Over the River eotc-3

by John Galsworthy

  Clare winced.

  “I apologise for a husband capable of asking for damages.”

  Young Croom seized her hand. “Darling, I was only thinking of solicitors.”

  “Do you remember my answering you on the boat: ‘Often more damnable, things beginning.’”

  “I’ll never admit that.”

  “I was thinking of my marriage, not of you.”

  “Clare, wouldn’t it be far better, really, not to defend—just let it go? Then you’d be free. And after—if you wanted me, I’d be there, and if you didn’t, I wouldn’t.”

  “Sweet of you, Tony; but I must tell my people. Besides—oh! a lot of things.”

  He began walking up and down.

  “D’you suppose they’ll believe us if we do defend? I don’t.”

  “We shall be telling the exact truth.”

  “People never believe the exact truth. What train are you going down by?”

  “Ten-fifty.”

  “Shall I come too, or in the afternoon from Bablock Hythe?”

  “That’s best. I’ll have broken it to them.”

  “Will they mind frightfully?”

  “They won’t like it.”

  “Is your sister there?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s something.”

  “My people are not exactly old-fashioned, Tony, but they’re not modern. Very few people are when they’re personally involved. The lawyers and the judge and jury won’t be, anyway. You’d better go now; and promise me not to drive like Jehu.”

  “May I kiss you?”

  “It’ll mean one more piece of exact truth, and there’ve been three already. Kiss my hand—that doesn’t count.”

  He kissed it, muttered: “God bless you!” and, grabbing his hat, went out.

  Clare turned a chair to the unwinking warmth of the electric fire, and sat brooding. The dry heat burned her eyes till they felt as if they had no lids and no capacity for moisture; slowly and definitely she grew angrier. All the feelings she had experienced, before she made up her mind that morning in Ceylon to cut adrift, came back to her with redoubled fury. How dared he treat her as if she had been a ‘light of love’?—worse than if she had been one—a light of love would never have stood it. How dared he touch her with that whip? And now how dared he have her watched, and bring this case? She would not lie down under this!

  She began methodically to wash up and put the things away. She opened the door wide and let the wind come in. A nasty night, little whirlwinds travelling up and down the narrow Mews!

  ‘Inside me, too,’ she thought. Slamming-to the door, she took out her little mirror. Her face seemed so natural and undefended that it gave her a shock. She powdered it and touched her lips with salve. Then, drawing deep breaths, she shrugged her shoulders, lit a cigarette, and went upstairs. A hot bath!

  CHAPTER 21

  The atmosphere at Condaford into which she stepped next day was guarded. Her words, or the tone of her voice on the telephone, seemed to have seeped into the family consciousness, and she was aware at once that sprightliness would deceive no one. It was a horrible day, too, dank and cold, and she had to hold on to her courage with both hands.

  She chose the drawing-room after lunch for disclosure. Taking the document from her bag, she handed it to her father with the words:

  “I’ve had this, Dad.”

  She heard his startled exclamation, and was conscious of Dinny and her mother going over to him.

  At last he said: “Well? Tell us the truth.”

  She took her foot off the fender and faced them.

  “THAT isn’t the truth. We’ve done nothing.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “Tony Croom? I met him on the boat coming home. He’s twenty-six, was on a tea plantation out there, and is taking charge of Jack Muskham’s Arab mares at Bablock Hythe. He has no money. I told him to come here this afternoon.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No. I like him.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say there’s been nothing?”

  “He’s kissed my cheek twice, I think—that’s all.”

  “Then what do they mean by this—that you spent the night of the third with him?”

  “I went down in his car to see his place, and coming back the lights failed in a wood about five miles from Henley—pitch dark. I suggested we should stay where we were till it was light. We just slept and went on up when it was light.”

  She heard her mother give a faint gasp, and a queer noise from her father’s throat.

  “And on the boat? And in your rooms? You say there was nothing, though he’s in love with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is that absolutely the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” said Dinny, “it’s the truth.”

  “Of course,” said the General. “And who’s going to believe it?”

  “We didn’t know we were being watched.”

  “What time will he be here?”

  “Any time now.”

  “You’ve seen him since you had this?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says he’ll do whatever I wish.”

  “That, of course. Does HE think you’ll be believed?”

  “No.”

  The General took the document over to the window, as if the better to see into it. Lady Charwell sat down, her face very white. Dinny came over to Clare and took her arm.

  “When he comes,” said the General suddenly, returning from the window, “I’ll see him alone. Nobody before me, please.”

  “Witnesses out of court,” murmured Clare.

  The General handed her the document. His face looked drawn and tired.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Dad. I suppose we were fools. Virtue is NOT its own reward.”

  “Wisdom is,” said the General. He touched her shoulder and marched off to the door, followed by Dinny.

  “Does he believe me, Mother?”

  “Yes, but only because you’re his daughter. He feels he oughtn’t to.”

  “Do you feel like that, Mother?”

  “I believe you because I know you.”

  Clare bent over and kissed her cheek.

  “Very pretty, Mother dear; but not cheering.”

  “You say you like this young man. Did you know him out there?”

