by John Fowles
"I wished to spare you. But yes--something has happened."
Very slowly she got to her feet and raised her hands to her cheeks, never for a moment quitting him with her eyes.
"Who?"
"You do not know her. Her name is unimportant."
"And she ... you ..."
He looked away.
"I have known her many years. I thought the attachment was broken. I discovered in London ... that it is
not."
"You love her?"
"Love? I don't know . . . whatever it is that makes it impossible to offer one's heart freely to another."
"Why did you not tell me this at the beginning?"
There was a long pause. He could not bear her eyes, which seemed to penetrate every lie he told. He muttered, "I hoped to spare you the pain of it."
"Or yourself the shame of it? You . . . you are a monster!"
She fell back into her chair, staring at him with dilated eyes. Then she flung her face into her hands. He let her weep, and stared fiercely at a china sheep on the mantelpiece; and never till the day he died saw a china sheep again without a hot flush of self-disgust. When at last she spoke, it was with such force that he flinched.
"If I do not kill myself, shame will!"
"I am not worth a moment's regret. You will meet other men ... not broken by life. Honorable men, who will ..." he halted, then burst out, "By all you hold sacred, promise never to say that again!"
She stared fiercely at him. "Did you think I should pardon you?" He mutely shook his head. "My parents, my friends-- what am I to tell them? That Mr. Charles Smithson has decided after all that his mistress is more important than his honor, his promise, his ..."
There was the sound of torn paper. Without looking round he knew that she had vented her anger on her father's letter.
"I believed her gone forever from my life. Extraordinary circumstances ..."
A silence: as if she considered whether she could throw vitriol at him. Her voice was suddenly cold and venomous.
"You have broken your promise. There is a remedy for members of my sex."
"You have every right to bring such an action. I could only plead guilty."
"The world shall know you for what you are. That is all I care about."
"The world will know, whatever happens."
The enormity of what he had done flooded back through her. She kept shaking her head. He went and took a chair and sat facing her, too far to touch, but close enough to appeal to her better self. "Can you suppose for one serious moment that I am unpunished? That this has not been the most terrible
decision of my life? This hour the most dreaded? The one I shall remember with the deepest remorse till the day I die? I may be--very well, I am a deceiver. But you know I am not heartless. I should not be here now if I were. I should have written a letter, fled abroad--"
"I wish you had."
He gave the crown of her head a long look, then stood. He caught sight of himself in a mirror; and the man in the mirror, Charles in another world, seemed the true self. The one in the room was what she said, an impostor; had always been, in his relations with Ernestina, an impostor, an observed other. He went at last into one of his prepared speeches.
"I cannot expect you to feel anything but anger and resentment. All I ask is that when these . . . natural feelings have diminished you will recall that no condemnation of my conduct can approach the severity of my own ... and that my one excuse is my incapacity longer to deceive a person whom I have learned to respect and admire."
It sounded false; it was false; and Charles was uncomfortably aware of her unpent contempt for him. "I am trying to picture her. I suppose she is titled--has pretensions to birth. Oh ... if I had only listened to my poor, dear father!"
"What does that mean?"
"He knows the nobility. He has a phrase for them--Fine manners and unpaid bills."
"I am not a member of the nobility."
"You are like your uncle. You behave as if your rank excuses you all concern with what we ordinary creatures of the world believe in. And so does she. What woman could be so vile as to make a man break his vows? I can guess." She spat the guess out. "She is married."
"I will not discuss this."
"Where is she now? In London?"
He stared at Ernestine a moment, then turned on his heel and walked towards the door. She stood. "My father will drag your name, both your names, through the mire. You will be spurned and detested by all who know you. You will be hounded out of England, you will be--"
He had halted at the door. Now he opened it. And that-- or the impossibility of thinking of a sufficient infamy for him--made her stop. Her face was working, as if she wanted to say so much more, but could not. She swayed; and then some contradictory self in her said his name; as if it had been a nightmare, and now she wished to be told she was waking from it.
