Gentlemen and Players

by Frances Vernon

  THE RECTORY

  One day, shortly before Christmas, Susan was in the dining room at the Rectory. She had walked down from the house with Sophie to have tea there. Sophie and Octavius were known to be still friends. After tea she had gone into the dining room with a pile of samples of material, for the Rectory was to be repaired and redecorated before her marriage to Octavius in April. She had asked Sophie to come with her, because, she said, Sophie had very good taste, and she told her, laughing, that Octavius took no interest whatever in his house so would not notice what she chose. Sophie had said, smiling, that her taste was not as good as Susan’s.

  Sophie was now with Octavius in the drawing room. Their conversation was rather jolly. Susan was worried because she knew that Octavius was thinking that he could not contradict his betrothed by coming into the dining room and passing comments on the curtain samples.

  Susan held a sample which was mostly bronze up to the window and decided that it was too dull for the room. The dark panelling of the dining room was to be left, it was very suitable for morning prayers. She stood holding in either hand a piece of linen, one which had stylised poppies on it and one which had a pattern of yellow lilies, trying to decide between them. She then realised that she was eavesdropping. She went from the dining room into Octavius’s study. Here, if she strained her ears, she could hear their conversation, but the sound did not intrude, and she thought about the samples, and of how she would paint most of the upstairs white.

  Octavius and Sophie were talking about the differences between the sexes. Susan remembered how long ago she had told her sister that a woman would always be thought rather amusing if she pretended to support her own sex.

  When she had finished, the Rectory would be a charming house, she thought, Susan’s funny little house: light, simple, tidy, and mildly aesthetic. Her drawing room would be blue and white with touches of sea-green. Octavius’s study was not to be altered at all. Susan had never been inside it before, and she looked round. The room was the best in the house, and it was extremely dirty. Above the fireplace the red-and-white-striped wallpaper was stained yellow-grey with smoke. Guessing at their kind, Susan did not look at the books. She ran her finger along the skirting board and it was dark grey with dust. She used her handkerchief to dust it. The furniture was solid and dark and handsome, made in the early years of the reign. The worn carpet on which it stood was a fitted one, dull red with a border of gold fleur-de-lys, now darkened to ochre. Susan thought that when the previous rector, old Leighton, had had a wife and family, this must have been the drawing room. She thought it quite sensible of Octavius to have used it as his study all this time.

  ‘We are friends, Octavius. Now tell me why you’re really marrying Susan.’ Sophie had a loud, high, rather sing-song voice. Octavius spoke fast, but with many hesitations, and he spoke either very clearly, half laughing and gesticulating, or very quietly, his shoulders hunched up. At the moment he was muttering and Susan did not hear a word. She was glad and she wished Sophie would be quiet, and wished that Octavius would use his loud and cheerful voice. Her hand was not yet shaking but it had fallen away from the chair she was rubbing.

  ‘She’ll bore you to death,’ said Sophie. ‘Oh, I dare say I would have done so to.’ She choked.

  Susan pushed open the door, walked through the dining room, prepared a smile and entered the drawing room.

  ‘Octavius, Octavius, has your study ever been cleaned? I wanted a peep at your sanctum, you see, so I went in, and look at my handkerchief! Don’t you notice the filth in there?’ she laughed.

  ‘Dear Susan, certainly it’s never been cleaned.’ He leaped up. ‘It would be the death of me if a woman came fiddling in my study!’

  ‘Now, Octavius, I must, but must, insist on its being spring-cleaned just once a year. I can’t abide the thought of all that dirt, and I dread to think what the dust must be doing to your lungs. And really, it is a married woman’s right to keep her home clean.’

  ‘Women’s Rights?’ said Octavius. ‘Why, Sophie and I were just chatting about that. Sophie believes in the higher education of women, don’t you, Sophie?’

  ‘So do I,’ said Susan. ‘Now, Octavius, don’t tell me you think they ought to close Girton and Newnham?’

  ‘My dear, I don’t object to such goings on at Cambridge, which isn’t a proper university, you know. What I object to is their being extended to Oxford.’

