Hugo did not want to swim, or to dive, or to exert himself in any way. He craved to be simply at peace. But Philomena was so beautiful that he could not be at peace. Something stung him between the shoulder-blades as when he had seen the horses on the hill. He was reminded of something, an image, a snare, cheated man that he was. For beauty, instead of remaining a pleasure, still masqueraded as a promise, and he could not tell what it was that he desired. Perhaps it was simply Philomena.
Floating on his back he looked up at the sky and the rooks streaming homeward across the golden zenith. The water was getting chilly. Damn Aggie! She had spoilt his bathe. She had kept him away from Philomena.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said. “And I’m glad the others have gone away. I don’t like crowds.”
“Is Corny coming?”
“No, he had to catch the post. He writes to his wife every day, you know.”
Philomena laughed, as people always did when they remembered that Corny had a wife.
“I can’t get used to it,” she said.
“I know. It does bring things home, doesn’t it? This world depression I mean. One can hear of the unemployed, and fluctuating currencies and trade slump without losing hope. But I did feel that things must be in a very bad way indeed when Corny had to marry. Have you ever met her, Philomena?”
“No. I never meet those racing people. But she’s been pointed out to me … all teeth and tweeds. She must be at least fifteen years older than Corny. But so, so rich!”
“That explains it from Corny’s angle, but …”
“Oh, she married him because he looked so like her first husband, who was a jockey. Corny told Gibbie so.”
“I never thought of it, but he is exactly like a jockey. Oh, I say, don’t go out yet.”
“I’ve been here for hours and it’s getting cold.”
She got out of the water and stood warming herself in the last of the sun, while Gibbie disappeared into the shed to put away the rubber horse. And Hugo floated in the water at her feet, looking up at her beseechingly.
“Can you see yourself in the water?” he asked.
“No. It isn’t still enough.”
“That’s a pity.”
He climbed out too, and they waited for the rippled surface to settle so that they could look down to their own faces, drowned under the shadow of the bank. Hugo caught at her elbow. It was cold and drops of lake water fell off it like pearls.
“I suppose you know,” he said gravely, “how beautiful you are. Or don’t you?”
But he spoke to the face in the water, rather than to the woman beside him. If only he could plunge down there, into that green deep world which was so much more beautiful because it was an illusion. He would dive down and down and stay there for ever. How long can you stand on your head at the bottom of the lake? For ever!
A belated rook, flapping over their heads, jarred the air with a single derisive caw, and he roused himself.
“Philomena!”
“Yes, Hugo?”
“I’m desperate.”
“Poor Hugo!”
“You know what’s the matter. Or don’t you?”
“Of course I know.”
“Then … come away with me.”
His plan of escape dissolved into gloom as the gangplank of a steamer flashed upon his inward eye. That was no way.
“I must talk to Gibbie,” murmured Philomena.
Talks to Gibbie, scenes, packing up, customs houses, trouble with Caro, more publicity, the divorce court: that was what it meant. He had been mad.
“I don’t think Gibbie would mind, Hugo. He understands me. If I came for a little while …”
“For a little while?” echoed Hugo blankly.
His mind had scarcely adjusted itself to this amazing idea before they were startled by the tolling of a great bell in the Syranwood stables. It swung out over the hayfields so that shepherds on the downs might know that their betters were about to dress for dinner. In the house hot baths were being turned on and maids were laying dresses reverently on beds. There was a girding of loins in the butler’s pantry, and the cook and her satellites knew nothing of the cooling day.
Smoke rose from the cottage chimneys in the valley. Ploughmen and their wives sat at supper with the day’s toil behind them. Out in the fields the last wagon had creaked through the gate into the lane. But at Syranwood the curtain was about to ring up on the biggest drama of the day, and all those upon whom the success of the evening depended were settling themselves into harness. Dinner must be cooked and served and in due time ninety-six plates, seventy-two glasses, twelve coffee cups, thirty-six spoons, seventy-two forks, and sixty knives would come back to be washed, not to mention dishes, sauce boats, salad bowls and cream jugs.
And yet, in the mellowing light, the house looked as if every one in it had gone to sleep. The sun had dipped suddenly behind the trees, but the sky was still full of gold and the cedars and yews, massed against all that glory, looked quite black, while the line of hills was turning rapidly to indigo. In the hall it was dusk. Hugo paused there amid the litter of dogs and hats and garden baskets and dishevelled copies of Proust. He said:
“Don’t risk anything you value for me, my dear. I’m not worth it.”
“I’ll talk to Gibbie.”
9. Talking to Gibbie.
She had no maid with her, but one of the housemaids had put out her new black dress on the bed. She looked at it doubtfully, wondering if she should wear it after all. Perhaps it was too sophisticated. She did not want to be seen in competition with Laura or Aggie, and the cut, which commanded respect when she dined out with Gibbie in Regent’s Park, would pass unnoticed here.