He did not move. She faltered and then abruptly slumped to the floor by her chair. His first instinctive move was to go to her. But something in the way she had fallen, the rather too careful way her knees had crumpled and her body slipped sideways onto the carpet, stopped him.
He stared a moment down at that collapsed figure, and recognized the catatonia of convention. He said, "I shall write at once to your father."
She made no sign, but lay with her eyes closed, her hand pathetically extended on the carpet. He strode to the bellrope beside the mantelpiece and pulled it sharply, then strode back to the open door. As soon as he heard Mary's footsteps, he left the room. The maid came running up the stairs from the kitchen. Charles indicated the sitting room.
"She has had a shock. You must on no account leave her. I go to fetch Doctor Grogan." Mary herself looked for a moment as if she might faint. She put her hand on the banister rail and stared at Charles with stricken eyes. "You understand. On no account leave her." She nodded and bobbed, but did not move. "She has merely fainted. Loosen her dress."
With one more terrified look at him, the maid went into the room. Charles waited a few seconds more. He heard a faint moan, then Mary's voice.
"Oh miss, miss, 'tis Mary. The doctor's comin', miss. 'Tis all right, miss, I woan' leave ee." And Charles for a brief moment stepped back into the room. He saw Mary on her knees, cradling Ernestina up. The mistress's face was turned against the maid's breast. Mary looked up at Charles: those vivid eyes seemed to forbid him to watch or remain. He accepted their candid judgment.
51
For a long time, as I have said, the strong feudal habits of subordination and deference continued to tell upon the working class. The modern spirit has now almost entirely dissolved those habits . . . More and more this and that man, and this and that body of men, all over the country, are beginning to assert and put in practice an Englishman's right to do what he likes: his right to march where he likes, meet where he likes, enter where he likes, hoot as he likes, threaten as he likes, smash as he likes. All this, I say, tends to anarchy.
--Matthew Arnold, Culture and Anarchy (1869)
* * *
Dr. Grogan was mercifully not on his rounds. Charles refused the housekeeper's invitation to go in, but waited on the doorstep until the little doctor came hurriedly down to meet him--and stepped, at a gesture from Charles, outside the door so that their words could not be heard. "I have just broken off my engagement. She is very distressed. I beg you not to ask for explanation--and to go to Broad Street without delay."
Grogan threw Charles an astounded look over his spectacles, then without a word went back indoors. A few seconds later he reappeared with his hat and medical bag. They began walking at once.
"Not. . . ?"
Charles nodded; and for once the little doctor seemed too shocked to say any more. They walked some twenty or thirty steps.
"She is not what you think, Grogan. I am certain of that."
"I am without words, Smithson."
"I seek no excuse."
"She knows?"
"That there is anot
her. No more." They turned the corner and began to mount Broad Street. "I must ask you not to reveal her name." The doctor gave him a fierce little side-look. "For Miss Woodruff's sake.
Not mine."
The doctor stopped abruptly. "That morning--am I to understand ... ?"
"I beg you. Go now. I will wait at the inn."
But Grogan remained staring, as if he too could not believe he was not in some nightmare. Charles stood it a moment, then, gesturing the doctor on up the hill, began to cross the street towards the White Lion. "By heavens, Smithson ..."
Charles turned a moment, bore the Irishman's angry look, then continued without word on his way. As did the doctor, though he did not quit Charles with his eyes till he had disappeared under the rain-porch. Charles regained his rooms, in time to see the doctor admitted into Aunt Tranter's house. He entered with him in spirit; he felt like a Judah, an Ephialtes, like every traitor since time began. But he was saved from further self-maceration by a knock on the door. Sam appeared.
"What the devil do you want? I didn't ring." Sam opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Charles could not bear the shock of that look. "But now you've come--fetch me a glass of brandy."
But that was mere playing for time. The brandy was brought, and Charles sipped it; and then once more had to face his servant's stare.
"It's never true, Mr. Charles?"
"Were you at the house?"
"Yes, Mr. Charles."
Charles went to the bay window overlooking Broad Street.
