The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  But, she thought, I did not have the courage to declare openly that I had made a mistake. I was afraid of the laughter. I was afraid of the newspapers, which had made such a disgusting scandal of my breaking my engagement to Henri, and becoming engaged to Peter. I was afraid of such inconsequential mean things, such unimportant things. So, I let my life be ruined, and the lives of others, too, because I was afraid of transient laughter, and transient humiliation.

  When she remembered this, she would think to herself: Perhaps he is right not to come. How could he trust me again? He. knows I am a coward, that I run when I want to stay, and stay when I want to run. If he never comes again, I shall deserve it.

  But there were other occasions when her shame seemed too much for her to bear, when she had the maddest dreams of approaching him publicly and crying out against him. She was terrified on these occasions, and would run to her room and lock the door behind her, appalled.

  She felt completely friendless. Her brother was increasingly absent from Windsor. She had at first thought of asking him, in her growing despair and suspense, but on the few occasions that she saw him, her tongue would become thick and numb.

  However, one night she could endure her agony no longer. She called Christopher, at Endur. Edith had told her that he was expected at eight that night. It was now nine. Christopher was alarmed at her voice, so hoarse and low, and demanded, over and over, her assurance that she was perfectly well. He had hardly entered his own home, when Celeste’s call had come to him, and Edith expressed her opinion of his departure in a tone that was corroded with acerbity.

  Christopher found his sister waiting for him. He had expected to find her hysterical, broken, over some as yet unexplained calamity. The child, perhaps. But he was extremely angered to see that she was quite calm, if somewhat pale and strained, and that when she greeted him she asked him some ridiculous question about his recent trip.

  ‘Look here, my dear,’ he said abruptly, ‘what is all this? I’ve just flown in from Los Angeles, and before that I was on the go constantly. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m damned tired. Yet, you call me as if your house were afire, or your baby kidnapped, or the place full of thieves. Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?’

  She looked at him without speaking. And then he saw that there was a glazed blind look in her eyes, as if she had suffered long and shocking pain, and that she was calm only because she dared not be otherwise. He took her hand, and held it strongly. ‘All right, darling,’ he said, quietly, ‘what is it?’

  He put her in a chair, and sat near her. She pressed her hands rigidly on the arms of her chair, and turned to him. ‘Christopher,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to know. Is Henri really getting a divorce from Annette?’

  ‘Divorce?’ he exclaimed, astounded. ‘What gave you that idea? Who told you?’

  ‘Agnes,’ she said, simply. ‘Over a month ago. And Agnes never repeats silly rumours without foundation.’

  She looked pleadingly at her brother. She was startled to see how ghastly he became, and how immobile. His light silvery eyes flashed evilly. He said, as if to himself: ‘And he never told me.’

  He turned to his sister, but she knew he did not see her. He was really seeing the man he hated more than he had ever hated anyone.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ whispered Celeste. ‘I don’t know!’ And then; in a stronger tone: ‘But it might not be true, you know. Armand’s will hasn’t been opened. Perhaps there can be nothing definite until—’ Christopher’s face changed. ‘Yes. Of course. But, why didn’t he tell me? or you?’ He felt his mortification in him, like a disease. ‘He hasn’t been here?’

  ‘No. He never comes. I asked him not to. But, he should have come, in spite of that.’

  Christopher began to laugh. He got up. ‘Damned inconsistent. Well, he’s showing discretion, at last.’ He added, scrutinizing his sister: ‘You might, of course, ask him to come.’

  ‘No. Never! If he never came, I’d never send for him, Kit.’

  Her voice was passionate, vehement. He turned away. ‘Then, we can only wait. Until Armand’s will is opened Though, frankly, it would be more decent, and less open to gossip, if he allowed Annette to divorce him before we knew the contents of the will.’

  He had a thought which made him wrinkle his parchmentlike forehead, but he did not communicate it to his sister.

  ‘I can’t stand the waiting,’ she said, suddenly. ‘Kit, I must go away!’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind! The talk has died down. Your going away would only stimulate it.’

  ‘Then, I must wait, just wait? I can’t stand it!’

  He regarded her gloomily. ‘You must. There is nothing else to do. Shall I send Edith up here to stay with you for a while?’

  ‘No.’

  He felt that she was distraught, when he left her. Once or twice he even thought of going to Henri, but the memory of that harsh and relentless man made him quail.

