Unfinished Portrait

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  I feel I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to your mother before I left last night. However, I have written to her. I hope she won’t mind my taking you away from her. I know you mean a lot to her, but I think she likes me all right.

  I might come over on Thursday – it depends on the weather. If not, Sunday next,

  Lots of love,

  Yours affectionately,

  Jim.

  After the letters of Johnnie de Burgh, it was not an epistle calculated to produce great elation of spirits in a girl!

  Celia felt annoyed with Jim.

  She felt that she could love him quite easily – if only he were a little different!

  She tore the letter into small pieces and threw it into a ditch.

  4

  Jim was not a lover. He was too self-conscious. Besides, he had very definite theories and opinions.

  Moreover, Celia was not really the kind of woman to stir in him all that was there to be stirred. An experienced woman, whom Jim’s bashfulness would have piqued, could have made him lose his head – with beneficial results.

  As it was, his relations with Celia were vaguely unsatisfactory. They seemed to have lost the easy camaraderie of their friendship and to have gained nothing in exchange.

  Celia continued to admire Jim’s character, to be bored by his conversation, to be maddened by his letters, and to be depressed by life in general.

  The only thing she found real pleasure in was her mother’s happiness.

  She got a letter from Peter Maitland, to whom she had written telling her news under a promise of secrecy.

  All the best to you, Celia [wrote Peter]. He sounds a thoroughly sound fellow. You don’t say whether’s he’s got any of the ready. I hope so. Girls don’t think of a thing like that, but I assure you, Celia dear, it matters. I’m much older than you and I’ve seen women trailing round with their husbands fagged out and worried to death over money problems. I’d like you to live like a queen. You’re not the sort than can rough it.

  Well, there’s not much more to say. I shall have a squint at your young man when I come home in September and see whether he’s worthy of you. Not that I should ever think anyone was that!

  All the best to you, old girl, and may your shadow never grow less.

  Yours always,

  Peter.

  5

  It was a strange fact, yet true nevertheless, that the thing Celia enjoyed most about her engagement was her prospective mother-in-law.

  Her old childish admiration for Mrs Grant resumed its sway. Mrs Grant, she thought now as then, was lovely. Grey-haired now, she had still the same queen-like grace, the same exquisite blue eyes and swaying figure, the same well-remembered, clear, beautiful voice, the same dominating personality.

  Mrs Grant realized Celia’s admiration for her and was pleased by it. Possibly she was not quite satisfied about the engagement – something may have seemed to her lacking. She quite agreed with what the young people had decided – to be openly engaged at the end of six months and married a year later.

  Jim adored his mother, and he was pleased that Celia should so obviously adore her also.

  Grannie was very pleased that Celia was engaged but felt constrained to throw out many dark hints as to the difficulties of married life, ranging from poor John Godolphin who developed cancer of the throat on his honeymoon, to old Admiral Collingway who ‘gave his wife a bad disease, and then carried on with the governess, and at last, my dear, she couldn’t keep a maid in the house, poor thing. He used to jump out at them from behind doors – and not a stitch on. Naturally they wouldn’t stay.’

  Celia felt that Jim was much too healthy to get cancer of the throat (‘Ah, my dear, but it’s the healthy ones who get it,’ interpolated Grannie), and not even the wildest imagination could picture the sedate Jim as an elderly satyr leaping on maidservants.

  Grannie liked Jim but was, secretly, a little disappointed in him. A young man who didn’t drink or smoke and who looked embarrassed when jokes were made – what sort of a young man was that? Frankly, Grannie preferred a more virile generation.

  ‘Still,’ she said hopefully, ‘I saw him pick up a handful of gravel off the terrace last night, and I thought that pretty – the place where your feet had trodden.’

  In vain Celia explained that it had been a matter of geological interest. Grannie would hear of no such explanation.

