by Jane Arbor
“Don’t you see that if a woman loves enough she must want to give all that and more? That in love there’s no such thing as ‘giving too much’? You must give all you have and still feel shamed by the utter poverty of it? Don’t you see—?”
She came back to reality to realize that Roger was regarding her shrewdly.
He said: “A man has got to work out his own destiny. No one—least of all a woman—can do it for him. Tell me, Joanna, did you ever make the mistake of trying?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps—I’ve wanted to.”
Roger’s eyebrows went up and his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “ How unwise of you!” he mocked. “And who was the victim? The young man in London—Dale somebody—the hydrogen-bomb specialist?”
Joanna laughed, accepting gratefully his lighter mood. “No—and he isn’t a hydrogen-bomb specialist!”
“Well—perhaps it was an earlier flame of yours—or a later?”
“It was neither. It was for someone I didn’t know very well at the time. So that only made it a double impertinence, didn’t it?”
He looked at her seriously again now. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’ve got a feeling that a man might accept much from you, Joanna. You would give—but you’d never thrust. Once—a little while ago—I asked you to help me. I’d never heard myself doing that to anyone else!”
Joanna said: “But why shouldn’t you? It’s what I’m here for.” And could not tell him that it was his own destiny she had longed to influence—his and Shuan’s—when she had willed last night that they at least should know the heights and the depths and all the sharp realities of the thing called love.
The nursing home to which Roger was taken was just off St. Stephen’s Green in the heart of the city, and when Joanna had left him there she walked out into the tree-lined square, meaning to find her way down to Grafton Street and O’Connell Street of which she had heard so much, before taking a train for her return to Carrieghmere.
But as she was crossing the road, being absorbed in the sights about her, there was a sudden scream of car-brakes, and Justin McKiley’s luxurious car pulled in to the curb as she reached it.
He said without ceremony: “Do you usually treat buses in that high-handed fashion?”
Joanna looked guiltily after the vehicle in question. “I didn’t see it,” she admitted. “I wasn’t expecting it, and I was watching the policeman on point-duty.”
“Tch! Tch! You shouldn’t speak of them as police. They are our Civic Guards!”
Joanna laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry! And for getting in your way if you wanted to pass the bus—”
“I didn’t,” said McKiley easily. “I was making for the Shelbourne to get a drink. What about lunching with me there?”
Joanna hesitated. “I was going back to Carrieghmere early this afternoon,” she said.
He brushed aside the objection. “Ah, what’s the hurry? You came in with Roger, didn’t you? Well then, lunch with me; I’ll give you a glimpse of the city afterwards, and you’ll drive down to Carrieghmere with me later on. How’s that?”
“I must phone Mrs. Carnehill,” said Joanna firmly. “She’ll want to hear how Mr. Carnehill stood the journey.”
“Well, you can do that from the Shelbourne. It’s just here.”
Joanna gave in, and presently they were seated opposite to each other in the dining-room of the hotel. After lunch they drove in a leisurely way about the city while Justin pointed out things of interest and the places where history had been made at the time of the Rebellion and ‘the troubles’ of forty or so years back.
Then in the late afternoon the nose of the car was turned to the south-west and the flat white ribbon of road which would take them back to Carrieghmere.
Joanna was content not to talk but to watch the unfamiliar countryside. However, after a long silence her companion said suddenly:
“Well, how d’you like the job now?”
“As much as I expected,” was Joanna’s even reply.
He laughed. “H’m. Not giving away much, are you? You mean you find the young man’s moods and caprices—bearable?”
“Do you mind,” asked Joanna quietly, “if we don’t discuss my patient?”
“Sorry.” His tone was amused, indifferent. “But may I remind you that at the Dower House the other day you began a discussion of him with me!”
“Yes. That was different. It wasn’t personal.”
“Neither was this meant to be personal with regard to him. It was personal—about you.”
“Well, will you take it that I find my case a very satisfactory one and that I’m not involved personally at all?”
“Not at all? D’you know, I find that difficult to believe. Frequently tiresome as I find Roger myself, he has some appeal to the female of the species, surely?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. I’m merely his nurse.”
Justin shrugged his shoulders. “And you are not discussing your patient? All right. This is where we came in. Now what about a gesture of friendliness in place of the frozen mitt? Come along to the Dower House to an impromptu party of mine this evening?”
“I’m in uniform—”
His eyes mocked hers. “Yes. We’ve discussed the implications of that before, too. Remember? But I dare say you’ve got a rag or two besides?”
“Should I have time to change?”
“Of course. I’ve got some people coming out from Dublin, but they won’t be there before seven, and we shall be back long before that. Will you come?”
Joanna had thought already of the anti-climax of the return to Carrieghmere to dine with Mrs. Carnehill and a morose Shuan and to have no particular duties of her own until Roger’s return.
So she said: “I must see Mrs. Carnehill first. But if she can spare me for a little while—yes, I’ll come.”
“You will, so? Good. Then I’ll expect you.”
