized. +And even if she were recognized;—she felt herself +smile slightly at her own indifference. All the +scruples and inhibitions of the daylight world had +fallen from her. +</p> + +<p> +Not by the wood, she thought, as she stole out, +down the path, through the gate; it was shorter by +the wood but in the dark she would not find her +<a id="page-248" class="pagenum" title="248"></a> +way across the planks and she must run no danger of +not reaching her friend. The road lay, the colour of +the sky, between the darker hedges, and it seemed +to unroll itself before her and to lead her on into +the obscurity, and it was restful to walk like this, +swiftly, unhesitatingly, in the darkness, as if led on. +She could not remember that she had ever walked, +late at night, in the country, alone, before. It was +an adventure, and as she had smiled slightly on +thinking of doffed scruples, so she smiled now, contrasting +the adventures of her life with those of +Ingpen’s life; adventures to which his personal involvements +had, perhaps, been only a background; +and again vaguely remembered names and images +moved before her mind as she went along the drowsy +English road:—dark, menacing faces; fertile valleys, +unknown perhaps, to European eyes till his had +seen them; and she saw pallid stretches of plain, +bleached by the sun; and rocks with inky shadows +rising against a torrid sky; and peril everywhere. +How far away; how remote, how unreal to her; yet +upon such images the web of his consciousness was +stretched. +</p> + +<p> +Now the Manor Farm woods stole gently towards +her, so tame, so diminished by the darkness +that they made her think of a tabby-cat reconnoitring +<a id="page-249" class="pagenum" title="249"></a> +along the roadside, and there, beyond them, +was the oblong bulk of the Manor Farm just visible, +with chinks of light along its lower windows and a +dim orange fan of light laid above its door. He was +still up; of course; he was leaving early to-morrow +and would have much to do; but it struck her, as +she opened the gate so softly, that with all her +intrepidity she would have been disconcerted had +the house been unlighted. Softly she opened the +gate and softly stole across the lawn, her hands outstretched +till they touched the window-sill. Then +she stood still for a moment and, for that one moment, +a dart of wonder at herself went through her, +almost as if she woke from a somnambulist dream to +find herself strangely astray. But no, this was herself; +she had meant to come and her friend would +not misunderstand her. +</p> + +<p> +She lifted her hand and tapped softly three times. +There was no sound, no movement. The chink of +light close there before her remained unaltered. She +tapped again, three times, lightly, insistently. Then +a heavy muffled sound answered her, a sound of +incredulous haste, a thrust-back chair, a table toppling, +tottering.—The curtains were flung aside, he +was there, before her, against the lighted room. Her +face looked in at him through the pane, and for one +<a id="page-250" class="pagenum" title="250"></a> +moment they gazed at each other as they had gazed +the other day. But now the story was to take life +and substance. They were to remain ghosts no +longer. He threw open the sash. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have come to say good-bye,’ said Monica. +</p> + +<p> +His collar was unfastened; his tie loosened; and +oddly, automatically, his fingers went up to them, +angrily wrenching them into place. ‘May I come +in?’ she faintly smiled. How absurd, with all its +beauty, life was! That at a moment like this she +should feel herself wish to say: ‘Let it alone: it +makes no difference.’ And the sense of pathos +brought by the untoward little mischance deepened +in her as, while she waited on the doorstep, she +realized that he had said not a word of welcome or +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened and she went before him into +the drawing-room. A chair at the table had been +pushed back in haste and a heavy pile of documents +lay sprawling on the floor beside a battered +leather box with brass corners. She glanced down +at it as she went in; it seemed to have been in a +dream that she had seen it before; it had come from +so far away; it was going so far away again. Those +strange names and visions floated for a moment +through her mind. ‘Hindu Kush,’ she thought +<a id="page-251" class="pagenum" title="251"></a> +as she moved into the middle of the room and looked +about her for the second and the last time. The +bright landscapes still hung on the wall; on the +mantelpiece stood the uncouth stone animals, like +those on Hester’s mantelpiece. The clock still +ticked with security; yet all wore a dismantled air, +and the old square leather box, yawning there on +the floor, expressed its owner as the room had never +done. He was on the march again;—no, not on the +march; that was too disciplined a simile:—on the +prowl. The wilderness was again to receive him. +</p> + +<p> +He pulled a chair for her before the fire and she +sank down in it and leant back her head, closing her +eyes. Absurd, beautiful; yes; but she knew that as +she thought of all it meant of loss her heart was +almost breaking. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester told me you are going early in the morning, +so I felt I had to see you.—I hope I have not +seemed too horrible to you,’ she said, keeping her +eyes closed. +</p> + +<p> +He stood across the room by the table. ‘Horrible? +No. Why?’ She heard that he stooped and began +gathering up the fallen papers. He gathered them +up in crackling layers and dumped them down on +the table. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have seemed horrible to myself,’ said Monica. +<a id="page-252" class="pagenum" title="252"></a> +‘But I had to think of my son. I misjudged you and +Hester. I thought he was betrayed.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen went on dumping down the papers and +for a moment made no reply. ‘I saw what you must +think,’ he said then. ‘No;—you didn’t misjudge +me—though in the present instance your judgment +went astray. What you thought me capable +of is exactly what I am capable of;—had you not +been involved; and had I still wanted Hester.’ He +sat down on the chair beside the table and his hands +still moved among the papers. ‘That’s quite all +right,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand;—how this +is possible, I mean—how you can be to me like +this. I saw you knew everything, yesterday;—no, +the day before was it? I told Hester you knew +everything. And that everything was over.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had opened her eyes while he spoke; he was +not looking at her; his head was on his hand and +he rubbed his hand over his brow and across his +eyes, repeating: ‘I can’t quite understand.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s because of Hester, I think.’ Monica had +not known till now that but for Hester it would +not have been possible. ‘I had a long talk with +Hester this afternoon. She found me when I was +very desperate. I thought I had killed my son’s +love for me. And she was extraordinarily kind. +<a id="page-253" class="pagenum" title="253"></a> +Everything is changed. And, after I had slept, when +I woke just now and remembered you, I knew that +I must see you.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had dropped his hand and was looking over +at her, his dark brows brooding, still in perplexity, +above his hot pale eyes; and, looking her assurance +at him, she went on: ‘We were meant to meet like +this, with nothing before us, and everything between +us. We have nothing to hide now. We know +each other for ever.’ +</p> + +<p> +He said nothing, but presently he got up and +walked to and fro, his hands behind him. ‘Are you +friends with Hester?’ he asked at length. +</p> + +<p> +‘Friends? I don’t know. But I understand why +you and Clive loved her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad of that,’ said Ingpen. He continued to +walk to and fro. ‘Then I can tell you everything. +I would like to give you the history of everything, +if that’s what you mean I may do. You are being so +beautiful to me;—but I don’t want to take advantage—and +force things on you. Only I would +like to do Hester one good turn, for all the ill +ones.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to hear everything that you care to tell +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I met her in Paris,’ said Ingpen, ‘at the end of the +<a id="page-254" class="pagenum" title="254"></a> +war, and I had never seen anything like her. I had +lived so much out of England and I hadn’t followed +the changes that were taking place among the +young, and all the women I had known could be +put into simple categories:—the chaste and the +unchaste: the attainable and the unattainable;—and +I hadn’t much faith in the latter unless they +happened to be in love with somebody else. I had +never conceived of a woman—a young woman—unprotected, +without position or fortune or worldly +asset of any kind, who could at once set the very +highest value on herself and yet unhesitatingly give +herself away. I had never conceived of a woman in +love who had not a trace of the siren about her—and +not a trace of the virtuous victim who bargains +with her virtue for permanence and fidelity. Hester +never allured and never bargained. She came to me +because she loved me and thought no less well of +herself for giving than of me for taking. The old +hallmarks did not exist for her. I was a married +man.