by E. H. Young
Chapter L
He did not go home at once. He had to sort out the impressions and emotions crowded into the last half hour before he faced the placidity of his wife, who had never looked at him with such defencelessness, and the battery of his sister’s monologues. He strode down Chatterton Road, past the foot of the Avenue, where he had had the misfortune to see Flora with that young man, and when, after mounting the short, sharp ascent to the Downs, he reached their flat expanse, he thought it looked like a vast encampment on which the hawthorn bushes were dark tents, but there were no watch-fires and no sentries; they were not necessary. The encampment slept in peace as he felt well assured all the world he cared about would do ere long. He thought thankfully of the lives saved but he did not think of those which would be lost, starved, perhaps, in the flesh, and still more certainly in the spirit, and his thankfulness was not great enough to swamp his memory of Miss Spanner’s scepticism and the arrogance of it in that plain spinster. She had no right to any opinion and still less to offer one to him. And then he had to adjust Mrs. Fraser’s regrettable irony to the charmingly appealing aspect she had shown him, but this was not difficult. The appeal was to him as a man, the irony was for a situation she did not understand, and as he stood still under a cloudy sky, with no one else in sight and a moving circle of light from the cars on the surrounding roads enclosing him, he was momentarily astonished at his own perspicacity. He had seen through Mrs. Fraser’s mocking manner, he had always said there would be no war: there was no doubt he was right in one case and soon, he believed, he would be proved right in the other. But this astonishment was disloyalty to himself; it suggested an uncertainty he quickly disowned, and he felt enriched, enlarged, attractive and wise. His wisdom would have to be acknowledged by his family, his attractiveness would have to be controlled. Perhaps just a few words might be uttered in corroboration of the looks which had passed between them; then their lips must be sealed against each other and their looks diverted and, thus making pictures in his mind, Mr. Blackett directed his steps towards the road for, in the darkness, the uneven ground was apt to jerk him into the practical necessities of the moment. Yet, as he went homewards, out of the darkness into the lamplit street, a change came over the spirit of his dream. He remembered the cold and unresponsive atmosphere in Mrs. Fraser’s sitting-room; the grim silence of the young men who should have been overjoyed; his own daughter, silly child, following their lead; the insignificance—he had to admit it—of his presence in that company. Mrs. Fraser, at least, ought to have looked at him for sympathy and guidance. Had she been cautious or was she mentally under the domination of her sons and that impossible old maid who added to her pleasantries an appalling squint? For all the attention paid him he might as well not have been there, yet how different Mrs. Fraser had been when they were alone. How fortunate that the door had opened when it did! In the next few seconds what would he have said or done? He preferred not to answer this question though he could have done so quite satisfactorily. Either as a man moved irresistibly to an avowal or as one strong enough to refuse what she seemed to ask, he would have been pleased to see himself but, as he knew truth was waiting for him just round the corner, ready with its disconcerting mirror, he gave it the slip with a quick change of thought and entered his house without a glance across the road.
“I’m afraid I stayed rather a long time,” he said to Mrs. Blackett with a conscious air, for though he had run away from some of his own thoughts there was no reason why she should not be led into pursuit of them.
She was sitting up in bed and she laid aside the book she had been holding. “All alone in the dark?” she said. “That was a funny thing to do. I saw the sitting-room lights go out some time ago.”
“So you were watching for me?”
“No, I happened to be opening the window at that moment. I expect they are very tired and glad to go to bed. So am I.”
“And what has made you so tired?” he asked.
“You will find out to-morrow when you entertain your sister for a whole evening. To-morrow I shall take Rhoda on her long and dangerous journey across the road.”
“You choose to be sarcastic, Bertha,” he said, smiling indulgently and with reassurance, “but I hadn’t intended to go again. There is no need for you to worry about that.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Mrs. Blackett said. “I shouldn’t be able to stop.”
“Bertha!” he exclaimed. “What on earth has come over you?”
“A very strong sense of the ridiculous,” she replied. “It’s a healthy sense to have and I ought to have cultivated it more. It doesn’t help youth very much, but what a comfort in middle age!”
“I don’t understand you,” he said curtly.
“Don’t try,” she answered amicably.
“But I have always understood you, until lately. Lately you have been a little different. I haven’t,” he asked almost timidly, “I haven’t hurt you in any way, have I?”
“You couldn’t,” she said with impressive earnestness.
“No, not willingly,” he said, touched to see her looking at him with a sweet seriousness, and he was grateful for the calm permanence of her affection, though he remembered that she had cause for gratitude too. “Nevertheless,” he said, “you are a little different. You used not to have these queer fits of laughter.”
“You ought to be glad to see me so—so happy,” she said.
“But you don’t let me share in your amusement.”
“I would if I could but then, if that were possible, there would be no need to laugh.”
“I don’t understand you,” he said again, wishing he had a dressing-room in which he could remove his clothes in privacy.
“No,” she agreed kindly. “Was there any news?”
