by Dodie Smith
‘Then he wasn’t rich? It was all your money?’
‘I wonder why I told you all that?’ said Mr Charles gloomily. ‘I’m probably patting myself on the back for treating him well – trying to get rid of the guilt of causing his death. Do you remember warning me I should be sorry?’
‘But I didn’t mean …! Of course you didn’t cause his death! When a man’s ninety—’
He interrupted her. ‘When a man’s ninety, one should humour him – as I had done for years, God knows. Well, let’s not talk about it.’
‘Yes, do let’s,’ said Clare firmly. ‘I’m sure you’ll feel better if you do. Besides, I terribly want to know. I was somehow involved in it, wasn’t I? What went wrong?’
‘For the first time in my life I opposed what he wanted without even a hint of tactful deception. He was pathetically easy to deceive; one only had to temporize, do a bit of inventing … I knew exactly how to handle him. But that night of all nights I stonewalled him completely. It seemed unthinkable not to. You see, my dear, he was absolutely determined I should persuade you to become my mistress.’
Her main reaction was one of pleasure, and though she felt she mustn’t show this she wasn’t going to pretend she was shocked. So she said quite lightly: ‘Goodness, how awful for you! Though I’m sure he meant it kindly. Couldn’t you just have said you’d think it over?’
Mr Charles was looking at her in surprise. ‘How remarkably well you’ve taken that disclosure. Of course I ought to have done just what you suggest. Though he wouldn’t have left it at that.’
‘If he’d lived, perhaps we could have pretended … well, to be interested in each other.’
‘That flashed through my head when I decided to tell you what the trouble was. And on my part it wouldn’t have been pretence, as I’m sure you know. But it wouldn’t have satisfied him for long. He was obsessed by his delightful plan for us.’
‘I can see why,’ said Clare. ‘He thought he’d … somehow have a share in it. I suppose it’d have been a way of re-living his youth.’
‘And that idea doesn’t appal you?’
‘No, why should it?’
‘Well, I’ve always thought women have stronger stomachs than men,’ sald Mr Charles.
She looked puzzled. ‘It’s true I do have a very strong stomach but …’
‘Oh, my dear child!’ He laughed, then became serious again. ‘Don’t you really understand what he had in mind? You ought to, knowing how he’d made you talk to him, tried to live vicariously in your life. It was a sort of mental vampirism, due to the frustrations of old age.’
She said, after a second: ‘I do understand what you mean. Nurse Brown said he expected you to … tell him all the details of your life. But what had he to live on but the lives of others? And he must have known he hadn’t much time left. That’s why he tried to rush you into doing what he wanted.’
‘It was indeed,’ said Mr Charles. ‘When he sent for me again – just before I telephoned you, remember? – he told me he’d awakened from his afternoon nap with a premonition of death. He asked me at least to see that, after his death, you were provided for financially. That I could willingly promise. And I also said that, if he’d be a little patient, I’d consider asking you what you felt about his wishes for us. By then I had the idea of some sort of a conspiracy with you. He said: “And if I die suddenly?” I said in that case I’d promise to ask you.’
She gave herself no time to think about this before saying, ‘But that was marvellous. You did humour him. So you can’t possibly blame yourself for his death.’
‘It was my high-handed treatment of him earlier that did the damage; he was extremely distressed. I shall always blame myself for that.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Clare briskly. ‘He’d already had his premonition. You might as well blame me, for just happening.’
‘I did blame you – for trying to intrigue him. No doubt I let myself suspect you in an effort to get rid of my own guilt.’
She said reflectively, ‘I shall let myself believe that; then I shan’t worry about your having such a wrong idea of me. Did you send me to this sad place as a punishment?’
‘I wonder. No, I don’t think so. But I did want you to get the implications of this house. And it seemed a good setting for … a scene which isn’t now going to be played here.’ He smiled at her. ‘It would have been suitable for the girl I mistook you for but not for the girl you are.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ said Clare. ‘Now I want to know what it was.’
‘Well, you probably will, eventually – in less depressing surroundings. Though I really don’t know, now …’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I almost wish you were the girl I mistook you for. Of course, I should like you less but even that would make it easier. My dear, you’re looking as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa and considerably prettier. Am I right in thinking you guess what I was planning to ask you?’
‘No guesses,’ said Clare blandly, barely permitting any to herself. She continued to sit quietly waiting, still holding the miniature of Charles II; she had long since put down the photographs of Mr Rowley and his lady. Frequently, but never when the living Charles was looking, she took a satisfying glance at the long dead Charles. She sneaked one now, then abandoned Mona Lisa quiescence and said cheerfully: ‘Whatever it is, need you make quite such heavy weather of it?’
‘It’s just that I’m conscious of betraying a trust,’ said Mr Charles, unhappily. ‘You have, I think, a certain confidence in me – and I deliberately created it.’
She found herself wanting both to help him and to express something that was dawning on her. ‘What matters most to me is the confidence you give me in myself. Usually I’m … so utterly dim. But with you, from the very beginning, I’ve always felt …’
He waited, then prompted her. ‘Well?’