  “I never saw him till the boat. And, Mother, I may as well tell you that I’ve not been in the mood for passion. I don’t know when I shall be again. Perhaps never!”

  “Why not?”

  Clare shook her head. “I won’t go into my life with Jerry, not even now, when he’s been such a cad as to ask for damages. I’m really much more upset about that than I am about myself.”

  “I suppose this young man would have gone away with you, at any moment?”

  “Yes; but I haven’t wanted to. Besides, I gave Aunt Em a promise. I sort of swore to behave for a year. And I have—so far. It’s terribly tempting not to defend, and be free.”

  Lady Charwell was silent.

  “Well, Mother?”

  “Your father is bound to think of this as it affects your name and the family’s.”

  “Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, so far as that goes. If we don’t defend, it will just go through and hardly be noticed. If we do, it will make a sensation. ‘Night in a car,’ and all that, even if we’re believed. Can’t you see the papers, Mummy? They’ll be all over it.”

  “I think,” said Lady Charwell slowly, “it will come back in the end to the feeling your father has about that whip. I’ve never known him so angry as he was over that. I think he will feel you must defend.”

  “I should never mention the whip in court. It’s too easily denied, for one thing; and I have some pride, Mother…”

  Dinny had followed to the study, or barrack-room, as it was sometimes called.
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br />   “You know this young man, Dinny?” burst out the General.

  “Yes, and I like him. He IS deeply in love with Clare.”

  “What business has he to be?”

  “Be human, dear!”

  “You believe her about the car?”

  “Yes. I heard her solemnly promise Aunt Em to behave for a year.”

  “Queer sort of thing to have to promise!”

  “A mistake, if you ask me.”

  “What!”

  “The only thing that really matters is that Clare should get free.”

  The General stood with head bent, as if he had found food for thought; a slow flush had coloured his cheek-bones.

  “She told you,” he said suddenly, “what she told me, about that fellow having used a whip on her?”

  Dinny nodded.

  “In old days I could and would have called him out for that. I agree that she must get free, but—not this way.”

  “Then you DO believe her?”

  “She wouldn’t tell a lie to us like that.”

  “Good, Dad! But who else will believe them? Would you, on a jury?”

  “I don’t know,” said the General, glumly.

  Dinny shook her head. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Lawyers are damned clever. I suppose Dornford wouldn’t take up a case like this?”

  “He doesn’t practise in the Divorce Court. Besides, she’s his secretary.”

  “I must get to hear what Kingsons say. Lawrence believes in them. Fleur’s father was a member there.”

  “Then—” Dinny had begun, when the door was opened.

  “Mr. Croom, sir.”

  “You needn’t go, Dinny.”

  Young Croom came in. After a glance at Dinny, he moved towards the General.

  “Clare told me to come over, sir.”

  The General nodded. His narrowed eyes were fixed steadily on his daughter’s would-be lover. The young man faced that scrutiny as if on parade, his eyes replying to the General’s without defiance.

  “I won’t beat about the bush,” said the General suddenly. “You seem to have got my daughter into a mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kindly give me your account of it.”

  Young Croom put his hat down on the table, and, squaring his shoulders, said:

  “Whatever she has told you is true, sir.”

  Dinny saw with relief her father’s lips twitching as if with a smile.

  “Very correct, Mr. Croom; but not what I want. She has told me her version; I should be glad to hear yours.”

  She saw the young man moisten his lips, making a curious jerking motion of his head.

  “I’m in love with her, sir: have been ever since I first saw her on the boat. We’ve been going about rather in London—cinemas, theatres, picture galleries, and that; and I’ve been to her rooms three—no, five times altogether. On February the third I drove her down to Bablock Hythe for her to see where I’m going to have my job; and coming back—I expect she told you—my lights failed, and we were hung up in a pitch-dark wood some miles short of Henley. Well—we—we thought we’d better just stay there until it was light again, instead of risking things. I’d got off the road twice. It really was pitch-dark, and I had no torch. And so—well, we waited in the car till about half-past six, and then came up, and got to her place about eight.” He paused and moistened his lips, then straightened himself again and said with a rush: “Whether you believe me or not, sir, I swear there was nothing whatever between us in the car; and—and there never has been, except—except that she’s let me kiss her cheek two or three times.”

  The General, who had never dropped his eyes, said: “That’s substantially what she told us. Anything else?”

  “After I had that paper, sir, I motored up to see her at once—that was yesterday. Of course I’ll do anything she wants.”

  “You didn’t put your heads together as to what you would say to us?”

  Dinny saw the young man stiffen.

  “Of course not, sir!”

  “Then I may take it that you’re ready to swear there’s been nothing, and defend the action?”

  “Certainly, if you think there’s any chance of our being believed.”

  The General shrugged. “What’s your financial position?”

  “Four hundred a year from my job.” A faint smile curled his lips: “Otherwise none, sir.”

  “Do you know my daughter’s husband?”

  “No.”

  “Never met him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When did you first meet Clare?”

  “On the second day of the voyage home.”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Tea-planting; but they amalgamated my plantation with some others, for economy.”

  “I see. Where were you at school?”

