by Martin Boyd
“Yes, so you did. You’re one of the A.D.C.s,” Diana said to John. “I suppose I ought to ask you questions, but I don’t know where to begin. When my other daughter was married, it was to a young man she’d known as a child. He didn’t ask our permission. He just married her. I couldn’t reasonably object, as I married against my own parents’ wishes, and I’ve never regretted …” She stopped abruptly. She had noticed two or three times in the last fortnight that if she was not careful, her mind continued to flow along the channels it had been accustomed to, before she discovered Wolfie’s infidelity. She went on: “I suppose I ought to ask you if you can keep her.”
“I haven’t any money,” said John, looking anxious.
“None at all?” asked Diana, kindly but equally anxiously. She did not want Josie to trail homeless round the world as the wife of a soldier living on his pay. It turned out however that John had an allowance from his parents, from whom he would inherit an estate of four thousand acres in Devonshire, with a house called Wootton Speke built in the fifteenth century, which had been in the possession of his family since the seventeenth. His father had thought that he should go into the army till he married, but he did not like it very much. When he married he was to have a farm and take part in the management of the estate.
“I don’t call that having no money,” said Diana.
“Yes, but we won’t have much until I inherit, and I hope that will be years and years ahead. You would like my father.”
Diana smiled at him and said to Josie: “You go and tidy yourself while I ask Captain Wyckham some more questions.”
“He’s John,” said Josie, and she went out of the room.
“I must apologize,” said Diana. “When you arrived I was worried about something—a personal matter, quite irrelevant, but at first I could hardly take in what you were saying. Apart from what you have told me I know nothing about you. It’s rather strange to agree immediately to one’s daughter marrying a young man whom one doesn’t know. But I may tell you that I do like what I have seen of you, and that from our point of view you are an extremely desirable parti. In Australia so few of the people of our sort have much money nowadays. My other son-in-law is very nice, but he’s penniless. I’d rather have that than a rich boor, but naturally I don’t want my daughters to starve. What I most want to be sure of is that you really love Josie and that you will do your best to make her happy.”
“I wanted to marry Josie the first minute I saw her,” said John. “I knew I must. It was at that party at the Radcliffes’ when she stood by the door and looked surprised, as if she had just come into the world. I wanted to put out my hand and touch her. I’ve been looking for her ever since, but she’s so elusive. I saw her a few times up at Macedon and I was going to ask her to marry me at the ball, but I was called away to remove that awful woman. Then I ran her to earth at Warrandyte this afternoon.”
“But what d’you think your parents will say? They might not like your marrying an unknown girl from the other side of the world.”
“They’ll be thrilled when they see Josie. This afternoon when I met her she was carrying a pot plant to give to your nephew. We planted it together and she knew all about how to do it. My parents will love that. When I saw her carrying that pot of daphne I knew I couldn’t live a minute longer without her. And I’d rather cut off my head than not make her happy,” he added, with a touch of indignation. “I only hope I can.” His eyes were moist.
“I’m sure you will,” said Diana gently.
Josie came back into the room. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
“It’s more than all right,” said Diana. She took Josie in her arms and kissed her and the warmth of her affection was due not only to pleasure in her happiness, but to the fact that she had been so surprisingly restored to her for a little longer.
The bell jangled again in the kitchen passage, and Diana went towards the door. “Isn’t Maggie in?” asked Josie.
“No. They’re both out. I’ll go,” said Diana.
When she opened the front door, Russell, as she expected, was standing there.
“Is somebody here?” he asked quietly. “There’s a car at the gate.”
“Yes. It’s Josie and that young Captain Wyckham, the aide-de-camp. They’ve just arrived from Warrandyte. They’re engaged. It’s a complete surprise.” Diana stepped out on to the veranda. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly come tonight, Russell. I am so sorry, but it’s impossible.”
He thought a moment. “Yes, of course, I see that.” He paused and as if finally convincing himself, added: “It would be quite impossible. Ought I to come in?”
“I think it would be better if you did.”
“I could say I was passing and called in.”
“I thought you would do that,” said Diana. She now felt completely at ease. Half an hour earlier, when she was in despair at leaving her home and her children, Russell had seemed unreal, almost menacing, a slightly sinister, romantic hero. Now that he was here in the flesh, kind and sensible as usual, she was immensely comforted and cheered. She led the way into the drawing-room.
“Here’s Mr Lockwood,” she said.
“I was in the neighbourhood and called on the chance of finding someone in. I believe I’m to congratulate you,” he said.
“Yes, you’re the first,” said Josie.
“That’s a privilege.” He shook hands with both of them, giving John a quick approving scrutiny.
They stood talking conventionally for a few minutes, then Diana said: “I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stay to dinner, because there’s no dinner.”
“Why don’t you all come and dine with me in Melbourne?” asked Russell.
“At Menzies? We’d all have to change.”
“No. At a foreign restaurant. I’ve found quite a good one.”
“That would be lovely,” said Josie.
She went with John, and Diana drove with Russell.