Gibbie’s things were arranged on a smaller bed in his dressing-room, hot water steamed in brass jugs in the basins and the door of the bathroom stood open to show that the first bath was ready. And the whole place smelt like a room in the country, of mignonette from the large bowls on the dressing and writing tables, and of fresh, lavendered linen. The incense of cut hay drifted through the window. Philomena knew them all so well, these country smells, just as she knew the view from the window, the gracious curving line of hills and trees, but for the moment she felt impatient of them. They were old, and they had been going on a long time, while she was in a hurry. So she pulled the curtains, turned on the light, and slipped out of her damp bathing suit.
She was still in the bath when Gibbie came into his dressing-room. He called to her:
“Are you nearly through?
“Yes.”
He opened the door and looked in, peering through the clouds of steam at the ravishing creature who belonged to him. He had been married for fifteen years. Though he still had ardent moments this was not one of them. He said:
“I didn’t lock the bathing shed, because I couldn’t find the key.”
Philomena gave him a sombre look and he asked if anything was the matter.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you eyeing me like that? What have I done?”
“Nothing.”
He knew better than that. Trouble of some sort was brewing. But he did not press the point, and merely said:
“Well then, hurry up. I want a bath too.”
Philomena hurried up. She powdered her back, tugged a comb through her curls and hooked the tight-fitting bodice of her white dress under her arms. With lipstick she carefully accentuated the heart-shaped line of her mouth with its full lower lip. And then she went to talk to Gibbie while he tied his tie.
“Hullo!” he said, “you’ve not put on the artichoke, after all.”
“My black dress? No. I haven’t.”
“I thought you brought it down especially. Isn’t it your best dress?”
“It’s not as becoming, really, as this.”
“I agree. But I thought all those criss-cross lines were supposed to be very fashionable.”
“Gibbie, you remember a talk we had before we were married? When we were eng
aged?”
Gibbie did not answer, because he was brushing his hair, and she had to repeat her question. Then he turned round, a wooden brush in either hand. There was a puzzled look on his face (‘his nice walrus face,’ as Geraldine said when the engagement was announced).
“Which talk, dear?”
“About being free.”
“Did we talk about being free?”
“Of course we did. Surely you remember. It isn’t so terribly long ago.”
“Fifteen years,” said Gibbie unnecessarily.
He showed no signs however of remembering their talk and presently he added:
“You know I often feel as if I’d been born married …”
“Do you? I don’t. And I wish you would try to remember. We had a most important talk and we agreed that freedom is the one really vital thing in marriage. Surely you remember.”
“I can’t say that I do. Was it that day when we went on a bus and your hat blew off?”
“No. Do listen please. This is serious. Really you mustn’t pretend that you don’t remember. Because we settled some important things then. At least, I hope we did. We agreed that we were both to be perfectly free.”
“And aren’t we?”
“I don’t know if we are or not, because we haven’t put it to the test. I said then (oh, you must remember this), I said if ever you fell in love, temporarily, with someone else, I’d try to understand. As long as you came back. As long as our home, and our children, didn’t suffer. We agreed that two people can never be quite everything to each other, and that to try was to shut each other up in prison. And that marriage ought to be as full and rich an experience as possible. And that really civilised people wouldn’t deny each other new experiences … and … and other friendships … don’t you remember now?”
“Extraordinary,” commented Gibbie, as he pummelled his head with the hair brushes, “what a lot being married teaches you. I must have been half-baked.”
“I don’t think it’s half-baked,” said Philomena crossly.
“I know you don’t. But I do. I talked a lot of hot air in those days I suppose. But I know now that it wouldn’t work.”
“I can’t see why not. If you came to me and told me that you’d fallen desperately in love with … with … well, say with that girl you admired so much at the Tyrrells the other night, that Mrs. Drew, and that you wanted to go off with her for a little while, I think I’d try to understand.”
“I’m sure Drew wouldn’t. His head looks as if it had been shut in a door. I shouldn’t think he’s ever understood anything. And he’s so much bigger than I am. Try somebody with a little tiny husband.”
Philomena nearly stamped. It seemed as if he was determined not to take her seriously.
“You’ve gone back on your word then,” she exclaimed. “You didn’t mean what you said about freedom. I married you on the understanding …”
“That I’d fall in love with other people now and then?”
“Not you necessarily.”
“Oh? Both of us?”
“Why not?”
“Philomena! Are you serious?”
“Quite serious.”
“You mean that it’s not only my duty, but yours as well … my dear girl, what are you driving at?”
At last he had grasped the fact that there was something behind all this and that she was not merely chattering out of idle sociability. She was trying to tell him something. He put down his brushes before he asked the next question.
“You haven’t fallen in love with anyone, have you?”
He had come to the point a little too soon. She had meant to tie him down first, to remind him of his early promises and extract an admission that he still held by them. Even then it would not have been easy to pass from the general to the particular.
She took the offensive.
“You promised. And it’s not fair to go back on it now. But you’ve never been fair to me, Gibbie. You never look at me yourself, and you’re not prepared to let anyone else look. You take everything for granted.”