—Did you know that I’d been married?—That’s +a story that I won’t inflict on you. She’s +dead, poor creature, and we pretty well hated each +other before the end, though we began with a +Tristram and Isolde romance.—I was perfectly +frank with Hester and she took what I had to offer +<a id="page-255" class="pagenum" title="255"></a> +with her eyes open, with perfect courage and perfect +integrity. At the same time I don’t think she quite +realized what kind of man I was. I didn’t mean to +deceive her; but she was deceived. She was very +young and very ignorant and took her first love +affair with a terrible whole-heartedness. I didn’t +believe in whole hearts where love affairs were concerned +and she never understood that. She was very +ingenuous. She still is. And she is faithful to the +core.’ Ingpen looked at Monica from the end of the +room which he had, in his pacing, reached. +</p> + +<p> +‘And, since she was faithful, why did you part? +Were you faithless?’ Monica asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I was faithless, after a fashion,’ said Ingpen, +still standing to look at her; seeking, not arranging, +the truth. ‘But I don’t think that I am by nature +disloyal, if you can accept the difference. And I can +even conceive that I might have remained faithful +to one woman in spite of my polygamous tendencies; +because I can love very deeply. It’s only that +things get broken. They break more easily in love +affairs than in marriages, perhaps. A quarrel isn’t +as perilous a thing in a marriage as it is in a love +affair. There’s nothing to keep people together in +a love affair—except love; and that may seem extinguished.—Well. +Yes. I was faithless,’ he resumed +<a id="page-256" class="pagenum" title="256"></a> +his pacing, ‘from her point of view. She is +a modern girl; but only in the way of freedom; not +of licence, and she felt contemporaneity in love +affairs an unforgivable affront and injury. All the +same I should have kept straight, for I loved her +very deeply, if another woman hadn’t turned up, a +woman I had loved in India, years before. It was +only a month after Hester gave me this ring.’ He +glanced over at her with a twist of his grim smile.—‘Poor +old Aunt Harriet! To what uses I tried to put +her! When I saw your face that morning I felt sure +you had seen the initials; but you spoke of great-grandmothers +and that gave me the clue and I forgot +about the date.—Well, the other woman came to +Paris with her husband, for the Peace Conference. I +was there, too, and Hester was secretary to another +bigwig;—that was how we met. It was a shock to +see the other woman again. I am very susceptible, +you know, and she was still quite extraordinarily +lovely; not happy with her husband and her boy +killed in the war. She had never relinquished her +sense of a special claim on me because I was her only +affair, and she made the most of her griefs and memories. +But it was my fault. I was faithless, and Hester +found it out. She already suspected that something +was amiss when, by some mischance, they met +<a id="page-257" class="pagenum" title="257"></a> +at a function, my friend a very brilliant personage +and Hester a little outsider. They found they both +knew me—and knew me well, and my friend was exquisitely +rude; so rude that she gave herself away. +Hester confronted me with my infidelity and I +didn’t lie to her. I couldn’t lie to Hester. We had +gone down to Chartres for the week-end and we +had a terrible scene there and she left me and I +never heard of her again until the other night. By +Heaven, you know—I was pretty well knocked +out when I saw her appear there in the door between +you and your son!’ +</p> + +<p> +Poor little Hester! So young! She flitted across +Monica’s memory, a sombre slender figure in the +black cloak lined with red, suspicious of all softness; +the obscure girl who had endured exquisite rudeness +at the hands of a brilliant rival. How clearly she +could retrace the flaming of that passionate young +heart. She sat and thought in silence, looking into +the fire, while Ingpen, restlessly, walked up and +down, and at last she questioned him again: ‘You +must have known that it might come out at any +moment, when you saw her here, married, happy, +safe, with her husband and her child. Why didn’t +you go at once? You knew we were the type of +people who couldn’t accept it. How do you forgive +<a id="page-258" class="pagenum" title="258"></a> +yourself for not going? Didn’t you feel it was to use +her cruelly?’ +</p> + +<p> +Ingpen stopped in his walk and looked over at +her. ‘I wanted to stay near you,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Monica pondered, not lifting her eyes from +the fire. ‘Near her too, don’t you think, perhaps?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. I still wear her ring. I always shall. Because +of something she meant to me that no one else will +ever mean: something of youth and faith. But I was +horribly sorry to find her here. All I wanted of her +was to ask if we couldn’t be friends; if she couldn’t +accept my going on among you all. Judged by her +old standards she would have felt it absurd that I +should have to clear out now just because she and I +had once been lovers; absurd, antiquated, irrational. +And you know, in a way, I feel it that myself.—No: +I am going: I see I must go. I see you all push me +out. But the odd thing is that you—the older +generation—could bear it, could live over it and +keep me here.—Isn’t it so?’—He confronted her +and then went on, not waiting for an answer, his +voice recovering its heavy calm; ‘But when I saw +her yesterday I saw how she had changed. You have +changed her; he has changed her. She has grown +into all the standards she once rejected so fiercely. +<a id="page-259" class="pagenum" title="259"></a> +She is a wife, with the standards of a wife. She +couldn’t tolerate the thought of hiding my identity +from her husband if I stayed, and he couldn’t tolerate +seeing his wife’s former lover.—Does he know now +who I am?’ Again Ingpen confronted her. ‘Is that +why you thought you had killed his love for you?’ +And he waited now for her reply. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Monica, ‘that was why.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see. Yes, I see.’ Ingpen gazed at her, his hands +clasped behind him. ‘And he hates me like slow +poison.—And will you understand if I say that I +felt a stir of hate for him the other evening when I +saw him there; her possessor. What are we made of +do you think? I don’t want her in the least. What +I want is to stay. Near you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was wondering, as she looked at him, whether +she must conceal from him how deeply he moved +her; wondering whether, at a glance, a gesture, the +thread of flame might creep between them; knowing +that she could trust him only if she could trust herself. +‘Spoiled.’ The word came back to her. ‘Horribly +spoiled.’ It must not be. This was perfection +that she held within her hand. She owed it to him, +to herself, to life, not to jeopardise it by a faltering +or a tear. ‘We could not have made anything of it, +you know,’ she said, and her voice was as steady as +<a id="page-260" class="pagenum" title="260"></a> +her gaze. ‘It became impossible—from the moment +that she saw you again.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, hard, for a moment longer and +then he turned away. He went to the window, +pushed aside the curtain and looked out into the +night. ‘Of course you know what happened—at +the beginning,’ he said. ‘At the beginning, when I +first saw you—at Norah’s, in the wood—you +were one of the sirens. You attracted me, at once; +exceedingly; in spite of your age. I had never met +a woman who attracted me more. Your type:—frost +and sunlight; gaiety and hardness.—Your +eyes, that darkest blue; the way your lip lifts when +you smile; the arms of Helen of Troy.—I saw it all; +at once. I see these things at once in women. And +then, I don’t know why or how—perhaps merely +because we are both over fifty—I became sober +and reasonable.—No; better than that; far better.