I had to go on.
It was dawn when the game broke up. I felt numb, as if someone had slammed me over the head with a gun butt, and it was Derry who found the hansom to take us to Curzon Street.
Before we parted he said, “You can have back the money I won, if you like.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” I said. “I lost more to the other fellows than I did to you. Besides, what do I care? I’m not a pauper and I’ll get it all back. I’ll have a lucky streak soon, you’ll see.”
So I stayed the whole summer in London while I searched for my lucky streak, and Sarah was so delighted that she even overlooked my regular outings to the Albatross with Derry. When she ordered a new summer wardrobe and redecorated the first floor of the house, I hadn’t the heart to stop her, and anyway I knew my luck at cards was sure to turn any moment. It did too. For one glorious week I could do nothing wrong at the card table, but even before I could count my winnings my luck had slipped through my fingers again. Well, it had been such a damnable short lucky streak that I was sure I’d find it again in a day or two, so I kept playing. But to my horror disaster followed disaster, and by the time we withdrew to the country in August I had already told Rathbone to sell the townhouse and arrange for a second mortgage on Woodhammer Hall.
II
I told Sarah I would rent a townhouse for the following summer. It was the only way of pacifying her, but when in October I had to refuse her suggestion that we should give a Christmas ball at Woodhammer we quarreled bitterly and were on bad terms for some weeks. Derry was still pursuing his political ambitions in London, so I spent most of my time by myself in my attic workroom. Carving soothed me. I tried to make an elaborate bowl of flowers in the manner of Grinling Gibbons, but the stems were too stiff and the petals looked heavy as lead. Disappointed by the failure, I found I could no longer shut out my troubles, and indeed by this time Sarah’s sourness had become so unpleasant that I wrote to Marguerite to ask her if we could spend Christmas with her in London.
It was in London—at the Albatross, of course—that I heard about the railway shares. Everyone was talking about them and saying what a marvelous investment they were. Everyone knew fortunes had been made in America with the development of the railways, and this new company, floated in order to build a railway from San Diego to Tucson, was reckoned certain to quadruple any investor’s money.
Derry had put a lot of money into the scheme, and not wanting to be left out, I borrowed two thousand pounds from my old friend Mr. Goldfarb of Bread Lane. Everyone said that I was wise and that the opportunity was too good to be missed.
Everyone.
The crash came in April when the company went bankrupt. We were still in London. I had already rented a townhouse because I thought that with several thousand pounds’ profit on my investment a temporary home in London was the least I could afford. But now all hope of profit was gone, my borrowed money was lost and Mr. Goldfarb was again paying visits to Rathbone at Serjeant’s Inn.
I got a bit desperate then. It was understandable after all because I really was in the devil of a hole. Derry would have helped me out if it had been possible, but he too had lost all his money in the crash and was now utterly dependent on Clara’s trust funds.
Borrowing another two thousand pounds, this time from a Mr. Marks of High Holborn, I set off once more for the card table.
It was my only hope, you see. And somehow … well, it’s hard to explain, but I was absolutely certain that I would win and make everything come straight.
A month later, knowing Woodhammer was lost unless I swallowed my pride, I once again set down to write to Duneden and my cousin George.
III
I dreamed of my house slumbering amidst its lush parkland. I dreamed of the house I loved, those warm mellow walls and tall chimneys and the orderly reassuring formality of the Elizabethan garden. I dreamed of that glowing wood paneling and my ancestors in their ruffs and the massive strength of the mahogany furniture. And last of all I dreamed of the staircase, the sublime carving by Grinling Gibbons, whose work meant more to me than any masterpiece by Michelangelo or Leonardo or Raphael. I saw each fragile leaf, each delicate cluster of berries, each gossamer-thin tracery of flowers in full bloom. I could try all my life to carve as he carved, yet no spark of his gift would ever be mine. But that staircase was mine, and no one was going to take it away from me; no one was going to deprive me of my home. But the thought that I was the de Salis who might lose Woodhammer forever was so painful that my mind refused to dwell upon the house as a whole and clung solely to the staircase, which in its beauty and grace represented all that my home meant to me.