  ‘That’s what he told you, dear. But I know young men. Why, young Planterton wore my handkerchief next his heart for seven years, and he only met me once at a ball.’

  Through the indiscretion of Grannie the news leaked through to Mrs Luke.

  ‘Well, child, I hear you’ve fixed things up with a young man. I’m glad you turned Johnnie down. George said I wasn’t to say anything to put you off, as he was such a good match. But I always did think he looked exactly like a codfish.’

  Thus Mrs Luke.

  She went on:

  ‘Roger Raynes is always asking about you. I put him off. Of course, he’s quite well off – that’s why he never really does anything with his voice. A pity – because he could be a professional. But I don’t suppose you’d fancy him – he’s such a little roundabout. And he eats steak for breakfast and always cuts himself shaving. I hate men who cut themselves shaving.’

  6

  One day in July, Jim came over in a state of great excitement. A very rich man, a friend of his father’s was going on a trip round the world with the special view of studying agriculture. He had offered to take Jim with him.

  Jim talked excitedly for some time. He was grateful to Celia for her prompt interest and acquiescence. He had had a half guilty feeling that she might be annoyed at his going.

  A fortnight later he started off in boisterous spirits, sending Celia a farewell telegram from Dover:

  BEST OF LOVE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF – JIM.

  How beautiful an August morning can be …

  Celia came out on the terrace in front of the house and looked round her. It was early – there was still dew on the grass – that long green slope that Miriam had refused to have cut up into beds. There was the beech tree – bigger than ever, heavily, deeply green. And the sky was blue – blue – blue like deep sea water.

  Never, Celia thought, had she felt so happy. The old familiar ‘pain’ clutched at her. It was so lovely – so lovely – it hurt …

  Oh, beautiful, beautiful world! …

  The gong sounded. She went in to breakfast.

  Her mother looked at her. ‘You look very happy, Celia.’

  ‘I am happy. It’s such a lovely day.’

  Her mother said quietly:

  ‘It’s not only that … It’s because Jim’s gone away, isn’t it?’

  Celia had hardly known it herself till that minute. Relief – wild, joyous relief. She wouldn’t have to read theosophy or economics for nine months. For nine glorious delirious months she could live as she pleased – feel as she pleased. She was free – free – free … She looked at her mother, and her mother looked back at her.

  Miriam said gently:

  ‘You mustn’t marry him. Not if you feel like that … I didn’t know …’

  Words poured from Celia.

  ‘I didn’t know myself … I thought I loved him – yes – he’s so much the nicest person I ever met – and so splendid in every way.’

  Miriam nodded sadly. It was the ruin of all her newfound peace.

  ‘I knew you didn’t love him at first – but I thought that you might grow to love him if you were engaged. It’s been the other way … You mustn’t marry anybody who bores you.’

  ‘Bores me!’ Celia was shocked. ‘But he’s so clever – he couldn’t bore me.’

  ‘That’s just what he does do, Celia.’ She sighed and added: ‘He’s very young.’

  Perhaps the thought came to her that minute that if only these two had not met until Jim was older all might have been well. She was always to feel that Jim and Celia missed love by a very little –
but they did miss it …

  And secretly, in spite of her disappointment and her fear for Celia’s future, a little thread ran singing joyfully, ‘She will not leave me yet. She will not leave me yet …’

  7

  Once Celia had written to Jim to tell him she could not marry him she felt as though a load of care had slipped off her back.

  When Peter Maitland came down in September he was amazed at her good spirits and her beauty.

  ‘So you gave that young fellow the chuck, Celia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor chap. Still, I dare say you’ll soon find someone more to your mind. I suppose people are always asking you to marry them?’

  ‘Oh, not very many.’

  ‘How many?’

  Celia thought.

  There was that funny little man, Captain Gale, in Cairo, and a silly boy on the boat coming back (if that counted), and Major de Burgh, of course, and Ralph and his tea-planter friend (who was married to another girl now, by the way), and Jim – and then there had been that ridiculous business with Roger Raynes only a week ago.