—You +made me feel safe; healed; or, at all events, +sheltered. I became quite sentimental over it; saw +us growing old together; standing by the fountain +with the little boy; looking at the blue anemones in +spring; watching the yellow rose grow on the front +of the house;—it’s there already, you know; and +the anemones are planted. I would never have +asked anything but the shelter. You may be sure +<a id="page-261" class="pagenum" title="261"></a> +of that. I’d have had too much sense, once I had +found it, to risk spoiling it. And now it’s spoiled. +All spoiled.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was as if the word, in its different context, had +passed from her mind to his. He stood there at the +window, his back turned to her, leaning his face +close to the pane as if to gaze out at the darkness +that was all he had before him, and he gave a great +sigh, like a tired child. Her heart rose up—to her +lips—as she heard him. But it was full of thankfulness +as well as of grief. ‘Not quite spoiled, dear +Godfrey,’ she said, ‘or I should not be here.’ And +he did not turn to her. He understood. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you remember,’ he said presently—the +embers had fallen, an owl had hooted, the clock had +struck, sadly, reluctantly; it was twelve o’clock—‘that +talk we had—it’s only the other day, really, +but it seems years ago—when you came here +through the wood? I felt that I had reached the end +of everything that day. It was like mildew creeping +over me; and when I saw you sitting there, where +you are now, I felt that you had too.’ +</p> + +<p> +Yet how far she had been on that distant day +from having reached the end of things. Sitting +quietly in her chair Monica saw again the bee-face +of the engine coming round the curve. ‘And we +<a id="page-262" class="pagenum" title="262"></a> +talked,’ said Ingpen, ‘about love and suffering; and +we agreed that life is a delusion, and we agreed, all +the same, that we preferred it to Nirvana. And you +said then—do you remember?—that perhaps our +preference had a meaning.’ He closed the curtains +and turned to her and leant back against the +window-frame, folding his arms. ‘I often think of +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I remember. I think I remember our talk;—though +not clearly.’ She rested her forehead on +her hand, trying to remember; not only for him but +for herself. There was something that they must try +to see together. ‘I don’t think that we meant quite +the same sort of love, did we? Or the same sort of +suffering.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, we did. Exactly the same sort. There is +only one sort of both; and of happiness. You said +we kept the love we gave; you tried to make it safer +so; and I said that that sort was as much of a delusion +as the other. I said there was no safety anywhere—for +saint or sinner;—granting if you like, +that you are the one and I am the other.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You must not get angry with me if we are to +think together.’ Monica gently smiled in the +shadow of her hand. ‘You know I don’t grant it, +though you seem to have gone more astray than I +<a id="page-263" class="pagenum" title="263"></a> +have ever been in danger of doing. I have not led a +dangerous life—that’s all the difference, perhaps. +I have had shelter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If I pretend to get angry with you, it’s only because +you are so dear to me,’ said Ingpen. ‘And I +want if possible to get some comfort out of you before +we part. It’s a little comfort to know that you +mind parting, almost as much as I do.—But I’m +really not being personal. I wasn’t that day—in +spite of the other side of it;—that was the difference, +with you; one reached something else.—And +we did agree that the only real thing was suffering; +that all the rest was youth and froth and illusion; +that all the rest fades. We did agree, I am sure of +it, that the sort of happiness that Hester and her +friends believed in is a sheer will-o’-the-wisp. Happiness +for the race, you know, when we have got rid +of our greed and cruelty and become hygienic and +rational and orderly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; but it’s worth while to get rid of greed and +cruelty if we can. I know what they mean. I +admire it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You never will get rid of them; they are life; +part of life. You will get them in more surreptitious +forms; that’s all. We shall go on devouring each +other—because life can only maintain itself so; +<a id="page-264" class="pagenum" title="264"></a> +but we shall hire butchers to do the killing first. +And even if there were something in it—in the idea +of a better race—it could only be for a time; until +the earth begins to cool and we degenerate into +forms of life too low for such aspirations. For a +time humanity may rise; it may reach a more decent +level than any it has yet attained to; but even +then, the craving for love, the craving for power, will +never lessen till life itself begins to fade. Hester and +her friends believed that those cravings could be +better managed.—Poor child! I can hear her talk!—They +believed that they may be harnessed to +useful machinery;—be made to plough and reap +and irrigate. But it’s not so; you will never rationalize +craving; you can only deviate it; and it may +corrode us the more for being deviated. People who +were loved once, will long to be loved again, and +consume away with grief; people who have power +without opportunity will canker with rage and +envy; it may all stumble on, better than in the past; +but for imagining that it will ever mean happiness +or offer an ideal;—no; that’s not possible;—when +one has felt the facts in one’s flesh and blood;—when +one has seen in oneself everything one most +hates in life. We do agree, you and I; we do see the +truth; that beautiful things come to an end and are +<a id="page-265" class="pagenum" title="265"></a> +broken; and that we shall go on suffering until we +are put to sleep for ever.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica, while she listened, leaning forward on +her hand, trying to think, to follow the arraignment—his +bitter sincerity shot through, as always, with +the glint of his bitter parade—felt exhaustion overwhelming +her and almost feared that she might +faint. But, lifting her eyes, she saw that he was still +standing at the other side of the room, leaning +against the window, and waiting; waiting for her to +give him some comfort before they parted. He believed +that she might have some comfort for him; +and she pressed her hand against her eyes and +thought of herself; of Clive and Hester; of Ingpen +and of the little dog lost and stoned to death; of all +the cruelty and horror;—in oneself; in life. And at +last she said: ‘We shall go on suffering until we go +to sleep; but we can go on loving too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Suffering because we love,’ said Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes: that’s perhaps the best we can hope for; but +often because we don’t love; because we don’t give +love. To give is life and not to give, death; and +the love that is life redeems us from death. It is +given to us. We find it.’ She was remembering how +it had come to her to-day and how it was with her +now. ‘We can only give it if it is first given.’—That +<a id="page-266" class="pagenum" title="266"></a> +was the paradox, and she felt herself pause to +look at it as she saw it for the first time.—‘If we +never found it, if we felt life only as loss and change, +we could not love life as we do. We love it because +we find love. In spite of everything.’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not move. He did not speak. She knew +that he was standing there looking at her and she +dropped her hand and raised her eyes to his. +</p> + +<p> +From the first she had seen something endearing +and ingenuous in his ravaged face, and it was now +that his innocent gaze brought her her deepest +vision of him. She saw him as a little boy, as young, +nearly, as Robin, who had been frightened, and who +had come to his mother with a question. It was all +there in his face as he said slowly: ‘But in that case, +if it is given, there would be a Giver. There would be +a Giver—who cared to give. I wonder if you are +right. I often wonder about it all. Do you really +think there may be a meaning in it for us?—“And +God will wipe away all tears from their eyes.”—Do +you really think that possible?’ +</p> + +<p> +It was the question of the little boy longing for +comfort; it was the question of myth and legend. +But it was only in the terms of myth and legend that +the deepest questions could be asked or answered.—‘We +are all nothing more than children,’ thought +<a id="page-267" class="pagenum" title="267"></a> +Monica—while the question fell, like a plummet, +down, far down, into her heart.