Duneden said, “You’re obviously quite unable to handle money. I refuse to lend you a penny unless you hand over complete control of your financial affairs to your cousin and myself. We shall pay you a monthly allowance.”
That beautiful staircase. I could see the golden light of evening slanting through the long windows and blazing fiercely upon the wood Gibbons had transformed.
“Woodhammer must be closed, the farmlands leased and the staff replaced by a caretaker.”
I saw the dust falling on those curving leaves, but that didn’t matter because the leaves would still be mine.
“You must live at Cashelmara. No lavish entertaining, no visits to London …”
I saw the fruit, ripe and luscious. How could wood ever look like that? But he had done it; it was a miracle. My throat ached with the wonder of it and the tears stung behind my eyes.
“… and no communication whatsoever with Roderick Stranahan. So long as you observe all these conditions we’re prepared to help you. Flout any one of them and you can go to the devil as fast as you please, and neither your cousin nor I will lift a finger to stop you. This is your last chance. Have I made myself clear? Your very last chance.”
So I saved my staircase. I saved the wood which Gibbons had carved. I saved that one link I possessed with a talent so grand that I could not think of it and remain unmoved. I won.
But it was a terrible price I had to pay.
“Damn them both to hell!” cried Derry. His black eyes blazed with rage. “Why should they dictate to you like that? What have I done to them that they should be so set against me? Is it a crime for a man to better himself? If it is, they should be set against your father for giving me an education and a roof over my head! Why should it be a crime for me to be friends with you? I have no parents, brothers or sisters. Aren’t I entitled to at least one friend? Have I ever taken anything from you that you haven’t pressed me to accept? Could I help it if you’ve always had so much more to give me than I’ve had to give you? Well, see here, Patrick, I’ll pay you back now for any unfair advantage I’ve taken of you. I’ll put my own money aside to help pay your debts.”
“But …”
“Oh, I know I’ve no money except Clara’s income at present, but just wait! Once I get elected I’ll be on the right road, and when I’m appointed to a junior position in the government I’ll have a salary and you can have every penny I earn.”
Of course I told him what I thought of that nonsense, but I was touched by his offer and felt even more bitter toward Cousin George and Duneden.
We didn’t say goodbye.
“What’s the point?” said Derry, cool again after his rage. “We’ll see each other again sooner or later when your money’s straight, and let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later. So no drawn-out farewells, there’s a good fellow, because you know how damnably bored I am by sentimentality.”
We parted. He walked off down the street, and I stood outside the Albatross and stared after him. I felt so low that I couldn’t face telling Sarah about the grisly future which lay in store for us. Instead I called at St. James’s Square and asked Marguerite if she would break the news to her.
“Marguerite, couldn’t you come to Ireland with us for a while?” I concluded in despair. The very thought of Sarah in Ireland with nothing to do except watch the rain f
all was enough to fill me with panic. “If you were at Cashelmara to help Sarah settle down …”
Marguerite said nothing.
“Please,” I begged her. “It would make all the difference. Please.”
Marguerite said suddenly, “Patrick, you can’t always be relying on me to smooth over your troubles with Sarah, you know. This is your marriage, yours and Sarah’s, and when all’s said and done you’re the only two people who can keep it stitched together.”
“Well, I dare say—yes, I’m sure you’re right, but, Marguerite, this is such a crisis that I don’t see how I can begin to keep things stitched together unless you help us. God, when I think of living all the year round at Cashelmara …”
“It may be a blessing in disguise,” said Marguerite unexpectedly. “Perhaps you can spend more time together now.”
“Yes, but—”
“All Sarah needs is a little attention, Patrick. Do you think she would spend so much money to make you notice her if she didn’t feel she must constantly make an effort to avoid being overlooked?”