  Mrs Luke had no sooner heard that Celia’s engagement was off than she had telegraphed for Celia to come and stay. Roger was coming, and Roger was always asking George to arrange for him to meet Celia again. Things had really looked quite promising. They had sung together in the drawing-room by the hour.

  ‘If only he could sing his proposal, she might take him,’ thought Mrs Luke hopefully.

  ‘Why shouldn’t she take him? Raynes is a jolly good chap,’ said George reproachfully.

  It was no good explaining to men. They never could understand what women ‘saw’ or did not ‘see’ in a man.

  ‘A bit of a roundabout, of course,’ admitted George. ‘But looks don’t matter in a man.’

  ‘A man invented that saying,’ snapped Mrs Luke.

  ‘Well, come now, Amy, you women don’t want a barber’s block.’

  He insisted that ‘Roger should have his chance.’

  Roger’s best chance would have been to propose to Celia in song. He had a magnificent, moving voice. Listening to him singing, Celia would easily have thought she loved him. But when the music was over, Roger resumed his everyday personality.

  Celia was a little nervous of Mrs Luke’s matchmaking. She saw the look in her eye and carefully manoeuvred not to be alone with Roger. She didn’t want to marry him. Why let him speak at all?

  But the Lukes were determined to ‘give Roger his chance’, and Celia found herself being compelled to drive with Roger in the dogcart to a certain picnic.

  It had not been an auspicious drive. Roger had talked of the delights of a home life and Celia had said a hotel was more fun. Roger said he had always fancied living somewhere not more than an hour from London – but in country surroundings.

  ‘Where would you hate living most?’ asked Celia.

  ‘London. I couldn’t live in London.’

  ‘Fancy,’ said Celia. ‘It’s the only place I could bear to live.’

  She looked at him coolly after uttering this untruth.

  ‘Oh, I dare say I could do it,’ said Roger, sighing, ‘if I found the ideal woman. I think I have found her. I –’

  ‘I must tell you something so funny that happened the other day,’ said Celia desperately.

  Roger did not listen to the anecdote. As soon as it was over he resumed:

  ‘Do you know, Celia, ever since I met you the first time –’

  ‘Do you see that bird? I do believe it’s a goldfinch.’

  But there was no hope. Between a man who is determined to propose and a woman who is determined not to let him, the man always wins. The wilder Celia’s red herrings, the more determined Roger became to keep to the point. He was then bitterly hurt by the curtness of Celia’s refusal. She was angry because she had not managed to stave it off and also annoyed with Roger for his genuine surprise at her refusal to marry him. The drive finished in cold silence. Roger said to George that, after all, perhaps he had had a lucky escape – she seemed to have quite a temper …

  All this passed through Celia’s mind as she meditated Peter’s question.

  ‘I suppose seven,’ she said at last doubtfully. ‘But only two real ones.’

  They were sitting on the grass under a hedge on the golf course. From there you looked out over a panorama of cliffs and sea.

  Peter had let his pipe go out. He was snapping off daisies’ heads with his fingers.

  ‘You know, Celia,’ he said, and his voice sounded odd and strained, ‘you can – add me to that list any time you like.’

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘You, Peter?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I never thought of it. You never – seemed like that.’

  ‘Well, it’s been that way with me almost since the beginning … I think I knew even at Ellie’s wedding. Only, you see, Celia, I’m not the right sort of fellow for you. You want a go-ahead, brainy chap – oh, yes, you do. I know what your ideal man is like. He’s not a lazy, easygoing fellow like me. I shan’t get on in life. I’m not made that way. I shall amble through the service and retire. No fireworks. And I’ve very little of the ready. Five or six hundred a year – that’s all we’d have to live upon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t. But I mind for you. Because you don’t know what it’s like – and I do. You ought to have the best, Celia – absolutely the best. You’re a very lovely girl. You could marry anybody. I’m not going to have you throw yourself away on a tuppeny halfpenny soldier. No proper home, always packing up and moving on. No, I always meant to keep my mouth shut and let you make the kind of marriage a beautiful girl like you ought to make. I just thought that supposing you didn’t – then – well, some day, there might be a chance for me …’