  ‘What a Chauvinist you are, Octavius,’ teased Sophie. She got up and they smiled at her. ‘So kind of you to give me tea. I think I’ll stop chaperoning Susan now. I’m going home.’

  ‘I’ll catch you up, Sophie.’

  ‘Pray don’t bother. Goodbye, Octavius.’

  Susan showed Octavius the linen with red poppies, which she had just chosen, and said she hoped he thought it would do. She said it was a design by William Morris, whom she admired, and he teased her about being an aesthete with a pretty philistine face.

  *

  After dinner the Pagetts went to sit in the small drawing room. Nicholas asked Sophie, who sat doing nothing, to play something. She said that she did not want to and a few minutes afterwards went to play the overture from Aïda, much too fast. Nicholas re-read the Pall Mall Gazette and Punch.

  Susan was on the sofa, half curled up with one elbow resting on its arm. Face down on her lap was a volume of Swinburne’s poems. Opposite her Augusta lay back in an upright chair, her legs stretched out, snoring. Susan was having an imaginary conversation with Augusta.

  – I know, Augusta, how you’ll resent my saying this, but I really do think that it’s not a good idea for Sophie to spend the winter at home. You know how she likes London, why don’t you suggest to her that she go and stay with friends there? Or perhaps, if father could be persuaded, you and she could go to Bryanston Square?

  – Do you think, Susan, that I am going to spend the winter in London when I have to endure the whole summer there?

  – I really think that in view of Sophie’s condition … (No!) … that seeing Sophie is so unhappy here, and that she would be much better off in London with things to do … (No)

  – Don’t bully me, girl. You know perfectly well that in any case your father would never consent to losing the rent for the London house.

  Susan shifted and looked down at her small amethyst engagement ring.

  – I know that there’s not much to do in London at this time of year, Augusta, but I was just thinking that perhaps Sophie would like to spend the winter there. If it isn’t possible for you both to stay at Bryanston Square, which I’m sure she’d like best, she might like to stay with one of her London friends. I know that Lady Jennings – you know her, Arabella’s mother – spends a lot of the winter in town. Perhaps she could go and stay with her. Or with Georgina Jameson Fraser, Georgina Mackay that was.

  She saw herself hurrying on.

  – Augusta, she needs all your – your affection at this time in her life. I know you scold her and it really does no good. Go to London with her, Augusta, and spoil her a bit. Act like a mother. (No)

  – I know quite well what you really mean, Susan. Tell me, why the devil shouldn’t you be put to shame by Sophie’s mooning after your clergyman? (Yes!)

  The next day Susan wrote a little note and put it under Augusta’s sitting-room door.

  ‘Dear Augusta, I think Sophie would be happier spending the winter away from home. Do as you think best. Susan.’

  Augusta kept Susan waiting and then, after New Year, Sophie was sent to stay with Mrs Tillotson in Chester Square. Susan wished that she were already married, so that she could walk up from the Rectory, have a little talk with Augusta, and then go away again. She was quite certain that Augusta was one of those who liked and admired anyone who could stand up to her.

  *

  It was in February that Susan and Octavius had their first difference. Octavius suddenly asked her whether she had any views on religion. He and Sophie had talked constantly, but not seriously, of Catholicis
m, and he assumed that Susan’s views were similar to Sophie’s but, because she had not over-stepped the boundary and gone over to Rome, still closer to his own. Susan had, until her engagement, come to church once on Sundays, and taken Communion twice a year, and since then she had attended both Sunday services, and communicated monthly. She was quite surprised at his question, because she knew he had discussed the matter so often with Sophie. Then she thought again, and was surprised at his never having asked her before. She told him that in fact she was Broad Church. He asked her whether, in that case, she did not think herself a hypocrite for worshipping in such a High Church. Because she was a little flustered she said, smiling, that when she described herself as Broad, she meant that she had no real objection to the manifestations of idolatry and superstition, because she believed that God was doubtless less fussy about such things than men were. He smiled back, a little surprised, because Sophie had usually been very flippant and Susan had objected to this. Then he asked her whether she really meant that and after a moment’s consideration she said she did. She suddenly elaborated: she had never spoken of her religious views before, because no one had ever asked her. Octavius heard her denounce the doctrine of Apostolic Succession and the laying on of hands, and speak in favour of lay control of the church. He was very shocked and worried, and said that his wife really ought not to talk like that. She said hastily that he need not bother to prove his case with learning, which he had not been intending to do, because she surely would not understand it, and she did not really care, she really believed in love and hope and charity, and would abide by what he decided should be the forms of religion. It did not really matter. He told her that he did not want empty allegiance, and decided that that was a good moment to leave her.