‘For the first time in my life, fully alive.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, gravely. “Though I don’t flatter myself that I, personally, have very much to do with it. I think you are the type of woman who only comes to life fully in the company of men who admire her. It’s a type of infinite value – to men: and it becomes rarer and rarer as women acquire more and more interests. I’m a man who considers the proper study of womankind is man – provided I’m the man. Well, you’ve made it easier to say what I have to say— what’s the matter?’
She had shivered uncontrollably. ‘There’s a draught – from the ftont door,’ she said, untruthfully, knowing she had shivered from excitement, not cold.
He went into the hall and shut the door. Now daylight came in only through the fanlight, and the skylight above the stairs. Rejoining her, he said: ‘Good God, we can’t sit here in the dark. Let’s postpone this conversation. I’ll take you out to tea.’
‘I don’t want tea,’ said Clare, very decidedly. ‘And there’s quite a bit of light, really. Please go on with what you’d begun to say.’
‘Well, I daresay the dark will be light enough for it – though I swear I have your happiness in view.’
He lit a cigarette and, as his lighter flickered, she was reminded of their first meeting in the pitch-dark hotel bedroom, and thought of it as the perfect prelude to this moment. The shuttered, secret house had become of great value to her; she even treasured the fear she had felt while, frozen into stillness, she had gazed at the sinister bed. And though almost breathless with excitement she was no longer troubled by suspense. Having become quite sure what he was going to say, she could await it blissfully.
‘Very well, then,’ he said at last. ‘As I pointed out less than a week ago, I’m exactly twice your age.’
‘But only for a month,’ she said, sweetly.
‘What?’
‘I shall have a birthday then. Remember, when I was one year old, you were twenty-two times my age, but I’ve been catching up ever since. If you go on living until you’re as old as Mr Rowley was, I shall be just on seven-ninths your age.’
H
e laughed. ‘How magnificent you are at arithmetic.’
‘Not usually,’ said Clare, remembering hated housekeeping books. ‘But I interrupted you.’
‘And I think perhaps you shouldn’t – helpful though I found that interruption.’ He had become more at ease. ‘Let me make the worst of myself first. And the worst includes worse than my age. I’m irrevocably married to a woman I haven’t even seen for over ten years. Did you realize I was married?’
She said with complete truth, ‘Do you know, I never even thought about it? Anyway, it couldn’t matter less.’
‘Should I take that for discouragement?’
‘Good gracious, no,’ she said in surprise.
Again he laughed. ‘Well, it might denote a complete lack of interest. But hear me out. I’ve kept the worst till the last. I haven’t, so far, had a talent for faithfulness; and whatever I may feel about the future, you should perhaps be warned by the past. And now … I fear there’s very little on the credit side, but I honestly believe I could make you happy. For one thing, you strike me as a girl who would thrive on luxury. Not that I’m implying that you’re mercenary.’
‘I never quite know what that means,’ said Clare. ‘I wouldn’t – well, do anything I didn’t want to do just for money. But I do find the idea of riches attractive.’
‘So do most women,’ said Mt Charles, dryly. ‘But you’re the only one I’ve met who was honest enough to admit it. Well, I’m rich enough. And, of course, I should make a settlement on you. But I can’t offer that as an inducement as I shall make it whatever you decide.’
‘Because you promised Mr Rowley?’
‘As I told you, that was a willing promise. And you couldn’t refuse me the comfort of carrying out his wishes. Well, there it is. But you don’t, of course, have to decide at once. The last time we met, you were kind enough to want me for a friend. Could you now accept me as … a friend on probation for possible promotion? My dear, am I being unbearably stilted? It’s largely due to guilt. I so well remember assuring you that I never laid siege to the innocent. Well, at least I offer you a safe conduct through the besieging forces – if you want it?’ He waited, then went on. ‘Might I now have – oh, not a definite answer, but your first reactions to what I’ve asked?’
‘You haven’t yet asked anything,’ said Clare.
He frowned. ‘How unlike you to be naive! You know exactly what I’m suggesting.’
‘Still, I’d like it in plain English.’
‘How brutal of you – when you’ve helped me out so kindly up to now. All right, then.’ His tone became brusque. ‘I’m asking you to become my mistress.’
She gave a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Mr Charles. It’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me.’
‘My God, I should hope so. And is this a moment to call me “Mr”?’
‘Then, thank you – Charles. Thank you very much for asking me to be your mistress – such a beautiful, romantic word, don’t you think?’
‘I do not,’ he said, grimly. ‘And I detest the thought that it should ever describe you; so much so, that I doubt if I could ever have brought myself to ask you if I hadn’t promised— What’s the matter?’
She had gasped in sharp dismay. During the last few minutes she had been triumphantly happy, at last fully aware that she was in love. She had begun to realize it on seeing him standing in the hall. Since then, the fact of his royal descent, the resemblance to her old idol, Charles II, the growing sense of intimacy between them in this house of long-ago love, all these combined to make her more and more sure until she had experienced a flash of complete certainty with the flash of the cigarette lighter. And now …!