"Yes, it is true. Miss Freeman and I are no longer to marry. Now go. And keep your mouth shut."
"But. .. Mr. Charles, me and my Mary?"
"Later, later. I can't think of such matters now."
He tossed off the last of his brandy and then went to the writing desk and drew out a sheet of notepaper. Some seconds passed. Sam did not move. Or his feet did not move. His gorge was visibly swelling. "Did you hear what I said?"
Sam had a strange glistening look. "Yes, sir. Honly with respeck I 'ave to consider my hown sitwation." Charles swung round from his desk.
"And what may that mean?"
"Will you be residin' in London from 'enceforward, sir?"
Charles picked up the pen from the standish.
"I shall very probably go abroad."
"Then I 'ave to beg to hadvise you, sir, that I won't be haccompanin' you."
Charles jumped up. "How dare you address me in that damned impertinent manner! Take yourself off!"
Sam was now the enraged bantam.
"Not 'fore you've 'eard me out. I'm not comin' back to Hexeter. I'm leavin' your hemploy!"
"Sam!" It was a shout of rage.
"As I bought to 'ave done--"
"Go to the devil!"
Sam drew himself up then. For two pins he would have given his master a never-say-die* (as he told Mary later) but he controlled his Cockney fire and remembered that a gentleman's gentleman uses finer weapons. So he went to the door and opened it, then threw a freezingly dignified look back at Charles. [* A black eye.]
"I don't fancy nowhere, sir, as where I might meet a friend o' yours."
The door was closed none too gently. Charles strode to it and ripped it open. Sam was retreating down the corridor.
"How dare you! Come here!"
Sam turned with a grave calm. "If you wishes for hattention, pray ring for one of the 'otel domestics."
And with that parting shot, which left Charles speechless, he disappeared round a corner and downstairs. His grin when he heard the door above violently slammed again did not last long. He had gone and done it. And in truth he felt like a marooned sailor seeing his ship sail away; worse, he had a secret knowledge that he deserved his punishment. Mutiny, I am afraid, was not his only crime.
Charles spent his rage on the empty brandy glass, which he hurled into the fireplace. This was his first taste of the real thorn-and-stone treatment, and he did not like it one bit. For a wild moment he almost rushed out of the White Lion--he would throw himself on his knees at Ernestina's feet, he would plead insanity, inner torment, a testing of her love ... he kept striking his fist in his open palm. What had he done? What was he doing? What would he do? If even his servants despised and rejected him!
He stood holding his head in his hands. Then he looked at his watch. He should still see Sarah tonight; and a vision of her face, gentle, acquiescent, soft tears of joy as he held her ... it was enough. He went back to his desk and started to draft the letter to Ernestina's father. He was still engaged on it when Dr. Grogan was announced.
52
Oh, make my love a coffin
Of the gold that shines yellow,
And she shall be buried
By the banks of green willow.
--Somerset folksong: "By the Banks of Green Willow"
* * *
The sad figure in all this is poor Aunt Tranter. She came back from her lunch expecting to meet Charles. Instead she met her house in universal catastrophe. Mary first greeted her in the hall, white and distraught. "Child, child, what has happened!"
Mary could only shake her head in agony. A door opened upstairs and the good lady raised her skirt and began to trot up them like a woman half her age. On the landing she met Dr. Grogan, who urgently raised his finger to his lips. It was not until they were in the fateful sitting room, and he had seen Mrs. Tranter seated, that he broke the reality to her.
"It cannot be. It cannot be."
"Dear woman, a thousand times alas ... but it can--and is."
"But Charles ... so affectionate, so loving . . . why, only yesterday a telegram ..." and she looked as if she no longer knew her room, or the doctor's quiet, downlooking face.
"His conduct is atrocious. I cannot understand it."
"But what reasons has he given?"
"She would not speak. Now don't alarm yourself. She needs sleep. What I have given her will ensure that. Tomorrow all will be explained."
"Not all the explanations in the world ..."
She began to cry. "There, there, my dear lady. Cry. Nothing relieves the feelings better."