“But I’ve paid her every attention! I’ve almost bankrupted myself to give her what she wants!”
“Are you sure you really know what she wants?”
“I know exactly what she doesn’t want, and that’s to live for twelve months of the year at Cashelmara! Marguerite, please, if you’ve got any pity at all—”
“Oh, bother the pair of you!” said Marguerite crossly. “I feel quite put out. Very well, I’ll speak to Sarah and I’ll come to Ireland for a while to hold your hand, but I don’t want to hear you complaining about each other from morning till night. If you do I’ll leave. I’m tired of being caught in the middle of your marriage and being obliged to mediate between you all the time.”
I was much too relieved to mind her ill-humor. Indeed so relieved was I that after she had departed to see Sarah I stayed to talk to my little brothers, whom I had neglected during my recent troubles. They were no longer so little. Thomas was eleven years old, lanky and argumentative; he fancied himself very strong and liked to practice wrestling with me. His lunges and thrusts were based on a theory relating to the law of gravity, and he had each step committed to paper as an equation. David, almost ten, was not in the least interested in wrestling, but he did enjoy playing cricket; he liked to pretend to be a fieldsman while I batted and Thomas hurled the ball at me in a fever of energy. David’s chief interest, however, was music. He had just built an opera stage in papier-mâché and was planning to stage excerpts from The Marriage of Figaro by making puppets and singing each of the major roles.
“You will come, won’t you?” he said after inviting me to the gala performance. “You won’t send an excuse and stay away?”
I felt guilty when he said that. Hastily I promised to attend and added that I would be seeing far more of them soon when we were all at Cashelmara.
I never found out what Marguerite said to Sarah, but although Sarah was red-eyed for two days afterward there were no scenes or tantrums. On the day of our departure from London I managed to say to her, “It’ll only be for a short time. We’ll be back in London soon, I swear it.” And when she nodded speechlessly, not looking at me, I took her hands, held them tightly and said I’d do my best to make her happy at Cashelmara.
“I shall do my best to make you happy,” she said, subdued, her answer coming as such a surprise that I dropped her hands and stared at her open-mouthed. “I know I haven’t been very … dutiful lately. Marguerite said you wouldn’t have gone gambling so often if you’d been contented at home.”
Well, I hadn’t thought of it in that light, but I must say I did think Marguerite was very understanding.
Sarah didn’t mention Derry’s name, and when I remembered my conversation with Marguerite I realized she hadn’t mentioned him either. But Marguerite always was the cleverest girl I ever met. I only hoped Sarah could learn to be more like her once we were finally alone together at Cashelmara.
IV
I had been dreading the return to Ireland so much that it was a pleasant shock to find life wasn’t as bad there as I’d feared. I did make good my promise to my brothers to spend time with them, and as always I enjoyed Marguerite’s company. My niece Edith had fortunately stayed in town with Clara, so Marguerite had not been obliged to bring her to Cashelmara. I don’t mean to be unkind about Edith, but I must admit I did find her a difficult girl and I admired Marguerite enormously for being so patient with her.
“Edith’s not a bad girl,” explained Marguerite when I raised the subject, “but she’s very prickly. Of course she pretends she doesn’t want to get married, but that’s because she’s afraid no one will ask her. I’m sure she would never have stayed with Clara unless she was anxious to remain in town until the end of the Season. She knew she wouldn’t meet any young men here at Cashelmara.”
“One could go for days without meeting anyone at Cashelmara,” I said gloomily, and it was true. I did visit my brother-in-law Alfred Smith, who was still at Clonagh Court, but he was in such a low state that he was hardly good company. He said he found the valley too lonely without Annabel and was thinking of going back to Epsom to seek a position as a horse trainer. He asked for a loan to help him settle in England and didn’t quite believe me when I explained I had barely a penny to my name. I suggested Cousin George might help him, but after that there was an awkwardness between us and I didn’t call on him again.