“This is a dreadful thing I’ve done to you,” she said. “I told you I had complications, but I didn’t foresee this one. It isn’t fair that you should have your plans upset by my affairs.”
“Naturally, I’m disappointed,” he said, “but I regard your affairs as my affairs—I don’t mean to interfere with—but what happens to you, happens to me.”
“You understand so perfectly that I feel I can tell you everything.”
“I hope you will.”
“Russell, I hope you’ll understand what I’m going to say. I’m glad that this has happened. All the time I have been worried about Josie, and this settles that difficulty. He seems an extremely nice young man, simple in a good way. You may think I’m rather unstable. It was I who wanted to go quickly because I felt that I couldn’t go on living in the house with Wolfie. But since I came back from Westhill it has not been so bad. We lead our independent lives fairly comfortably. I hope to bring him round to accept the arrangement. You see at first I wanted to rely on anger to make the break, and that’s cowardly. I want to make it peacefully if I can.”
“That would be better,” he agreed.
They did not speak much for the rest of the drive. He seemed rather thoughtful. Diana wondered if he had really accepted what she had said, but she did not feel that he had withdrawn from her. She felt that he was with her.
They drew up outside a French restaurant, near the Exhibition Buildings. John, who had been ahead, slowed up and signed to them to pass so that he could follow them and know where to go.
As they went into the restaurant Diana had a moment of anxiety lest they should find Wolfie there with Mrs Montaubyn, but this was a situation which she was spared.
Russell said that this was a celebration, and he ordered champagne. They became cheerful, and John and Josie were lively and amusing, already chaffing each other about how they would behave when they were married. Russell and John appeared to get on well together, and Diana thought what a well-assorted party they made. She had thought so the last time they were togeth
er, for those few minutes in the drawing-room at Government House. Everything, after her terrible anxieties of an hour or so ago, was falling into its proper place. New aspects of this development occurred to her at intervals. Josie would be in Europe and they would not be separated. She and John both evidently liked Russell, and nothing could be more desirable than that this should happen before events which might prejudice them against him. Also, she knew the attitude of most Englishmen to Australians, and to produce someone as highly-civilized as Russell as an old family friend, would give a good impression of Josie’s background. The four of them together created happiness, and Diana thought that in a year’s time, when she had fixed up her arrangements here without too great a scandal, they might be dining together like this in Paris or in Rome, and how wonderful it would be.
When they came out of the restaurant, John said that he could take Diana back to Brighton, but Russell said it would be more comfortable if they took both cars.
When they were again together in the car, Diana was thinking that they would be unable to go before Josie’s marriage, so she was surprised when Russell said:
“We shan’t be able to go before their marriage.”
“It seems so unfair to you,” she replied.
“It would be shockingly unfair to them if we did.”
“Yes. I was just thinking that.”
“When are they likely to be married?”
“Assuming his parents agree, I suppose the wedding could be in about three months.”
“It isn’t long.”
“D’you think it’s too soon? People will say I’m trying to make certain of him. That’s how they talk here.”
“They don’t matter. I should think three months is about right.”
“When am I going to come up against something horrid in you?” asked Diana. “Every time I meet you you show some new goodness.”
“D’you want me to be horrid?”
“No, of course not. But I feel I must be imagining greater happiness than anyone can have—anyone of my age. One expects these illusions in Josie and John, though I hope they’re not illusions.”
“You’ll find my faults in time. I’m clever at concealing them. I don’t think it shows unusual virtue to expect you to avoid wrecking your daughter’s life. Imagine the effect on his people if you eloped before the wedding.”
“It would be grotesque—but after the wedding?”
“Then our lives are our own.”
John and Josie arrived at the house before them, and had crossed the road and were looking at the sea, across which a sparkling, pale golden path ran to the moon. They came over when Diana and Russell arrived. John had to go.
“I should have been back earlier,” he said, “but I think the occasion justifies a breach of discipline. In fact I think it justifies a jolly revolution.” Then he turned to Diana and asked seriously: “What will Mr von Flugel say?” Josie replied:
“Daddy will say: ‘It is good for a young girl to marry a young man. I am happy.”
They laughed, Diana a little uneasily.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
John cabled to his parents asking their approval of his engagement to Josie. He did not ask their permission as he was determined to marry her. He knew that they would be dubious about his marrying an Australian girl with a German name, and to reassure them he put in his cable: “No blemishes. Miss Rockingham approves.” They replied: “We trust your judgement. Love.” Though it was really Miss Rockingham’s judgement that they trusted.
The announcement of the engagement caused surprise, and amongst the new-rich Toorak ladies, great indignation. Mrs Vane, whose husband had forked out two thousand pounds a year to enable his daughter to marry an aide-de-camp, though certainly he had been the son of a peer, was dumbfounded that a penniless girl from Brighton, who was not “in society” should get one for nothing. Baba was as angry as Mrs Vane. With her social ambition she might have been expected to be glad if members of the family made good marriages, but she so disliked her “in-laws” and especially Diana, that she could not bear any good fortune to come to them. Also, the only sentence in all Holy Writ of which she approved was: “From him that hath not shall be taken even that which he hath.” She had been accustomed to say: “Josie’s a pretty little thing, but no one will want to marry von Flugel’s daughter. Couldn’t she find some useful employment?” She now began to hint that not only Wolfie was disreputable, as Miss Bath had told her that she had found Diana and Russell having supper alone together “in arm-chairs”.