  “Wellington, and then at Cambridge.”

  “You’ve got a job with Jack Muskham?”

  “Yes, sir, his Arab mares. They’re due in the spring.”

  “You know about horses, then?”

  “Yes. I’m terribly fond of them.”

  Dinny saw the narrowed gaze withdraw from the young man’s face, and come to rest on hers.

  “You know my daughter Dinny, I think?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll leave you to her now. I want to think this over.”

  The young man bowed slightly, turned to Dinny, and then, turning back, said with a certain dignity:

  “I’m awfully sorry, sir, about this; but I can’t say I’m sorry that I’m in love with Clare. It wouldn’t be true. I love her terribly.”

  He was moving towards the door, when the General said:

  “One moment. What do you mean by love?”

  Involuntarily Dinny clasped her hands: An appalling question! Young Croom turned round. His face was motionless.

  “I know what you mean, sir,” he said huskily: “Desire and that, or more? Well! More, or I couldn’t have stood that night in the car.” He turned again to the door.

  Dinny moved and held it open for him. She followed him into the hall, where he was frowning and taking deep breaths. She slipped her hand through his arm and moved him across to the wood fire. They stood, looking down into the flames, till she said:

  “I’m afraid that was rather dreadful. But soldiers like to have things straight out, you know. Anyway—I know my father—you made what’s called a good impression.”

  “I felt a ghastly kind of wooden idiot. Where is Clare? Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see her, Miss Cherrell?”

  “Try calling me Dinny. You can see her; but I think you’d better see my mother too. Let’s go to the drawing-room.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze.

  “I’ve always felt you were a brick.”

  Dinny grimaced. “Even bricks yield to a certain pressure.”

  “Oh! sorry! I’m always forgetting my ghastly grip. Clare dreads it. How is she?”

  With a faint shrug and smile, Dinny said:

  “Doing as well as can be expected.”

  Tony Croom clutched his head.

  “Yes, I feel exactly like that, only worse; in those cases there’s something to look forward to and—here? D’you think she’ll ever really love me?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Your people don’t think that I pursued her—I mean, you know what I mean, just to have a good time?”

  “They won’t after today. You are what I was once called—transparent.”

  “You? I never quite know what you’re thinking.”

  “That was a long time ago. Come!”

  CHAPTER 22

  When young Croom had withdrawn into the sleet and wind of that discomforting day, he left behind him a marked gloom. Clare went to her room saying her head was bad and she was going to lie down. The other three sat among the tea-things, speaking only to the dogs, sure sign of mental disturbance.

  At last Dinny got up:
“Well, my dears, gloom doesn’t help. Let’s look on the bright side. They might have been scarlet instead of white as snow.”

  The General said, more to himself than in reply:

  “They must defend. That fellow can’t have it all his own way.”

  “But, Dad, to have Clare free, with a perfectly clear conscience, would be nice and ironic, and ever so much less fuss!”

  “Lie down under an accusation of that sort?”

  “Her name will go even if she wins. No one can spend a night in a car with a young man with impunity. Can they, Mother?”

  Lady Charwell smiled faintly.

  “I agree with your father, Dinny. It seems to me revolting that Clare should be divorced when she’s done nothing except been a little foolish. Besides, it would be cheating the law, wouldn’t it?”

  “I shouldn’t think the law would care, dear. However—!” And Dinny was silent, scrutinising their rueful faces, aware that they set some mysterious store by marriage and divorce which she did not, and that nothing she could say would alter it.

  “The young man,” said the General, “seemed a decent fellow, I thought. He’ll have to come up and see the lawyers when we do.”

  “I’d better go up with Clare tomorrow evening, Dad, and get Uncle Lawrence to arrange you a meeting with the lawyers for after lunch on Monday. I’ll telephone you and Tony Croom from Mount Street in the morning.”

  The General nodded and got up. “Beast of a day!” he said, and put his hand on his wife’s shoulder: “Don’t let this worry you, Liz. They can but tell the truth. I’ll go to the study and have another shot at that new pigsty. You might look in later, Dinny…”

  At all critical times Dinny felt more at home in Mount Street than she did at Condaford. Sir Lawrence’s mind was so much more lively than her father’s; Aunt Em’s inconsequence at once more bracing and more soothing than her mother’s quiet and sensible sympathy. When a crisis was over, or if it had not begun, Condaford was perfect, but it was too quiet for nerve storms or crucial action. As country houses went, it was, indeed, old-fashioned, inhabited by the only county family who had been in the district for more than three or four generations. The Grange had an almost institutional repute. “Condaford Grange” and “the Cherrells of Condaford” were spoken of as curiosities. The week-ending or purely sporting existence of the big ‘places’ was felt to be alien to them. The many families in the smaller ‘places’ round seemed to make country life into a sort of cult, organising tennis and bridge parties, village entertainments, and the looking of each other up; getting their day’s shooting here and there, supporting the nearest golf course, attending meets, hunting a bit, and so forth. The Charwells, with their much deeper roots, yet seemed to be less in evidence than almost anyone. They would have been curiously missed, but, except to the villagers, they hardly seemed real.