—‘And we discover, +as we grow old, that we never grow up;’—and she +seemed to listen to its fall and to watch it. It fell +beyond thought, towards the unfathomable foundations +of the cliff. She watched it disappear. Her +mind could give her nothing. But he was asking +nothing of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +The memory of the wide golden sunset that she +had watched with Hester rose within her now as, +leaning her head on her hand, she kept silence. Had +he asked that question this morning she could have +answered him only in the terms of the nightmare +vision; of hallucinated life and obliterating death. +What had happened to her since then? It had been +as if she had left life and death behind her and as if—she +watched the sunset broadening—salvation +had been made manifest. Not the saving from +death; it was deeper than that withdrawal back into +existence; the saving from darkness and alienation. +It had been given. She could have done nothing by +herself. It had come to her and widened before her +like the sunset. And could salvation, manifested +here and now to the darkened selves, fail to express +its essential being for ever and to include all grief in +its atoning beatitude? +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-268" class="pagenum" title="268"></a> +She remembered afterwards, as it came back to +her in its preciousness, the sacramental significance +of their last moments together, but she +could remember no words. Her assurance, if assurance +it was, her faith, rather, had been conveyed +in the look that she had at last lifted towards +him, the silence in which their eyes had +communed with one another’s. Peace passed from +her to him and together they partook of its meaning. +</p> + +<p> +It had been like the symbol of this communion, +when, seeing her deadly weariness, he had gone away +and found milk and heated it and made her drink +before her homeward walk, drinking with her. At +the time everything had been so blurred by her exhaustion +that she had known only the primitive +comfort of silence, warmth and nourishment, that, +and a faint amusement at the monotony of her repasts; +for she seemed to have spent the intervals of +the day in drinking milk, with just this flavour +added of the brandy that he, like Hester, found +suitable to her case. All was done calmly and concisely, +with no flurry of search or overturning of +saucepans such as she associated with improvised +meals. He brought the jug and glasses on a tray; +there were biscuits on a plate and a spoon. It reminded +<a id="page-269" class="pagenum" title="269"></a> +her of the way he had cut down the trellis. +And afterwards she leaned on his arm for the dark +walk home. +</p> + +<p> +They met nobody. The night was still and +cloudy; but a few faint stars showed here and there +in the darker spaces above them. A sheep bleated +behind a hedge, and, as they approached Oddley +Green, they heard the owls hoot from the elms. +They paused before the road reached the first cottage. +Till then they had not spoken. ‘You can go +alone now?’ said Ingpen. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perfectly. Thanks so much,’ said Monica. They +might have met that day for the first time. ‘You +will always let me know where you are.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Always please. I will come to you if you +send.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean if I am dying?’ She felt his grim smile +in the question. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. If you are dying.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And if you are dying—will you send for +me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid not.—No; I can’t promise that. I +shouldn’t be alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well.’ He took her hand. ‘So it is good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-270" class="pagenum" title="270"></a> +All was over. As Monica sank asleep the only +thought in her mind was: ‘Nothing is spoiled.’ +But, afterwards, it all came back to her; never to be +forgotten. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-15"> +<a id="page-271" class="pagenum" title="271"></a> +CHAPTER XV +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">N</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> one cared if old hearts broke. Monica lay, +on her awaking next morning, and almost +smiled as the girlish self-pity of the thought returned +to her. Until last night she had, perhaps, +still been a girl and she lay now knowing that age +brought acquiescence. He was not to die with his +head in her hand, like Jeremy:—but he was not a +lost dog; not stoned. He was lonely, yet loved and +cherished; and as long as he lived the thought of her +would keep alive the hope that had brushed them +with its wing, as the thought of him would keep it +alive in her. He was dear to her; very dear; but the +sacrament of which they had partaken meant more, +perhaps, than any personal relation could have +done, and united them more really. +</p> + +<p> +When, a little later, a note was brought to her she +lay for a moment looking in a sort of bewilderment +at her name written in Hester’s small, scholarly +hand. Last night seemed far away; but how much +farther the afternoon and her own suicidal self. She +had almost forgotten the world of youth; almost +forgotten Clive. Yet, as she opened Hester’s letter +she knew that he was not less dear for having been +<a id="page-272" class="pagenum" title="272"></a> +forgotten. Her heart was no longer shut in on its +solitary love, and a shared heart is a heart enfranchised. +It would be happier for Clive to be +loved by an enfranchised heart. +</p> + +<p> +She opened the letter. Hester’s firm dark script +closely filled the sheets. +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p class="noindent"> +‘<span class="sc">Dear Monica</span>, Frank Jessup has for some time +been suggesting that I should go to Russia again +and write a series of articles for the “Enquirer” on +developments there, and it seems the moment to +close with the offer. So I am going up to London by +the 12.40 and shall stay with Frank and Marcia for +a day or two and then be off. If I could have foreseen +this on Thursday, I wouldn’t have asked Godfrey +to go and perhaps you know where he is and +could tell him to come back. But perhaps you and +Clive will like to stay on at Oddley, and in that +case it is necessary that Godfrey should be kept +away; Clive could never stand seeing him. My +going off on the same day as he does will make some +gossip, I imagine; but I like to be quite frank with +you and hope you will go on understanding—as you +did yesterday—if I say that gossip about me will +be all to the good, where Clive is concerned. You +see, I found him and Celia up here, on the hill, the +<a id="page-273" class="pagenum" title="273"></a> +other evening, when I came back from London, and +saw then what I had never realized before—purblind +fool that I have been—how deeply Clive +cared for her; how he depended on her—or could +depend on her again. And I know, though the less +said about it the better, that if they could come together +it would be far the happiest thing for everyone +concerned. At the same time I would like you +to know that I should never go back to Godfrey—even +if he wanted me to, which he doesn’t—though +he and I might agree to fix up appearances so that +Clive and Celia can marry. Clive is opposed to my +decision, and I couldn’t leave him in the state he is +in unless you were here; so this is really to ask you +to come over and see after him as soon as I am gone. +The sooner I go the better. I merely tear him to +pieces by staying on, now that the decision is really +taken. He thinks me incredibly cruel and hard; but +I believe you will understand. You won’t forget +what I said to you about him yesterday. Wives can +get to feel about their husbands what mothers feel, +after a time, though at the first it would have seemed +impossible;—I mean being really able to think of +their happiness apart from one’s own. I have sent +Robin up to London for the day with Nurse so that +he shall be well out of the way. He will be very +<a id="page-274" class="pagenum" title="274"></a> +happy, I feel sure, with you and Celia. He has taken +a great fancy to her already, and she to him, and +you know that he has always really liked being with +you rather than with me. You can tell him all the +fairy-tales you like now, Monica! I was a beast that +night.—Though it’s quite true that I don’t think +they are good for him. As to the future, I shall never +make any conditions about being allowed to see him +and all that sort of sentimentality because I think +it really dislocates a child’s life—having to adjust +itself to two centres and care for two mothers.’ +Here came a sentence that had been scratched out; +but it could still be deciphered: ‘All the same I hope +I shall see him sometimes,’ but, after this repented +lapse into maternal weakness the letter resumed its +steady course. ‘I don’t really think I am a maternal +woman. I don’t understand children instinctively. +It made me frightfully angry when I saw that you +thought my book great rot, but I’m inclined now to +believe that you were right; at least, that one needs +more than a knowledge of psychology—and even +more than being a mother—to write a book like +that. Of course Robin doesn’t know that I am going; +and it’s best that he should only realize, little +by little, like the rest of the world, that I’m not +coming back. I think I said yesterday the things +<a id="page-275" class="pagenum" title="275"></a> +that most needed saying and I am glad you know me +better and that I know you. It is really—if you will +forgive my saying so—because I begin to know you +at last, and Celia, that I feel I can go away and +leave Clive to you. I should have been conceited +enough to have thought that no one else could do for +him what I could. But I was mistaken about that—as +about so many things. So, wishing you the +best of luck, dear Monica, +</p> + +<p class="sign"> +‘Yours ever<br> +‘<span class="sc">Hester</span>’ +</p> + +</div> + +<p class="noindent"> +Monica laid down the letter on the sheet. Here it +was in her hand. What had been the dearest wish of +her heart for years was accomplished. Hester was +eliminated. And the thought brought her no joy. +On the contrary, she knew, as she lay there, that +dismay was closing in upon her. The face of Celia, +summoned by an act of will and at Hester’s bidding, +only rose to share in her consternation. Arctic, +moonlike, it floated over the plains. Some possibilities, +once extinguished, could only shine with a reflected +radiance for ever after. Clive and Celia +might once have married; but Hester was his wife. +Hester was here, close by; she was nearer, strange +as it was to realize it, than Celia. A person hated +<a id="page-276" class="pagenum" title="276"></a> +for five years was a person brought near. Hatred +carved its dark conceptions, its dark interpretations, +and then the hollowed form turned round and revealed +itself in relief; the same, yet almost unrecognizable. +<span class="lang" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Elle est ben trop noire</span>; the Madonna eyes +of reprobation; against what a background did she +now see her old distastes! The strength of Hester’s +arm was round her shoulders, snatching her from +death; its warmth was beneath her hand, sustaining +her. Hester might still be strange to her; but she +was near. +</p> + +<p> +It was a grey, fresh day. Yesterday had still been +almost summer; to-day was almost winter and as +Monica approached The Crofts she saw that the +hedgerow trees, in the climbing lane behind it, were +nearly leafless. But a savour of sweetness was in the +air and on the cherry-tree at the gate a robin was +singing its silvery song, symbolic to her ear of all +she had come to rescue; childhood under a secure +heaven; old age hand in hand beside the hearth; +the promise of spring and winter’s harvesting of +unity; all the sacred platitudes. +</p> + +<p> +She went quietly up the path, so quietly that the +robin did not cease its singing, and opened the door +and went in. Everything was still in the little house +though, in the distance, she could just hear the +<a id="page-277" class="pagenum" title="277"></a> +murmur of voices in the kitchen where the maids no +doubt were in surmising conference. Her eye was +drawn, as she stood there, to a suitcase standing near +the door, a strong leather suitcase marked ‘H. W.’ +Hester was packed and ready for the Bolsheviks. +The drawing-room door was ajar and she looked in. +In the further end, at the window that gave on the +garden behind the house, Hester sat writing with +her back to her. Her slight figure was framed from +on high by the opulent folds of Mrs. Jessup’s batik +curtains with which it was in strange contrast. +Monica saw now, clearly, that Hester had never +harmonized with Mrs. Jessup’s curtains; as little as +with her own chintz and china. She was a creature +of either the open heath or the underground railway. +She belonged to no æsthetic background. +She wore, this morning, her dark blue skirt and +her red jumper and her hair was neatly brushed +to a point on the nape of her neck. Beside her +on the ground stood an open attaché case and +as she dropped a folded paper into it and drew +a fresh sheet towards her she looked extremely +composed and efficient. Monica, however, now +saw the statue in the round and knew what lay +on the other side of Hester’s composure. She was +occupied in cutting away her roots; but it would not +<a id="page-278" class="pagenum" title="278"></a> +be without emotion. She did not believe in roots; +yet they ran as deeply in hers as in any human heart +and bled as bitterly when severed. They did not +believe in roots, Hester and her generation; they +believed in the swift, unflinching adaptibility that +roots menaced, or made impossible. And perhaps +they were not altogether wrong, thought Monica, +still pausing, still gazing at the resolute young figure, +the future, was it not?—as she herself was the past. +Roots meant sweetness, security, sameness; the +old found again in the new; continuity and bondage. +They gave you as reward a flower, and Hester’s +world moved too quickly for such slow rewards. +It was a world of machinery, rather; of things you +made and used and cast aside; things of which you +remained master and that never mastered you. +Roots mastered you; and perhaps the world of the +future was a world of change, of swift improvisation, +where ruthlessness and decision were the price +of survival. It was difficult for her eyes to foresee +what beauty there might be in such a world, yet +Hester, sitting there in her ruthlessness, was not +alien to her. It was better to cut through and escape +if withering were the doom of persistency, and not +only one’s own withering, but that of those one +loved. They refused the discipline of tradition, +<a id="page-279" class="pagenum" title="279"></a> +Hester and her generation; they would be self-disciplined; +and she saw their valour, their integrity, +and their peril. A new age was always perilous. +It was as though the fostering epoch of the +plant-consciousness were over and the human +flower, its product, walked away on its feet, nourished +by no sap from below and sustained only by +some new element in the surrounding atmosphere of +which newly evolved faculties were for the first +time aware. ‘It may work; it may work;—in ways +we can’t conceive of,’ Monica thought, standing +there, her heart strangely held by pity and understanding. +‘There may be enough to grow on—since +they feel it. It will be a world of walking flowers. +Dangerous; but they accept danger.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned away and went softly up the stairs. +Robin’s day-nursery was in front, facing south; +Hester had chosen the best bedroom for her child. +She passed that, glancing in at its sunny order, and +went down the little passage that led, at the other +side of the house, to Clive and Hester’s room. She +stood for a moment before the door and listened +hearing no sound; then she tapped, very softly, and +Clive’s weary voice said: ‘Come in.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica had not seen the room since her first visit +to the completed Crofts, and, as she glanced at it, +<a id="page-280" class="pagenum" title="280"></a> +her eye passing over Clive who lay turned from her +on his pillows, it looked almost as denuded as then, +like a bright modern room in a shop-window. +Hester’s bed of painted wood might never have been +occupied, so accurately drawn above so flat a surface +was its cover of putty and flame and black; her +dressing-table was empty of all appurtenances; the +cupboards in the walls were neatly closed; the +chairs stood in their appointed places; even the +bright little fire, lighted for the invalid, might have +been an imitation fire; it carried out the colouring +scheme as accurately as the flame and putty and +purple of the pictures on the walls in their broad +black frames. Yet though it was denuded Clive did +not look abandoned in it. A glass of water, a vase +of late roses, his letters unopened, and the folded +morning paper lay on the table beside him. He had +only to get up, to make a gesture, to take up the new +life to which Hester was leaving him, in order to +break through the bright magic that seemed to +surround him. +</p> + +<p> +His mother scrutinized him and noted that +though he seemed almost sleeping, the hand lying +out on the sheet was tightly clenched. ‘What is it?’ +he said. He thought it was the maid. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive dear——’ She advanced from the door, +<a id="page-281" class="pagenum" title="281"></a> +but she did not meet his eyes. She could not look +at Clive yet. She walked to the window and stood +there with her back to him. From the window one +saw the hill behind the house. The turf was misted +with spider’s webs and the sheep were all the colour +of mushrooms. Above the hill was a little space of +blue. ‘I’ve come to see you, Clive,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment behind her; then, +in a careful voice, Clive said: ‘It’s very kind of you, +Mother. More than kind. But Hester doesn’t +leave me till the afternoon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know. I won’t take Hester’s time. I only want +to talk to you a little.