Cousin Sophie on the other hand, who might have been expected to be a little piqued as she regarded Government House as her own preserve, showed great pleasure. She might be unable to resist the satisfaction of an erudite riposte even if it flattened its victim, but she was never unkind in her intention. Although she knew many people of the kind of whom Baba and Mrs Vane were extreme examples, she never understood them. She thought that they were rather vulgar, but she did not take in that they had no basic reality. They spent their time trying to fit their lives to a pattern which existed on the other side of the world, the original of which most of them had never seen. Cousin Sophie on the other hand had grown up in that pattern, and modified it here and there to suit the country in which she found herself. It was the action of these two processes, the striving by one, and the modification by the other, which led, twenty years later, to the amazing incident of Baba’s cutting Cousin Sophie.
Cousin Sophie may also have thought that she could afford to be complacent about Josie’s engagement, as she expected very soon to be able to announce Anthea’s to Captain Thorpe. He was not the type of young man whom in England she would have thought a desirable son-in-law, but she was sufficiently influenced by the atmosphere of Melbourne to feel the glamour surrounding anyone attached to the Governor-General’s staff, and as it was through Government House that she had descended into Australian life, she had a vague feeling that it might also be the door through which her daughters might ascend again to the region she had inhabited in her youth.
She thought very little about money. She had an instinctive regard for exalted rank, but most she valued a cultivated intelligence. She did not bother about the finances of presentable young men. She was not very clear as to how much her husband earned, and she would have been astonished at the idea of a fortune-hunter coming after one of her daughters. She thought that Freddie was attracted to Anthea because she had the manner of a young English gentlewoman. She knew that Freddie was Sir Roland’s nephew. She did not know that when Sir Roland’s sister married his father, the marriage was deplored, and only allowed because Mr Thorpe was enormously rich. In a few years he lost his entire fortune and committed suicide, and Sir Roland had to pay for Freddie’s education, a rather unprofitable expenditure.
Wolfie did not receive the news of the engagement quite as Josie had expected, though there was no question of his withholding his approval. He had not intended to visit Mrs Montaubyn on the evening when he had believed that Diana had forgiven him, but the reconciliation had awakened sentimental feelings, and during the half-hour’s journey to Melbourne, owing to the trance effected in his musical mind by the rhythm of the train, he sank into a reverie on the sweet sadness of life, and when he arrived at Flinders Street he felt the need of womanly comfort, and he called on Mrs Montaubyn after all. With the pound which Diana had allowed him to keep he took her to dine at the French restaurant, but by miraculous good fortune they left five minutes before Russell and his guests arrived.
When he returned home a little earlier than usual, he felt ashamed of himself, and wished that he had not been to see Mrs Montaubyn, especially as she had not been very comforting. Lady Eileen had said that Germans are incapable of understanding the effect of their actions on other people, and it was certainly true of Wolfie. He complained to Mrs Montaubyn about the rift in his home life. If he had said how tiresome and ill-natured Diana was, she might have given him all the sympathy he required. Instead of this he san
g Diana’s praises and said how sad he was that she would not show him affection, and he implied that the responsibility for this rested with Mrs Montaubyn.
When he found Diana and Josie still up, and when they told him of the engagement, he felt more ashamed. This would have been the perfect moment for a reconciliation. He would have liked to be the proud and honourable parent blessing his daughter. He disliked being ashamed, and when it happened, he immediately searched for some way of transferring the feeling to others. He complained that he had not been consulted.
“Captain Wyckham came to ask your consent, but you weren’t at home,” said Diana.
“He will take her to England. Who will care for my old age?” asked Wolfie.
Josie looked hurt. Diana was so angry that Wolfie should at this moment cloud her happiness with his miserable selfishness that if Josie had not been present, she would have retorted: “Mrs Montaubyn, presumably.” Instead, she said: “You might think of Josie, rather than yourself, at this moment.”
Wolfie looked surprised and said: “Indeed, I wish her happiness,” and he kissed her. Diana could tell from his guilty manner, always insufficiently disguised under a pompous veneer, that he had been somewhere disreputable, and to see him, perhaps with the powder from another woman’s cheeks on his face, kissing Josie in her shining happiness, blotted out any kindliness she might have felt for him when she herself kissed him at the door a few hours earlier. People might think Wolfie amusing, but these children of nature could produce at times situations of intolerable squalor. She was hardened in her intention to leave him as soon as Josie was married and had left for England.
She now met Russell with acknowledged secrecy. Before the ball they had accepted without actually mentioning it, that it would be indiscreet for them to be seen much together. But then, as she had regarded her behaviour and her intentions as blameless, she did not think it would have mattered much if their friendship had been noticed, and so she had not been disturbed by Miss Bath’s intrusion on them at supper.