She spoke of parlourmaids and teeth and having Betsy to dinner and childbirth and laundries and her immortal soul. She pelted him with reproaches, and her ammunition was so varied that he hardly knew where to turn. It seemed that he had done nothing but wrong for fifteen years, and if he tried to justify himself on one charge he was immediately tripped up with another. Undoubtedly he had been, for many years, the most inconsiderate, the most crassly complacent husband in Regent’s Park. He would have laughed if the threat of something worse ahead had not sobered him.
“And what’s at the bottom of all this?” he demanded at last. “What have I done to-day? Do come to the point.”
“I’m perfectly prepared to be open with you. I would never do anything without telling you. And I want you to understand that I put my home first. Nothing would induce me to shirk my responsibility there. When the children were babies I gave up my whole life to them. Nobody could say that I haven’t done my duty by them and by you. And I’m perfectly prepared to come back and be a good wife to you, Gibbie. It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do. But I’m something else, besides being your wife. I have a life apart from you, and I don’t see anything wrong in that. As long as it is frankly admitted. A great deal of me is being wasted. I’m still young, and the life I have to lead is too narrow. It’s stifling me. You don’t really want me …”
“Philomena!”
“Not all of me. Why should you? After fifteen years it’s a wonder if you know I’m there at all. I think it would do us both good if we took a little holiday away from each other. I think we should love and appreciate each other more. But I’m not going to do what some women do, because I think it’s wrong. I’m not going to deceive you. I trust that there will never be any need for deceit or subterfuge between us. We’re both civilised people. Surely we can talk things out?”
“We’ll have to,” said Gibbie gloomily. “Do I understand from all this that you want to take a lover? That there is somebody …”
“Yes. There is. But I’m not going to do anything that you won’t agree to. And I have some justification in expecting you to see my point of view because of the opinions you expressed before we were married. You’ve never said before that you’d changed them.”
Gibbie was impossible. He chose this moment to regulate his watch. And then he started going round the room, picking things up and putting them down without seeming to know what he was doing. At last, with an effort, he asked:
“Who …?”
“That doesn’t signify, just at present. I’ll tell you, if we can agree on principle. But if we can’t agree I don’t think I’ll tell you. Because, of course, if we can’t agree I’ll give him up. You come first, naturally. It’ll be my happiness that I give up: my right to be myself. But I’ll give it up if you wish it. I can promise you that. I’ll never see him again.”
“You mean to say that this fellow has asked you … has actually suggested …”
“Gibbie! Don’t be so furious! It’s … it’s uncivilised …”
“Somebody I know? One of our friends?”
“You’ve said hundreds of times that jealousy is a degrading thing and that a liberally minded man ought to …”
Gibbie pulled himself together and spoke more quietly.
“That’s quite true,” he agreed. “But one isn’t always able to do what one ought. I’m sorry. At least, I’m not sure if I am. It seems so monstrous …”
“Why monstrous? What on earth is there monstrous about it? I love you, and I love him too, in a different way. And I don’t see that I’m taking away anything that belongs to you, by giving what he wants to him. If you’re thinking of the mere aspect of physical intimacy, that’s barbarous. I want you to consider the emotional side of it. What do you gain by repressing my feeling for him? Don’t you think that emotional experience makes people richer, not poorer? And the richer I am, the more I could give you. Yes? Come in!”
; A maid had tapped at the door to know what time Mrs. Grey would like to be called in the morning and if she would have breakfast in bed and whether she would take coffee or tea. When she had settled these points Philomena went back to the dressing-room. Gibbie was still sitting on his bed, looking as though he had been through a railway accident. His hair stood on end, his clean shirt was crumpled, and his walrus face was mottled with diverse emotions. Grief, fury, and bewilderment buffeted him in turn until he could hardly have said what he was feeling. He looked at his wife in a dazed way and asked if she really had come in five minutes ago and told him that she proposed to take a lover. He looked so forlorn that she felt obliged to deal more gently with him.
“Yes I did, Gibbie darling. But please don’t look so miserable. If you mind terribly, I won’t go. You will come first, always. Do understand that.”
“I can’t understand anything.”
“I told him that I could do nothing, promise nothing, until I’d talked to you.”
“You told him …” Anger for a moment got the upper hand. “What right had you to tell him anything of the sort? Good God! He must think me a …”
“No, he didn’t. This sort of situation isn’t as unusual as you seem to think. After several years of marriage it’s almost inevitable. I know of more than one case … and if it’s dealt with frankly, it needn’t mean disaster.”
“But you couldn’t have thought … Philomena, what has happened? What has suddenly come between us?”
She was just about to say that it was not sudden when she paused. A wave of sick doubt broke over her. She was unsure of Hugo, of herself, of the whole business.
“How can you love him? What is he to you, that I can’t be? Do try to explain.”
Against the solid reality of her relations with Gibbie she tried to evoke the image of Hugo, the appeal which he had made to her, the love, it must be love, which he had awakened. But the image in her mind was as unreal and shadowy as the face which had looked up at her from the waters of the lake. She tried to think of Hugo and she could only picture herself, her own wasted life. He was a mystery, a cult, a symbol, the embodiment of the youth that was slipping away from her. But apart from that, he had no solid existence. He was not real, as this blustering, walrus-faced husband of hers was real.
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