—Hester has told you that +we met yesterday?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Of course.—She said you’d been wonderful. +You and I’ll talk later, Mother. When she’s +gone. There’s nothing to be done now; really.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned at that and looked at him. He lay +back on his pillows, a spot of hard colour on each +cheek. ‘I’m all right, I promise you,’ he muttered +as he met her eyes. ‘You needn’t treat me as if I +were spun glass. I lie here because she’s left me +nothing else to do. I can’t go down and wrestle with +her at the door before the taxi-driver and the maids.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; of course you can’t,’ Monica murmured. +‘But you do know, don’t you, that she is as unhappy +<a id="page-282" class="pagenum" title="282"></a> +as you are. You do know that it’s not from +lack of love that she is leaving you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mummy,’ Clive muttered, gazing at her and +after a moment’s silence: ‘I don’t know where +you stand; I don’t know what you’re trying to do +for me;—but I do know that it’s no good.—She +won’t stay. Not even if it were you as well as I who +asked her to.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not, Clive?’ She advanced and sat down +on the chair at the foot of the bed and Clive’s eyes +were sounding her. He did not know where she +stood; but he must see that she was changed; he +must see that it was no longer Hester’s enemy he +confronted; and as he kept silence she said again: +‘Why not? I traduced Hester the other night, and +you trusted her. You left me full of love and trust. +You said that every drop of your blood was hers. +What was it that happened when you got back to +her? Why did she feel that she must leave you? +Tell me, Clive? You must tell me. You must trust +me.—You can trust me now,’ said Monica. +</p> + +<p> +He turned away his face and shut his eyes and +she saw that he was thinking hard. The thin, +beautiful hand, the archangel hand, clenched itself +again as he lay there thinking and when at last he +spoke Clive was nearer than he had ever been, for +<a id="page-283" class="pagenum" title="283"></a> +he trusted her, completely; with his own and with +Hester’s life. ‘I was horribly upset,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Of course. But you trusted her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It wasn’t my trust I was thinking of,’ Clive +muttered. ‘It was something very different.—All +the way up here, after I’d left you—it was something +very different I was thinking of.—It was of +him.’ A scarlet flush mounted to his face as he +spoke. ‘I understand what’s happened, Mother; +and you understand. Hester understands too; +though she won’t accept it. How could you have +believed anything but what you did—of a man +like that?’ +</p> + +<p> +As she heard his broken phrases; as she saw the +dark, bright colour rise to her son’s face, Monica, +for a moment, knew such a turning of the heart that +she feared her own blood would echo his. But it was, +she felt, a drained pallor that met Clive’s eyes as he +opened them to look, heavily, at her, and as she +heard her own voice saying: ‘A man like that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, Mummy, don’t let’s pretend,’ said Clive. +He felt her emotion, though it was so stilled, and +he moved his eyes from her face and looked out of +the window beyond her head. ‘You may have liked +him; but that was because you knew nothing, really, +about him. I know, unfortunately, a great deal. I +<a id="page-284" class="pagenum" title="284"></a> +know what sort of reputation he has, where women +are concerned. It has been discreditable to him. He +had to leave the army because of it. He is the last +sort of man I could have associated with Hester.’ +The hot colour burned on Clive’s cheek while a +cold fire burned in his eyes. ‘I had thought of an +artist; a writer;—an idealist of some sort; not a +ruthless, battered libertine.—A man whose love is +an insult.—Mummy,’ he glanced at her, and as he +had looked away from her emotion so she now +looked away from his, dropping her eyes—‘I told +you that I didn’t writhe with male jealousy; do you +remember? And it was true when I said it. But I +had it all the other night; on the way up here; after +I’d left you.—I had it all; every bit of it,’ said +Clive, and had he been lying on her heart, in his +bitter abasement, her son could not have been +nearer. ‘I came up here,’ he said, ‘and I was as +primitive as he is—damn him! And first it was +Robin, sitting in the dusk, in the garden.—I saw +he’d been frightened.—And then it was Hester, +crouched on the sofa, crying.—That’s how I found +her. And when I asked her if it were true that +Captain Ingpen had been her lover, and whether +she loved him still, she said that it was true. She +said she loved him still. She said she’d always love +<a id="page-285" class="pagenum" title="285"></a> +him. I was horrible to Hester, Mummy. But she +gave me too much to bear.’ +</p> + +<p> +A silence fell. Under the sound of her son’s deep +breaths Monica heard laughter in the kitchen and +the robin’s song in the garden. A tradesman’s cart +drove up and stopped at the back door. She glanced +at her wrist. It was half-past eleven. Clive’s eyes +were closed. He was shut into his dark world of +shame and passion. He had never till now inhabited +such a world and strange it was to know that she +accepted his initiation. His flame had been too +white. It had burned down now into a hidden core +of consciousness and she seemed to see the smoke +and fire that tainted its limpidity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Clive,’ she said, and as he heard her voice he +opened his eyes and looked at her, ‘would you have +found it easier if it had been a man you could have +understood her loving?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ he asked after a moment. +They were, again, sounding each other. +</p> + +<p> +‘Would it have been easier for you to accept, if +Hester’s lover had been somebody you could understand +her loving?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should you ask me that? You mean that I +deceive myself; that I don’t know myself; that I was +as primitive as anyone and would have writhed, +<a id="page-286" class="pagenum" title="286"></a> +whoever it was?—There may be truth in that.—Some +truth.—But no!’—He clenched his hand +and laid his arm across his eyes. ‘No! If it had been +anybody but that man! If I could only understand +that it could be that man! And even that—for the +past—I could have swallowed. She was so young. +He was so—practised,’ Clive groaned. ‘But that +she should tell me, throw it in my teeth at last, +that she loves him still and will always love him!—No. +Even to keep Hester I can’t pretend that I +accept it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Monica now felt herself gazing at a necessity that +lay before her. She had seen it in an ominous +glimpse before, when she had paled and recoiled +from it; but it lay there, clearly visible now, in the +path of her approach to Clive and Hester’s lives, +and over the heavy throbbing of her heart she +steadied her voice to speak, understanding, at last, +what it had all meant as she had not done till this +moment came upon her. One did not understand, +ever, till afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wonder if it will help you to accept what Hester +gives you to bear if I tell you something about myself, +Clive,’ she said. He lay still, rigidly still, his +arm before his eyes. ‘You think that Captain +Ingpen would not have been my friend if I had +<a id="page-287" class="pagenum" title="287"></a> +known about him. But that isn’t true. I did know +about him; all that you know; and I was his friend. +But it’s more than that.’ She had begun to speak +with dropped eyes but now she raised them and +fixed them on her son, who, his arm fallen, gazed at +her. ‘It’s much more than that, Clive,’ she said, +and as she spoke she seemed to herself to be drawing +Hester near, to be holding her within her arm, to +be at one with Hester; ‘Because I understand why +Hester loved him, and still loves him, in a way I +never could have done if he had remained only my +friend.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive spoke then. She heard the voice that +Hester had heard; almost the voice of a stranger. +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +What did she mean? She stopped to think, looking +at her son, feeling no wish for veils. All that +she wished was the truth. ‘Not that he was my +lover,’ she said. ‘That would have been impossible; +but not because I did not love him enough. Impossible +because of my age; my situation;—my +codes and symbols, Clive. He is not my lover, but +I love him and he loves me. We parted last night; +and I don’t think we shall ever see each other again; +and after you, no one has come so near my heart.’ +</p> + +<p> +Had the presage of the October woods been for +<a id="page-288" class="pagenum" title="288"></a> +this, she wondered, as, looking into her son’s eyes, +she saw his father struck down and remembered the +slow brooks, the prowling figure and the fear in +which the strange affinity had masked itself. But +this was not disloyalty; not forgetfulness. All the +loves, the lesser and the greater, the old and +new, were there within her heart; swords crossing; +notes clashing; though she saw, she heard, the attainable +harmony. If she could stand firm and bear +the pain, the harmony could be attained. +</p> + +<p> +‘Does it make it more, or less endurable, Clive?’ +she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘It puts me out,’ was what Clive said to her. He +lay and looked at her. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, darling. It only puts <em>me</em> out;—if you can’t +forgive my loving him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It puts me out,’ Clive repeated, ‘with you both. +I’m only second-best; with you both.—Somehow—that +doesn’t seem enough to go on living for.’ +</p> + +<p> +She sat and thought. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s for your sake that we both put him out; because +we love you most.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You put him out because I’m your son; and +Hester puts him out because I’m her husband. But +you both love him best,’ said Clive, and he closed +his eyes and turned his face away from her. +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-289" class="pagenum" title="289"></a> +Was it the truth? They must face the truth, +thought Monica, as, pale and trembling, she rose +to her feet and moved towards Clive, and then +paused, hearing a footstep outside, a hand laid on +the door. +</p> + +<h2 class="chapter" id="chapter-0-16"> +<a id="page-290" class="pagenum" title="290"></a> +CHAPTER XVI +</h2> + +<p class="first"> +<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> door opened and Hester stood before +them. Clive turned his head and looked at +her. He surveyed her steadily and she surveyed +him. Then she said: ‘I’ve come to say good-bye to +Clive and he and I must be alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You shall be alone.’ Monica stood beside her +son. Was she the tigress at bay, or was Hester? +Each was fighting for Clive but not against each +other, now; against him. ‘You shall be alone, when +the time comes,’ she said. ‘But I must speak to you +together, first.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The time has come. It’s a quarter to twelve. +The taxi will be here directly; and you know, +Monica, all this is rather hard on Clive,’ said +Hester. ‘I asked you to wait till I’d gone.’ She had +closed the door and leaned back against it, keeping +her hand on the knob. Her face had no rigidity; a +sodden, gentle look, rather; and the dragging, bitter +lines had been effaced by desperate weeping. +</p> + +<p> +‘You shall be alone,’ Monica repeated. ‘But you +can take a later train. I must speak to you. There +are mistakes. There are mistakes between you and +Clive as distorting as the ones I made.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-291" class="pagenum" title="291"></a> +‘Mistakes? Oh no; there are no mistakes now. +There were before but not now,’ said Hester, +glancing at her husband. ‘As for any you made, +Monica—if you did make any—they have nothing +to do with this situation.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think they have everything to do with it. I +think they have involved us all. And the first thing +for us to do is to see the truth together. All the +truth.—Clive,’ she stood beside his bed and she +looked down at him, ‘Hester saved my life yesterday. +I was so miserable, believing that you hated +me, that I went out to throw myself under a train, +and she saved me. And, as we talked afterwards, +she said one or two things that I shall never forget. +One was that she thought me rather foolish to have +believed that you hated me;—I saw that it was +true, when she said it;—and another was that she +wondered at me for having believed that anyone +who loved you, and who had known your love, +could have deceived you. She said that we love the +people who do not make mistakes about us and that +Godfrey Ingpen had made mistakes that tore her +life to pieces;—while you had always understood.—And +I have something to say to you, Hester. +Clive cannot understand that you should still love +the man who hurt you. But I can. I understand +<a id="page-292" class="pagenum" title="292"></a> +because I love him, too.—That’s what I’ve been +telling Clive.’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not look at her son as she found these +succinct phrases. They seemed to cut her away +from all her past life, that edifice of graces, reticences +and dignities, and to set her adrift upon a sea +as strange and as uncharted as any that Hester had +ever embarked upon. She knew that he had leaned +forward as he heard her, his eyes fixed upon her, his +arms outstretched along the sheet; but she did not +look down at him. ‘Clive can’t understand us, +Hester,’ she said, keeping her bright, intrepid eyes +upon her daughter-in-law. ‘He believes that we +love the other best. Is that true, do you think? +And if Clive can make such mistakes about us, do +you feel that he loves us still?’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester’s hand had slowly dropped from the knob. +She leaned back against the door, her arms folded, +and her eyes were the Madonna eyes of gloom and +reprobation. ‘So that’s what you’ve been doing,’ +she said. ‘I see. You’ll cut your heart out to mend +Clive’s life, won’t you, Monica? You are willing +that he should believe you such another case as I +am, if that will give him ease.—As to which we +love best, I’m not going to answer; and I’m sure +you’re not. If life doesn’t answer that sort of +<a id="page-293" class="pagenum" title="293"></a> +question, nothing else will, and as for me, it doesn’t +make much difference what Clive believes now, +does it?—Perhaps I do love Godfrey best. Who +knows?—Though now that I come to think of it, +it may be the people who give us most to bear who +are the ones we love most at the end, and Clive +has certainly shown me that he can hurt as much +as Godfrey ever did.—But I’m not going into that. +It’s you, Monica. I see you through and through. +You love Godfrey; I know it; and I know how he +loves you.—He’s never loved anyone so much.—But +with all the will in the world you’ll never make +me believe that you are like me; nor make Clive +believe it either.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps, if Clive has the insight that I believe +him to have,’ said Monica, gazing at her daughter-in-law, +while her mind seemed to move in great +flashes, ‘he will wish, more than anything, that I +were.’ +</p> + +<p> +Clive, there beside her, had bowed his head upon +his arms while Hester spoke. Now she felt that he +put out his hand for hers. He found it. He laid his +cheek against it and held it tightly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can go now,’ Monica murmured, glancing down +at her son. ‘I can leave you now. You and Eddie +see now that people who love so much cannot part.’ +</p> + +<p> +<a id="page-294" class="pagenum" title="294"></a> +But Hester put her arm across the door. ‘No; you +can’t go now,’ she said. She was pale and trembling. +Her eyes were wide and sick. ‘You can’t go now,’ +she repeated. ‘I’ve something to say first, too.—Yes, +Clive.—She is the best friend you will ever +have. No one will ever do for you what she does—or +love you as much. But I’m not going to be given +back to you by her. I’m not going to have you accept +from her what you won’t from me.—It’s not +only Godfrey.—It’s deeper than that—the reason +for our parting. I’m not the sort of woman you +ought to have fallen in love with. Monica saw +the truth from the beginning I came into your +life and I broke it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s not the truth,’ said Clive. He had raised +his head. He held his mother’s hand, but he faced +his wife with his own strength. ‘You mended +my life. You are my life; and if you leave me now +it will be from pride—not from love, as you think.—It +will be because you won’t share me with my +mother;—as I felt I couldn’t share you with the +other man you love. Well; I can. And if it’s because +of Mummy, you must put up with it; just as +she has to put up with the fact that it’s you who are +my life; not she.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All right,’ Hester muttered, and, darkly flushed, +<a id="page-295" class="pagenum" title="295"></a> +she seemed to glance at her husband with hostility. +‘All right. You think that the truth.