As she was changing, later on, Joanna realized that this would be her first social occasion since she had come to Eire. She remembered her early shock at sight of Tulleen and how she had wondered how one “stepped out”—if one wanted to. Oddly enough, since coming to Carrieghmere she had not seemed to have time to miss cinemas, shops, or people.
When she had suggested to Mrs. Carnehill that she should go to the Dower House and had consulted the older woman on what she ought to wear, Mrs. Carnehill, pleased at being asked, said:
“Well, Justin’s parties aren’t like the kind we used to have regularly on the estate before Roger—Everyone dancing to the fiddles, and the food passing round, and more than a drop of whisky, I’m afraid. But Justin will have ultra-smart people. There’ll be cocktails and a lot of talk and not much food. Now if I thought we could anyhow get dinner on to the table before you go—”
“Don’t worry, please,” said Joanna. “I’m not very hungry. Now which of these do you think you’d wear if you were me?”
Mrs. Carnehill looked at the frock and the suit which Joanna had brought out for her inspection. The dress was boldly patterned in crimson and cream, while the suit, pencil-slim, of fine black wool, was one which Joanna loved and in which she felt at her best.
More than once Mrs. Carnehill’s eyes strayed wistfully towards the flamboyance of the frock, but in the end she said half-reluctantly: “The black would be more suitable, surely.”
And as Joanna changed into the suit, set unaccustomed ear-rings in her ears and their matching clasp upon her lapel, she thought gratefully: “She is a dear. She has the most hopeless taste in clothes and she was absolutely hankering to see me disport myself in that dress, which, by the way, I can’t imagine why I ever bought! But she sensed I should feel more comfortable in this suit and she wanted me to have my way, even if she didn’t understand it at all.”
When she reached the Dower House she found that there were several cars drawn up outside it, and the room which had been closed when she had previously gone there was already more than half-full of people.
Joanna thought with amusement: “A far cry, this from the castor-oil plant and the bamboo across the hall!” But she knew that she felt the old house had not been better graced here than there. She remembered that René had said Justin worked here, but except for a modern-looking bureau which was closed there were no signs of this. No wonder Roger had complained that he never saw an account-book. It did not appear as if Justin were over-concerned with such things either, if he did indeed conduct the estate’s affairs from this room.
Justin McKiley came over, apologized for not having seen her as soon as she arrived. Then his sweeping glance surveyed her from the shining gold of her hair to her silken-clad ankles. He said:
“You wear uniform like a devotee. But you wear clothes like—a woman!”
The words were a compliment, but the look and tone which accompanied them were an enigma. Joanna flushed, wondering how it had come about that the man supposed he could say such things to her. But without waiting for a reply he took her informally by the wrist and drew her among the other guests in order to introduce her.
The introductions were of the usual kind at such parties—the unheard names, the exchange of a few polite words, and the relieved return to intimate, allusive conversation as soon as the newcomer had been taken on to the next group. Joanna had begun to hope she would meet someone to whom she wanted to talk or who would want to talk to her. She was glad when René Menden stepped forward to claim her attention and after a moment’s hesitation McKiley left her to him and to his companion, a girl dressed in red.
She too glanced appraisingly at Joanna from beneath the astonishingly long lashes which shaded her dark, almond-shaped eyes. In a quick glance of her own Joanna saw that all the accessories to her scarlet gown were black—she wore black earrings, was smoking a cigarette in a black holder, and carried an enormous black handbag. She had an air of extreme sophistication and Joanna’s single brief thought before the other girl spoke was: “How well she fits in with—all this!”
“My name is Magda.” The lazy voice that matched the lazy almond eyes made its own introduction before René had time to speak. “What’s yours?”
“Joanna. Joanna Merivale.” She paused, hoping that the girl named Magda would see fit to add her own surname. But she said only: “Oh. Joanna is enough. I should never remember the Merivale part, anyway.” She turned to René. “I don’t know that I’ve ever even heard yours?”
René smiled. “It does not matter. You would not remember it either.”
Magda blew a smoke-ring in his direction. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” she inquired of Joanna.
Joanna did not reply, thinking how inapt the adjective was for describing René, who was intelligent and well-mannered and certainly nothing so inadequate as “sweet.”
While they talked she noticed that frequently only half of the other girl’s attention seemed to be with her companions; the other part was with her eyes which, veiled though they were, followed Justin McKiley everywhere he moved about the room. But when at last he came across to rejoin them she half-turned her back upon him, feigning an indifference which Joanna was sure she did not feel.
She said carelessly over her shoulder: “A lovely party, Justin. All the old familiar faces! Don’t you ever invite anyone new?”
Again he took Joanna’s wrist lightly between his finger and thumb. “You’re meeting Joanna,” he said. “She’s new!”
“I mean men, of course!” she retorted, and Joanna was startled at the look of contempt which crossed her face.
Justin dropped Joanna’s wrist and leaned towards the other girl as he took a light from her cigarette. He said intently: “But Magda does not need new men—or does she?”
“Every woman,” put in René sententiously, “needs new men! For the development of her character it is of the most essential!”
Justin ignored the interruption as he repeated, his eyes still holding Magda’s own: “Or does she?”