There was indeed. It looked as though they need not be burdened with Maude much longer. It was great and promising news, he told her, as he sat on his side of the bed and changed his trousers for the legs of his pyjamas, and then, safe from ridicule, he stood up, asking her whether he had not always said war could be avoided. Patience and perseverance would, it seemed, reap their reward, after all.
“And what will that be?” Mrs. Blackett asked. “And who gets it?”
“Bertha! Really! I’m afraid Maude has tired you out. You are not really as stupid as all that. Yet the plain fact is that women never seem to see things in true perspective. I should have expected Mrs. Fraser to be overjoyed at this prospect. Not a sign of it. But then—” He paused, thinking of her in that gentler aspect.
“Yes?” Mrs. Blackett said.
“I distrust the influence of that dreadful person who lives with her.”
“Just a pair of ignorant women,” Mrs. Blackett murmured.
“Exactly. Although—” Again he paused. It did not suit him to call Mrs. Fraser ignorant. “No, what they are suffering from in that house is lack of a mature man’s point of view.”
“You must try to supply it,” Mrs. Blackett surprised him by saying.
“I wish I could,” he said, drawing back the curtains and seeing a light still burning in Mrs. Fraser’s bedroom.
Mrs. Fraser in bed, Miss Spanner in her usual chair, were temporarily silent. Felix and James, much to Miss Spanner’s embarrassment—caught in her dressing-gown and with her hair in plaits—had unexpectedly joined the party and there had been a lively interchange of speculation and a unanimity of distrust about this third flight of fancy.
“It’s the first time they’ve ever come in when I’ve been with you,” she complained.
“It’s the first time this particular situation has arisen. And you’re just as modestly dressed as usual and look quite as nice.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“No, I didn’t mean to say much. And you don’t seem to realize that, to them, women of our age are not women at all, just nice old things. B
ut I’m glad they came. It made a little cosiness in a very strange world. And I’d give a good deal to know what Fergus is doing now.”
“No good, I’ll warrant.”
“And now you’re being spiteful and I won’t have it.”
“That’s all very well, but if you’re going to start thinking about him again—”
“I’ve never stopped for long.”
“Then I’m not safe after all!” Miss Spanner cried.
“Yes you are, yes you are. And for goodness sake, don’t begin boo-hooing again.”
“I think,” Miss Spanner said with dignity, “that’s rather a mean remark.”
“Then you shouldn’t be nasty about Fergus. You don’t understand him.”
“Well enough,” said Miss Spanner.
“It’s never well enough with any of us and, actually, for a minute or two to-night, I almost liked that silly ass.”
“What! Noah?”
“Good gracious, no! Dear Mr. Blackett. When he came in he really looked quite sorry for me. I didn’t want him to and I wish I hadn’t given him the chance. I hate being pitied, but it was a sign of grace, and I was tired after the wedding and it’s so devilish to have to choose between your country and your sons, and I hadn’t time to arrange my face before he saw it and, for a minute, he looked as though he understood and would like to say so.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“No time. The boys came in. We’ve always considered him detestable, but we may be wrong.”
“It would take more than a sympathetic look to make me change my opinion,” Miss Spanner said, “and that’s the kind of look I never get. But oh yes, we may be wrong. We may be wrong about Noah. All the virtues may be vices and all the villains saints, and weakness is wisdom and cowardice is a superior kind of courage, and filthy cruelty doesn’t matter so long as it happens a long way off and not to us. There’s no such thing as right or wrong. They are only words to juggle with, two jokers in one pack and very handy, and the sooner we’re all blown up the better. But to tell the truth, what’s worrying me at the moment is my belief that we’re being diddled and the elected representatives of the country will live to blush for their happy cheers to-night.”
“No they won’t,” Rosamund said. “Blushing’s out of fashion. They haven’t blushed for any of their retreats yet. Nowadays an excuse is a justification and the sinner’s always right and the sinned against is always wrong. Anyhow, we chose them. We’re not quite innocent. Go to bed, Agnes. Perhaps in our dreams we’ll get back to the world we used to know. But I haven’t quite given up all hope.”
“What of? You don’t imagine, do you, that this means relenting on the part of the relentless? It’s just an attempt to avoid war until they want it and as we’ve been very obliging so far, they don’t see why we shouldn’t oblige them a little more. Diddled!” Miss Spanner said again. “So what are you hoping for?”
“Just a little decent shame,” Rosamund said. “What an ambition! And I’m afraid that’s aiming rather high!” and she felt bitterly towards Felix whose stupid pride prevented her from keeping her indignation unalloyed.