"Poor darling. She will die of a broken heart."
"I think not. I have never yet had to give that as a cause of death."
"You do not know her as I do ... and oh, what will Emily say? It will all be my fault." Emily was her sister, Mrs. Freeman.
"I think she must be telegraphed at once. Allow me to see to that."
"Oh heavens--and where shall she sleep?"
The doctor smiled, but very gently, at this non sequitur. He had had to deal with such cases before; and he knew the best prescription was an endless female fuss.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Tranter, I wish you to listen to me. For a few days you must see to it that your niece is watched day and night. If she wishes to be treated as an invalid, then treat her so. If she wishes tomorrow to get up and leave Lyme, then let her do so. Humor her, you understand. She is young, in excellent health. I guarantee that in six months she will be as gay as a linnet."
"How can you be so cruel! She will never get over it. That wicked ... but how ..." A thought struck her and she reached out and touched the doctor's sleeve. "There is another woman!"
Dr. Grogan pinched his nose. "That, I cannot say."
"He is a monster."
"But not so much of a monster that he has not declared himself one. And lost a party a good many monsters would have greedily devoured."
"Yes. Yes. There is that to be thankful for." But her mind was boxed by contradictions. "I shall never forgive him." Another idea struck her. "He is still in the town? I shall go tell him my mind."
He took her arm. "That I must forbid. He himself called me here. He waits now to hear that the poor girl is not in danger. I shall see him. Rest assured that I shall not mince matters. I'll have his hide for this."
"He should be whipped and put in the stocks. When we were young that would have been done. It ought to be done. The poor, poor angel." She stood. "I must go to her."
"And I must see him."
"You will tell him from me that he has ruined the happiness of the sweetest, most trusting--"
"Yes yes yes ... now calm yourself. And do find out why that serving-lass of yours is taking on so. Anyone would think her heart had been broken."
Mrs. Tranter saw the doctor out, then drying her tears, climbed the stairs to Ernestina's room. The curtains were drawn, but daylight filtered round the edges. Mary sat beside the victim. She rose as her mistress entered. Ernestina lay deep in sleep, on her back, but with her head turned to one side. The face was strangely calm and composed, the breathing quiet. There was even the faintest suggestion of a smile on those lips. The irony of that calm smote Mrs. Tranter again; the poor dear child, when she awoke . . . tears sprang again. She raised herself and dabbed her eyes, then looked at Mary for the first time. Now Mary really did look like a soul in the bottom-most pit of misery, in fact everything that Tina ought to have looked, but didn't; and Mrs. Tranter remembered the doctor's somewhat querulous parting words. She beckoned to the maid to follow her and they went out on the landing. With the door ajar, they spoke there in whispers.
"Now tell me what happened, child."
"Mr. Charles 'e called down, m'm, and Miss Tina was a-lying in faints an' 'e run out fer the doctor 'n Miss Tina 'er opens 'er eyes on'y 'er doan' say no thin' so's I 'elps 'er up yere, I didden know 'ow to do, for soon's 'er's on 'er bed, m'm, 'er's tooken by the istricks 'n oh m'm I was so frighted 'twas like 'er was laffin' and screamin' and 'er woulden stop. An' then Doctor Grogan 'e come 'n 'e calm 'er down. Oh m'm."
"There, there, Mary, you were a good girl. And did she say nothing?"
"On'y when us was a-comin" up the stairs, m'm, an' 'er asked where Mr. Charles was to, m'm. I tol'er 'e'd agone to the doctor. 'Twas what started the istricks, m'm."
"Sh. Sh."
For Mary's voice had begun to rise and there were strong symptoms in her as well of the hysterics. Mrs. Tranter had, in any case, a strong urge to console something, so she took Mary into her arms and patted her head. Although she thereby broke all decent laws on the matter of the mistress-servant relationship, I rather think that that heavenly butler did not close his doors in her face. The girl's body was racked with pent-up sobs, which she tried to control for the other sufferer's sake. At last she quietened.