  Very timidly Celia laid her slender pink hand on the brown one. It closed round hers, held it warmly. How nice it felt – Peter’s hand …

  ‘I don’t know that I ought to have spoken now. But we’re ordered abroad again. I thought I’d like you to know before I go. Supposing Mr Right doesn’t turn up – I’m there – always – waiting …’

  Peter – dear, dear Peter … Somehow, Peter belonged to the nursery and the garden and Rouncy and the beech tree. Safety – happiness – home …

  How happy she was, sitting here looking out over the sea, with her hand in Peter’s. She would always be happy with Peter. Dear, easygoing, sweet-tempered Peter.

  He had never looked at her all this time. His face looked rather grim – rather tense … very brown and dark.

  She said:

  ‘I’m very fond of you, Peter. I’d like to marry you …’

  He turned then – slowly, as he did everything. He put his arm around her … those dark, kind eyes looked into hers.

  He kissed her – not awkwardly like Jim – not passionate like Johnnie – but with a deep, satisfying tenderness.

  ‘My little love,’ he said. ‘Oh, my little love …’

  8

  Celia wanted to marry Peter at once and go out to India with him. But Peter refused point-blank.

  He insisted obstinately that she was still very young – only nineteen now – and that she must still have every chance.

  ‘I’d feel the most awful swine, Celia, if I went and snatched at you greedily. You may change your mind – you may meet someone you like a lot better than me.’

  ‘I shan’t – I shan’t.’

  ‘You don’t know. Lots of girls are keen about a fellow when they’re nineteen and wonder what they could have seen in him by the time they’re twenty-two. I’m not going to rush you. You must have lots of time – you’ve got to be quite sure you’re not making a mistake.’

  Lots of time. The Maitland habit of thought – never rushing a thing – plenty of time. And so the Maitlands missed trains and trams and appointments and meals and, sometimes, more important things.

  Peter t
alked in the same way to Miriam.

  ‘You know how I love Celia,’ he said. ‘You’ve always known, I think. That’s why you trusted me to go about with her. I know I’m not the sort of fellow you thought of her marrying –’ Miriam interrupted.

  ‘I want her to be happy. I think she would be happy with you.’

  ‘I’d give my life to make her happy – you know that. But I don’t want to rush her. Some fellow with money might come along and if she liked him –’

  ‘Money is not everything. It is true that I hoped Celia would not be poor. Still, if you and she are fond of each other – you have enough to live on by being careful.’

  ‘It’s a dog’s life for a woman. And it’s taking her away from you.’

  ‘If she loves you –’

  ‘Yes, there’s an if about it. You feel that. Celia’s got to have every chance. She’s too young to know her own mind. I shall have leave in two years’ time. If she still feels the same –’

  ‘I hope she will.’

  ‘She’s so beautiful, you know. I feel she ought to do better. I’m a rotten match for her.’

  ‘Don’t be too humble,’ said Miriam suddenly. ‘Women don’t appreciate it.’

  ‘No, perhaps you’re right.’

  Celia and Peter were very happy together during the fortnight spent at home. Two years would soon pass.

  ‘And I promise you I’ll be faithful to you, Peter. You’ll find me waiting for you.’

  ‘Now, Celia, that’s just what you’re not to do – consider yourself promised to me. You’re absolutely free.’

  ‘I don’t want to be.’

  ‘Never mind, you are.’

  She said with sudden resentment:

  ‘If you really loved me, you’d want me to marry you at once and come with you.’

  ‘Oh, my love, my little love, don’t you understand that it’s because I love you so much?’