  Susan was at first upset, and then quite cross with him. She carried on being cross until gradually they grew used to not speaking of the matter, for they never mentioned it again, and got on very nicely.

  Susan wrote to Sophie.

  ‘Lynmore, 14th February, 1884. My dear Sophie, I so hope that the London air is doing you good in the paradoxical way Augusta thinks it will do! Notice the date! I am sure you received many, many valentines.’ She had thought of this beginning in haste, because it was St Valentine’s Day, and laid down her pen and stared at it. This should be a brief letter, as brief almost as her note to Augusta, which had proved that she could write without hedging and explanation, which Sophie and Augusta and Sarah never gave. But that beginning was full of comfort and affection.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Sarah? You must surely have done – I hope she is making some effort to entertain you, although I’m sure Emma Tillotson does that very well. But I think her racing set doesn’t interest you greatly? I wrote to Sarah, telling her you would be in London – unnecessary perhaps?

  ‘Please take care of yourself properly, Sophie. When you were here you showed a certain disposition to stay in bed and dose yourself, like our poor dear sister. It doesn’t do any good, I promise you: you’ll only make yourself more miserable if you nurse your sorrows.

  ‘This will make you angry, I know, Sophie. Well, I’m really writing to tell you that I know I have wronged you. There! I do not suppose that you and I will ever be able to talk about it, for you are very proud, Sophie.’ She underlined the word because Sophie would rather like it. ‘So I am writing in an attempt to explain myself. The affection between Octavius and myself grew very slowly, Sophie: we are well suited, really – we will never be able to talk intimately, which I shall miss, but how many couples can, and if they do, aren’t they later embarrassed by the confidences which they make? Don’t marry just because you’re in love, Sophie, or because you’re unhappy and lonely – it will not work, unless you put a great deal of effort into the marriage. Although I am very fond of old Octavius, who is of course like all men quite difficult, I am, quite candidly, marrying partly for the second reason – would you have thought it of me, I wonder? But I am prepared to work very hard at marriage, and if I may be candid, I do not think you ever would be. You have not the self-discipline. You are young and beautiful and high spirited and for all Augusta’s influence, rather idealistic – all excellent things to be.’

  Here she added what she had meant to say earlier, very quickly: ‘You know, Sophie, in his way Octavius still admires you very much.

  ‘What use is this letter of mine to you? Sophie, you need Augusta’s help. Be a little proud, even prouder than you are. Be gay and sceptical and witty and affectionate, and she will turn towards you. Our mother was my mother but Augusta is yours, and you need her very badly – it’s worth making sacrifices of your feelings, just a little, in order to regain her favour. I use that phrase because Augusta is in some ways very masculine – she recoils from unhappiness in others, it makes her harsh just as her own unhappiness makes her harsh with me, and of course many others. All men loathe an angry and miserable woman and never can recover from their revulsion when once she has shown such feelings. A woman must always seem active and happy, Sophie, never stiff and morose.

  ‘Well, I have said what I meant to say: that I am sorry for having wronged you as in one way I have, yet that I am not really sorry for having “saved you from Octavius” or “taken Octavius away from you”, whichever way one cares to look at it, Octavius being what he is. I had better end now, Sophie. Your loving sister, Susan Pagett.’

  She wanted to continue, saying would this silly letter not have the opposite effect to what was intended, as most of her confidential letters seemed to have, and was she not a fool; but she thought, in a disciplined way, that it was already too much of a hypocritical outpouring of her conscience. She sealed the letter and put it out to post and avoided the hall table until it was taken away.

  Sophie never replied. She had been humble with Octavius, and now she was proud with Susan. She told Augusta, in an unhappy letter, of how proud she had been.