The only other person with whom we exchanged visits was my sister Madeleine. I was afraid she too would ask me for money, but fortunately the Archbishop had woken up at last, and she also had a dozen charities supporting her little dispensary. She was even planning a hospital wing, and knowing Madeleine, I felt sure it would soon be built Some people always manage to fall on their feet.
“Now, Sarah,” said Marguerite busily after we had visited Madeleine and seen the ghastly sight of the ailing Irish lined up outside the dispensary, “here’s a charity right on your doorstep and well worthy of your attention. Why don’t you do a little work to help Madeleine? As soon as the hospital opens you could go there every week to take flowers and food.”
“I’ll have them sent,” said Sarah quickly, “but I’d rather not go myself.” Visiting the poor had always been abhorrent to her, and the only charity work she did consisted of attending charity balls. I didn’t blame her one scrap. We can’t all be like Florence Nightingale—or Madeleine, who remained utterly serene amidst the repulsive diseases flourishing in the squalor of poverty.
The summer days drifted limpidly past. I took my brothers rowing on the lough and riding over the mountains. Once we rode all the way to Leenane and had a meal at the inn while we watched the boats bring in the seaweed that provided a livelihood for many of the peasants who lived on the shores of Killary Harbour. On another day we rode to Letterturk, although I refused to see Cousin George, and to Clonbur, where we called on the Knoxes; later we rode as far as Cong to inspect the ruins of the abbey. The boys were good company. I enjoyed Thomas’s energy and enthusiasm and was surprised by David’s eye for beauty. I began to suspect that David was like me not only in looks but in his inclinations, and the more time we spent together the more I wished I could have a son exactly like him. But that would remind me of Sarah’s childlessness, and the sadness would seep through me, just as the mist used to seep through the woods when the clouds hung low over the valley.
Sarah had found no new interest to occupy her time. She would spend hours writing to her family (I became very nervous of what she might be saying in those letters, but she swore she was only writing to console her father, who had been in poor health). However, although Marguerite tried to persuade her to begin a journal, Sarah refused with the excuse that her life was so dull there was no event she wished to record.
“That still doesn’t prevent you from writing to Francis, I notice!” remarked Marguerite. I must say Marguerite did try hard to find new occupations for Sarah, but all her suggestions about charity work, j
ournals and other such time-passing devices fell on deaf ears. Sarah did make efforts to be “dutiful,” as she called it, but how is a man to enjoy making love to his wife when he knows she hates every minute of it? In despair I stopped sleeping with her again, and as the summer passed and I spent more time with my brothers I saw her less and less.
It was in mid-August that Marguerite said to us casually, “The boys and I must be thinking of leaving soon. I’ve promised to be in Yorkshire with the Fenwicks at the beginning of next month, and I would like to spend a week at St. James’s Square before traveling north.”
Sarah and I were immediately plunged into a fearful panic, but although we begged her to stay she refused.
“I’ve enjoyed my visit here,” she said firmly, “and I know the boys have enjoyed it too. You’ve been so good with them, Patrick. But no visitors should outstay their welcome, and we do have other commitments.”
They left. We were on our own at last at Cashelmara, and as we stood on the front doorstep and watched the carriage roll away down the hill Sarah broke down and wept, and I felt exactly as Robinson Crusoe must have felt when he first found himself stranded on that abominable desert island.
V
“Why don’t you sleep with me?” said Sarah.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” I said.
“I don’t.”
That hurt. I knew she preferred to sleep alone, but still her words hurt.
“Then why did you ask why I don’t sleep with you?”
“Because we must sleep together.”
“But I thought you said—”
“I want a baby,” said Sarah, crying. “I want a baby, and how am I ever to have a baby if you don’t come near me, never kiss me, never touch me, never, never, never do anything …”
Then the most damnable disaster overtook us. I tried to make love to her and couldn’t.
“Why can’t you?” said Sarah. “Why not?” She was crying again.
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