—Sit down, +Monica. I’d rather have it out, now.’ She pulled +forward the chair from the dressing-table and +placed it against the door and sat down, leaning +back her head. ‘We’ll have it out,’ she repeated, +and she stopped for a moment, controlling her +thought with an effort that swept her face clear of +its dark passion. ‘We must go back to the beginning,’ +she said, ‘the very beginning, when Clive +says I mended his life. It’s true that I helped him +over his bad time. I knew how to deal with ghosts, +because I’d seen so many myself; but any good +psycho-analyst could have done as much. It wasn’t +to mend his life that I came into it, or to be mended +that Clive came to me; it was because we fell in love +with each other, and when one’s in love one imagines +that it’s enough and that nothing else counts +and that it will carry you through.—Well, there +are some things it doesn’t carry you through; and +that’s what we came to find out; that’s what Clive +knows as well as I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +She paused to think and in the pause, still keeping +her son’s hand tightly held in hers, Monica sat down +softly on the bed beside him. They were united +as they had never yet been united. Their pulses +<a id="page-296" class="pagenum" title="296"></a> +seemed to beat together, and as she felt the deep +tide of peace rising within her Monica knew that +her strength, now, was greater than Hester’s, and +her understanding greater. +</p> + +<p> +‘You didn’t exist for me, Monica; you simply +didn’t exist,’ said Hester. ‘If I thought of you at +all, I thought of you as the Victorian Aunt Sally my +generation has been brought up to shy coconuts at. +The only thing that defined you clearly for me was +that you were the sort of woman who would think +it wicked to have a lover. Not that Clive said you +would think it wicked. He only said that you’d be +hurt. That was why he wouldn’t tell you. But it +was more than that. It was because it would have +hurt him, too, most horribly, to tell his mother that +his wife had had a lover. I didn’t mind, one way or +the other; about your being told. But I didn’t +think it your business. And I didn’t see, or suspect, +that he was hurt all the time, though he pretended +not to be. I wasn’t in the least afraid at first, +Monica, of you or your standards, because I didn’t +imagine that Clive was. It was only by degrees +that I began to see that I was outside, and that you +were inside, with him, always.’ +</p> + +<p> +As they were now, Hester meant, perhaps, though +she did not glance at them. She sat there, with +<a id="page-297" class="pagenum" title="297"></a> +folded arms, in her red jumper, against the door, +and she made Monica think of a picture she had +seen of a young condemned revolutionary sitting +up, proud, perverse, unvindictive, to be shot. Her +face was the strangest colour; the colour of a +white passion-flower, its surface bloom bruised +from the petals and the purple pulp showing +through. Her eyes were like the flower’s dark +centre; bruised, too; soft and expanded; there was +no fierceness in Hester’s eyes to-day. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was mistake, then, on your side, from the very +beginning, Hester,’ said Monica. ‘Clive was not +inside with me. He never once came inside. It was +I who was put out; not you. It was you who had put +me out;—me and my obsolete standards.’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester’s eyes did not move from the window. +‘Of course that was what you felt. That was what +Clive meant you to feel; that was what he did for +me. Because it was I, not you, who was making +him suffer, and he had to hide it from me. I made +him suffer from the beginning, because I was too +different from you. It wasn’t only in one standard; +it was in all the standards; down to the way you +dressed and the jokes you had together. He was +always hiding from me, poor Clive; in the little +things as well as the big ones. It’s impossible in +<a id="page-298" class="pagenum" title="298"></a> +marriage, I see that now, if the wife is so different, +and the man loves his mother so much. I was very +slow in seeing the truth. I was a complacent dolt, +of course. But by degrees it came over me that +Clive was unhappy, fearfully unhappy; that he +was thinking about you all the time, and wondering. +He used to call out in his sleep—oh, we joked +about it, of course, and pretended it was his nerves;—but +I began to see that he called out for you because +his heart was full of you and he was wondering +if you weren’t miserable down here, alone, with +nothing in your life. You played up awfully well, +Monica; allow me to say that. I watched you carefully, +and I watched him, and I saw that you gave +him nothing to go on. But he knew perfectly well +that you couldn’t stand me and that you removed +yourself lest you should be forced to show it. He +saw that you couldn’t stand me, and he saw why,’ +and round Hester’s lips there now crept the shadow +of the bitter savour. ‘He saw why just as well as +you did; better than you did;—And shall I tell +you why he could go on standing me?—Simply and +solely because he was still in love with me; simply +because of sex; nothing else. It was that you were +sacrificed to. A man will always sacrifice his mother +to the woman he’s in love with, I suppose, and a +<a id="page-299" class="pagenum" title="299"></a> +mother will always cut herself in pieces to help +mend his life. We understand all that. But it’s +what lies underneath that matters now; because +there are deeper things in life than even sex.—He +sacrifices her because he is in love; but he is nearer +her than ever because he has sacrificed her. What +I’ve come to see in these last months,’ said Hester, +gazing past Monica’s head out of the window, ‘is +that it’s the family thing that always conquers in +the end. It’s what we all come back to, in the bottom +of our hearts;—if we have any family. I have +none. I’m an outsider in that way, too. I’ve always +been a free lance, with all the conceit and theory of +a free lance. But if you’ve ever had a mother and if +she’s given you and meant to you all the things you +care for most, you never get over it. That’s what +has happened to Clive and me. And we all three +know it’s true. And we all three know that we can +pick up and grow roots again—after I’m gone. +And that,’ said Hester, rising and lifting her chair +and putting it down in its place before the dressing-table, +‘is why I am going. And please don’t let us +be sentimental about it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hester,’ said Monica. She, too, had risen. She +still stood by her son, but she had dropped his hand +and her voice arrested the girl who, half turned +<a id="page-300" class="pagenum" title="300"></a> +away, was fumbling, perhaps through sudden tears, +for the door-handle. ‘Will you stay for my sake?’ +</p> + +<p> +Hester stood turned away, her head bent down in +an attitude of sombre attention. +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean,’ said Monica, and she felt her own tears +rising, ‘if I need you, too.—I have nothing to do +with you and Clive now. I can’t give you back to +him, for you’re not mine to give, nor him to you: he +is yours in a way he never could be mine; in spite of +what you say. But I need you, too, and I believe +you can care for me. Didn’t you feel it yesterday? +Didn’t you say that you could tell me everything? +Isn’t that enough to stay and try to let it grow on?’ +</p> + +<p> +She had put out her hands. Hester had turned +and leant back against the door, solemnly looking +at her. They had kissed each other so often, and the +kisses had meant nothing. Now an immense shyness +lay between them, but she had taken Hester’s +hands and Hester did not move away. She did not +acquiesce, but she did not move away; she stood, +solemnly looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you haven’t changed as much. Perhaps +you don’t feel it as I do,’ said Monica. ‘But I know +that I have found you and that I love you and don’t +want to go on without you. Will you stay and be +my daughter?’ +</p> + +<div class="trnote chapter"> +<p class="transnote"> +Transcriber’s Notes +</p> + +<p> +The original spelling was mostly preserved. +Obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. +The use of hyphenation was carefully normalized. +</p> + +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78779 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78779-h/images/cover.jpg b/78779-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d679d91 --- /dev/null +++ b/78779-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78779-h/images/logo.jpg b/78779-h/images/logo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e19a0bf --- /dev/null +++ b/78779-h/images/logo.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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