Chapter LI
Rhoda, lying awake after Sandra had gone to sleep, was afraid the next night might see her on the drawing-room sofa. Though she did not know why her father had chosen to accompany her, she knew the mood in which he went away. Nobody had taken much notice of him and this, which had made her thankful, had made him cross. Inexperienced but acute and, like her mother, well read in her study of him, she knew he could not value anyone who did not value him and even the importance of the moment would not excuse this neglect: indeed it increased the offence, for he had expected to be asked for comment and to be listened to with respect. And that was not all. The room had been cold with scepticism, Miss Spanner had vexed him and he was quite likely to say he did not approve of the influence of the house but, as he would not make that decision if it involved him in difficulty or inconvenience, she saw a chance of being here each night until Aunt Maude went home or, as might be necessary, some other safe place was found for her. It was a nice house to be in, Rhoda thought and—again like her mother who had grudged wasting any of her happiness in sleep—she lay awake, enjoying being with Sandra and knowing that, below, there was Miss Spanner and, still farther below, there was James. She felt a great contentment in being near these three friends, and there was a sort of happiness in the house itself although, as Miss Spanner had instructed her, there could be no happy outcome to the situation. There was still the possibility that the boys might have to go and fight and while, as Miss Spanner’s faithful disciple, she was ready to believe that necessity would be rooted in righteousness, the horror of it had suddenly lost its vagueness. This was when she and Sandra and James and Felix were talking on the landing, as seemed to be the family habit, before they went to their separate rooms and, for the first time, she looked at these young men with eyes appreciative of their comely youth, their little tricks of gesture and expression and, while she was still too immature to be moved by these physical aspects, she was approaching that state in her realization that they were both good to look at, their voices were pleasant to hear and they were a little mysterious in their different sex, and she knew she would not be happy, even working on the land, if these two were in danger of death or mutilation. But as she lay awake she was not thinking of this new pleasure in observing them; she was thinking that the secret of the house was the lack of enmity in it and the easy way they all had with each other. There was no Flora, Rhoda thought enviously, and no father presenting himself as wisdom and constantly revealing his weakness. Yet it might have been worse that evening, she thought, growing drowsy. He had not had a chance to be his didactic self. He had been dominated, she half regretted, by the combined forces of people who were quite indifferent to his opinion, and over whom, luckily for them, he had no control.
However, she found he had nothing but amiability for her next morning, at breakfast, when he was not eagerly reading the newspaper. He was anxious but optimistic and that, he found, was the general state of feeling in the business world. So Rosamund found it when she did her shopping. There was a peculiar hopefulness in the butcher’s handling of the meat and she fancied the errand boys were shriller than usual in their whistling and more dilatory in their methods and she hurried home where, throughout the rest of the day, she busied herself with packing up Chloe’s wedding presents and possessions, thinking there might be a letter from her to-morrow, remembering her own first nights and days with Fergus and doubting whether the conscientious accountant could be his equal as a lover, yet knowing there was no end to the surprises in human beings. And she thought of Felix going coldly to his marriage, if need be, taking his pleasure with a revengeful mental cruelty and hating himself for the cruelty and the pleasure and she was enraged because she was as helpless in this matter as in the other which might be settled this very night. Yet, though she called him foolish and wrongly proud, she recognized that he alone could decide where his honour was engaged and that it was as dear to him as her country’s was to her, that he might see her attitude towards his affair as she saw the attitude of such as Mr. Blackett in the national entanglement. She thought, too, about Piers Lindsay who would be sure to come to-morrow for, whichever way things went, she would have need of him. It would always be her need he thought of, not his own, and dwelling on this certainty with gratitude, she realized how easy it would be to sacrifice him, for he was not only selfless: he would find an indignity in struggling for what he wanted unless he could be convinced no one else would suffer. And who else would? she asked impatiently. It would not be Fergus who had replied to her obliging letter—had it been too obliging?—with that curt telegram. What right had he to think she would wait indefinitely on his will? In her anger, she was near breaking one of Chloe’s fragile treasures, but this rare state of anger did her good. She felt freer, less involved i
n circumstances, and when Mrs. Blackett arrived just before nine o’clock, she found Mrs. Fraser surprisingly, almost disappointingly, gay.
Only she and Miss Spanner and Paul and Sandra were in the room, for James had said to Rhoda, “I can’t bear any more of this listening. We shall hear everything soon enough. Let’s go into the garden and pretend it’s a nice world,” and Mrs. Blackett, escaped from her sister-in-law, feeling herself stunned, as though she had spent the day in near neighbourhood to a powerful waterfall, was thankful to sink into a chair and be wrapped, for a few minutes, in the quietness of the shabby, pretty room before the announcer began his tale.
“But what kind of world would you like it to be?” Rhoda asked.
“One with peace in it but not too much plenty,” James said.
Again they were sitting on the roller for there was no other seat and again they had their backs to the house which, on this side, was quiet and in darkness but, from some other house, they could hear a broadcast voice without distinguishing the words and the incoherent, steady sound was like insanity protesting it was sane.
“I don’t want to fight men,” James said. “I want to fight the earth. No, not to fight it. I want to make it give me the value of the sweat I’ve put into it. That’s all and that’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s fair,” Rhoda said.
In front of them were the small trees of the garden, the bigger trees in the gardens that backed the houses beyond and hid them, but, here and there, a light from a distant window came through the branches.
“When it’s dark it’s like being in the country,” Rhoda said. “I’ve never really lived in the country. Once we had our holidays on a farm and I expect that’s where I got the taste for it.”