In a whirling moment of confusion she remembered he had made no mention of caring for her. Presumably he was, at least, attracted – or could she not even presume as much as that, considering what he’d just said? A wave of her old sense of inferiority washed over her as she asked him, ‘Is it only because you feel you must keep your promise?’
Little short of a declaration of love would have reassured her. Instead, he merely told her not to be absurd.
She assumed a high, bright voice intended to be sophisticated. ‘Poor man, what an ordeal for you! But it’s all right now. You’ve kept your promise – and I hereby let you off. Of course I can’t be your mistress, Mr Charles.’
‘Might I point out that if I had my rights I should be King Charles? I doubt if you’ll get another chance to be a king’s mistress.’
It was too dark to see his expression but she was quite sure his tone was bantering. It both comforted and infuriated her; no doubt he was attracted and that was something, but how dare he treat her as a joke?
She said icily: ‘I’m sorry, but I had in mind a reigning king.’ He gave a shout of laughter. She slammed down the miniature, snatched up her handbag and ran towards the door. He called after her, ‘Clare, come back!’
‘Not unless you make me,’ she thought, walking briskly across the hall. Opening the front door, she dropped her handbag – and picking it up, remembered it hadn’t so much as a penny in it. How was she to get from wherever she was to wherever she decided to go? She’d never return to the hotel. If he let her get through the garden door she would just walk and walk until she dropped – and died, if she could possibly manage it … Her pace along the garden path slowed. Surely, surely, he would come after her? But he didn’t even call to her again. She reached the door in the wall and turned the handle—
To her unbounded relief the door was locked. And the keys? Heaven be praised, she had left them in the house.
She looked back. The afternoon sun was shining in through the front door, across the hall and into the dim drawing-room, where he now sat on the edge of the table on which she had put the keys. She saw him pick up the large one, then turn to her and smile.
Neither pride nor indignation any longer supported her; she was too utterly submerged in love. She looked back pleadingly, then thought: ‘Oh, God, he’ll think I’m pleading for the key.’
But she had, it appeared, underestimated his powers of perception.
Interlude Under the Dome
Jane
Walking towards the house after garaging her car, Jane saw that a good fire was burning in the hall; a cheerful sight had it not indicated that Miss Winifred Carrington would be in front of the fire and alone. Richard, Jane felt sure, would prefer to shiver in his music room rather than sit with his aunt.
She went a little way beyond the house so that she could see the barn. Yes, there was a light behind the drawn curtains; never before had she known him to draw them. She would have liked to go and talk to him but perhaps he was trying to work, in which case it would be kinder to join Miss Carrington and keep that most irritating woman from disturbing him.
Why, Jane asked herself, should one so dislike a small, quiet, really very pretty old lady? And how could an old lady so lacking in personality have such an effect on the atmosphere of Dome House? Though, to be fair, no doubt the absence of Merry, Drew and Clare affected the atmosphere as adversely as did the presence of their aunt. Great aunt, of course: one always had to remember Miss Carrington was said to be in her middle seventies, in spite of her comparatively unlined face. Perhaps when one reached that age one would be as selfish as she was. And one didn’t, really, have to do so much for her; the main burden fell on Richard. Well, one would go in and behave pleasantly.
She opened the front door and smiled brightly. ‘What a lovely welcoming fire!’
‘I had a lot of trouble with it,’ said Miss Carrington. ‘Wood isn’t what it used to be. And the logs are so heavy. I asked Richard to saw them all in half but he keeps forgetting. I expect you want your tea.’
This meant Miss Carrington wanted hers. Jane said she would put the kettle on.
The kitchen, these days, was cheerless and it was difficult to find what one wanted. As Miss Carrington frequently remarked, she was no longer equal to any household tasks, so Richard always had t
o cope with lunch single-handed. He combined tidyness with vagueness, putting everything away but seldom in the right place. However, Jane soon had a tray laid and bread and butter cut. The cake tin contained nothing but crumbs. This made her feel guilty as presumably she was still in charge of the housekeeping. But there had been plenty of cake yesterday. And really when one worked all day – and no one would co-operate … Nowadays the maids only brought home and cooked something for a pretty inadequate evening meal.
She carried the tea-tray into the hall.
‘No cake,’ said Miss Carrington resignedly. ‘We finished it at luncheon as no one had provided us with a pudding. If only Clare were here! There’s still no news of her.’
‘She’s probably too busy to write,’ said Jane.
‘But it’s a whole week. I came the day she left, you know.’
Cause and effect, thought Jane, who had accepted Richard’s view that Clare had bolted on hearing Miss Carrington’s voice.
‘She’d never have gone if she’d known I was coming. She owes so much to me. And I’m very fond of her. One can’t help feeling anxious.’
‘But I told you,’ said Jane patiently. ‘She’s perfectly all right. I had that letter from my friend who runs an employment agency.’
“That’s hardly the same as hearing from Clare. What did the letter say, exactly?’
Was the old lady becoming senile? Day after day this question had to be answered. ‘It said Clare had found work, reading to an old gentleman, and would be staying with him and his nurse at one of the very best hotels.’