  *

  Sophie came home in the spring, three weeks before the wedding day, 24th April. Ten days after her arrival Octavius came up to the house to see Susan, who had a slight cold and thought it unwise to go out. Sophie looked for them and found them chatting in the morning room.

  Sophie had lost weight and was now very thin indeed. By choice she wore nothing but her black riding habit, although in London she had had to dress appropriately when she saw people formally. Her eyes were bright and glazed-looking and there was a high colour in her cheeks. She knew she looked consumptive, and she did have a cough.

  She came into the morning room in a quick, feverish way and smiled brilliantly at Octavius and Susan.

  ‘You look very well, Sophie,’ said Octavius, getting up. ‘The London air did you good.’

  ‘Indeed it did, indeed it did, Octavius. And how are you? Eleven days till you get married! You’ll be proud of Susan when she comes up the aisle, she showed me her dress and it was quite lovely, very becoming indeed.’ She coughed and smiled.

  ‘Do sit down, Sophie. You’re like a jack in a box,’ said Susan.

  ‘Nonsense, Susan dear, I don’t leap, I stride. I’m obeying doctor’s orders, you see, Octavius: Dr Sacheverell said I must take lots and lots of exercise.’

  ‘So Sarah sent you her doctor, did she?’ said Susan, looking up and smiling. ‘What do you think of him? I know Sarah has a very high opinion of him, although I think he cossets her too much.’

  ‘He doesn’t cosset me! Shortly after I got to London I went down with whooping cough, Octavius, which was perfectly horrid.’ This was not true. ‘I’ve still got the remains of it. But Dr Sacheverell won’t let me spend any time in bed – do you know, all he prescribed was a good canter in the Row before breakfast: You’ve no idea what the Row is like at eight o’clock on a January morning. But I was very, very good about it. I still am – that’s why I’m never out of my riding habit. Horrid black thing, no wonder it’s called a habit, one might as well be a nun.’

  ‘Well, Sophie, he must be a magician. I’ve never known you gaily ob
ey doctor’s orders,’ said Susan.

  ‘Ah, but Dr Sacheverell is such a funny little man. You’d like him, Susan.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ said Octavius, who was still standing. Sophie beamed.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ said Susan.

  ‘Oh, he’s like a well-fed little brown bird,’ said Sophie. She had thought of this description some days before. ‘And he stands no nonsense from me.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Susan.

  ‘Yes. It’s such a pity, you know, that one can’t know him.’

  ‘If he weren’t your doctor, Sophie, you wouldn’t be able to have such nice long chats with him.’

  ‘No, no, that’s perfectly true. Oh, why is it, Octavius, that society erects these dreadful barriers of propriety between men and women in the ordinary course of events?’ She grinned.

  Susan said: ‘Sophie, don’t go marrying Dr Sacheverell.’

  CHAPTER 11

  SECOND MARRIAGE

  Sophie told Susan that she had no intention of marrying Dr Sacheverell. She was of course a foolish creature, fond of romantic adventure (here she clasped her hands and wrung them), and there would be nothing romantic about marrying a middle-aged physician with odd ideas about poor people, medicine and women, and going to live in Bloomsbury without a carriage. She spoke gaily, just after Octavius had gone. While she listened, Susan wondered why ever she had spoken her mind to Sophie in front of Octavius.

  Sophie was not bridesmaid at the wedding, which was conducted by the bishop in the church at Lynmore. Susan had child bridesmaids, her god-daughters, upon whom everyone commented. To keep up appearances Sophie sobbed delicately in the front pew and Augusta was very angry about it. It would not occur to her to cry at a wedding. Afterwards Sophie was beaming and flushed and told everyone what a good marriage Susan was making.

  On the 26th April Sophie and Augusta went to London for the Season, Sophie’s fifth. Susan and Octavius spent a month in Strasbourg and saw a great deal of the Rhineland. They received a great many cheerful letters from Sophie, addressed to them both. Susan knew that to Augusta and no doubt to Dr Sacheverell she referred to them as Dr and Mrs Proudie, for Sophie had heard Susan win a little argument about how cock-a-leekie should be made, and would be made at the Rectory in future. Neither sister had known that Octavius was fussy about and interested in food.