She shrugged. “One gets bored,” she said. “Especially when it is obvious that your parties are business affairs as much as social. Lately you don’t invite anyone who isn’t likely to be of use to you—”
A look, the meaning of which Joanna did not understand, passed between them then. But when Justin spoke again his tone was as light and mocking as ever. He said: “Come, that’s unjust of you! Not even you, Magda dear, could suggest that Joanna here is merely utilitarian! Of the most decorative, surely?” His mimicry was very sure, and René took in good part the laughter against himself, in which, however, Magda did not share.
Justin contemplated the dark storminess of her face for a minute or two. Then he turned deliberately to Joanna. “On the contrary, it is you who must be getting bored!” he said easily. “May I find you someone else to talk to?”
The rebuff to Magda was patent, and Joanna felt embarrassed for her. But her manner asked no one’s pity, least of all Joanna’s, as she was stung to action by the snub.
She made an imperious gesture to René and with his help shrugged her shoulders into a wide-panniered coat. “You too,” she said pointedly to him, “must find someone else to talk to, for I am leaving now!”
Justin made a sudden movement towards her. “Surely not?” he asked. “I meant to drive you back myself.”
She glanced at him, her eyelashes fluttering lazily. “Thanks,” she drawled. “But I came with the Salmonds and they’ll take me back. How could I, drag you away from the novelty of which you seem so proud?” This time her glance included Joanna and her meaning was plain.
She moved across the room to speak to a man and woman in another group, waited for them as they came over to Justin McKiley in order to take their leave, and presently left with them.
Justin looked down at Joanna and said reflectively: “There was a time when I once thought Magda was unique. Now I’m inclined to believe that she’s merely—human!”
He was offering Joanna another drink now, but she indicated the glass of sherry which René had brought to her and which she had not yet finished. Then he said, watching René as he moved away:
“I suppose I should have invited Shuan for him. But she treats him so abominably that it doesn’t make things easier for him—harder, in fact.”
Joanna sipped her sherry thoughtfully. “I wonder why she finds it necessary to hurt him as she does? Do you think”—she paused as she sought to express the rather nebulous theory which had just occurred to her—“that it could be because like doesn’t normally take to like, and Shuan recognizes in René’s feeling for her something of the strength of what she herself feels for Ro—, For Mr. Carnehill, and—and she resents it?”
Justin looked at her quizzically. “That’s shrewd of you,” he commented. “You mean—she would like to think that single-mindedness of hers was unique?”
“Yes, perhaps—”
“Maybe you’re right. In that case, it’s certainly a kindness to René to keep them apart. But what, I wonder, do you know about the strength of young Shuan’s feeling for Roger—or his for her?”
Joanna ignored the last part of the question. She said slowly, feeling that perhaps she had already gone too far in betraying Shuan’s confidence:
“She is very transparent. She finds it difficult to conceal anything that she feels—”
“—And I dare say hasn’t made any secret of the fact that she regards you as an interloper?” Again his glance appraised her. “You know, I must admit that she has some justification!”
“That’s absurd!” retorted Joanna hotly. “All I meant was that from the beginning she has resented the amount of service I’m able to give to Mr. Carnehill. Personally, I haven’t any significance between them, and Shuan knows it. It’s simply that she longs to feel he needs her as, I supp
ose, René wants to know that she needs him!”
McKiley raised his eyebrows. “I wonder how sure of that you are? That Shuan hasn’t any personal Jealousy of you, I mean? You know, Joanna Merivale, you tend to belittle your own power! I admit I hadn’t realized that Shuan was actually falling in love with Roger, though, of course, I knew what a fetish she made of devoting most of her time to him. But if she is, I think you might have a very painful ‘significance’ for her. Don’t tell me you hadn’t realized that!”
“I hadn’t. I’ve told you before—I’m merely Mr. Carnehill’s nurse,” said Joanna stiffly.
“That, of course. But also a woman with, while he’s ill, the sort of invested power over him which poor Shuan can’t challenge. And a woman, besides, with a degree of character and poise and beauty which the child can’t approach! Do you still claim that that uniform of yours will shelter you from everything? What about Magda, for instance? Didn’t her reaction to you teach you anything at all?”
“Magda—I’m afraid she didn’t tell me her other name—struck me as being rather bored with her surroundings and without any interest whatsoever in me,” said Joanna calmly. “Whatever resentment she showed was because you—you flaunted me at her. But that she was jealous of me as you suggest Shuan might be—that’s absurd!”
“Is it?” asked Justin McKiley. “I wonder!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Roger was brought back from Dublin he looked white and shaken from the rigors of the “new treatment” which he had undergone.
Mrs. Carnehill hovered at his bedside, her longing to suffer for him written in every line of her face.
“You’re in pain, Roger—!”
He managed a rueful smile for her. “No—that’s the devil of it. At least, though the top half of me is harried and wracked by every ache that was ever invented, none of it is in the right places. In my back, where I’m assured I ought to feel something, there’s nothing—nothing at all. But Carnehills always were contrary, weren’t they?”