  It was the next night, a night of warm rain and grey skies, that Annette came to see Celeste and her baby. Annette, as usual, was warm and tender, but Celeste, who was never at ease now with her niece, was very silent. In her extremity, she had lost all sense of any possible wrong to Annette. There were even times when she regarded her with dark and bitter coldness and resentment. She knew this was cruel, but the feeling returned with greater strength each time.

  Annette played with the baby in his nursery. It was not for quite a while that Celeste observed some change in Annette. It was not that she appeared more frail, or more tired, or more gently sad. Rather, there was a sense of delicate strength in her, and contentment, and serene quiet. Celeste forgot her frozen resentment, in her uneasy curiosity.

  They went to Celeste’s sitting-room for tea. It was then, while stirring her tea, and helping herself to a small cake, that Annette said, in the most casual and thoughtful of tones: ‘Celeste, would it shock you terribly if I told you I am divorcing Henri? Divorces, I know, aren’t common in our family. Perhaps it is the Catholic heritage.’

  She continued to stir her tea. She did not look at Celeste for some moments. When she did so, slowly lifting her eyes, she saw that Celeste’s head was bent. But otherwise, there was no sign from her.

  Annette’s eyes filled with compassionate tears. She sipped a little tea. The cup tinkled in its saucer. ‘You don’t think it dreadful of me, do you, dear?’ she asked.

  Celeste lifted her head. Even in the warm dusk of the room, Annette could see that she was pale and rigid.

  ‘Annette,’ she said, and her voice was strained and thick, ‘what will you do?’

  Annette shrugged her shoulders, and sighed and smiled. ‘It has just recently come to me that I’m a very useless woman, Celeste. I’ve just had a physical examination. It’s true that I’m not exactly a tennis-playing athlete, and that I have no muscles.’ She laughed softly. ‘But my doctors assure me, as they always have, that I have a fine constitution. A few scars on the lungs—but that is all past. Not much of a body, but an excellent nervous system. I need an interest in life, they tell me. So, I think I shall engage in some sort of relief work. You remember Lucille Wanamaker? She is organizing a British relief agency, to operate in England. She has already collected an enormous sum, to be spent for clothing and food, and in co-operation with the Red Cross, she intends to distribute these things to the bombed-out evacuees. She needs volunteers. I can drive an ambulance, and help with the distribution.’

  Celeste, forgetting herself in her sudden concern for Annette, exclaimed feebly: ‘But you can’t! You’ve never been strong! It will kill you.’

  Annette carefully laid down her cup and saucer, before answering. And then she clasped her hands on her thin little knee and looked at them for quite a while. She began to speak, in a very low tone:

  ‘I think that most of the ailments of American women, and their everlasting neuroses, come from not having anything worthwhile or significant to do. Yo
u can’t ail, you can’t imagine dreadful and incoherent things, if someone needs you. I, myself, have done nothing all my life, but accept affection and care, and think of my own pursuits and my own desires.’

  She paused. Celeste looked at her, her eyes dazzled with tears. Forgetting everything, she leaned towards the other woman and laid her hand on her knee.

  ‘No, dear, you are wrong. You’ve never thought of yourself. You’ve always helped others, and understood so much. None of us ever deserved you, Annette.’

  Annette smiled. She put her little hand over Celeste’s. ‘How good of you, darling, so say that. But, it isn’t true. What have I ever done? I’ve given money to charities. But I never saw those who benefited. Frankly, I don’t think I even cared to see them. They were something nebulous, and unreal. I’d like to see those I can help. I’d like to talk to them, and help them with their problems. Somewhere, I know there is misery and suffering that can be alleviated, not only by money, but by sympathy and kindness. I feel I must do this. For the sake of my soul, perhaps.’ and she laughed, a little tremulously. ‘A whole world in agony, Celeste, and millions of foolish women sipping tea and playing cards, and whimpering with fear that we may be involved in the war. And, of course, we shall be. It is inevitable. I don’t want to remain one of the whimperers, Celeste.’

  Celeste pushed back her hair with her old bewildered and uncertain gesture. She stared at Annette with a moved and sorrowful look. She said: ‘At one time, when Peter was alive, I was really living, Annette. Now, I am not. Nothing seems to matter to me, very much. I have become narrow and selfish. Everything is unreal, beyond me.’ She stopped abruptly, for her voice broke with tears.

  ‘You have a child, Celeste.’ said Annette, softly, and with pain. ‘You have accomplished something.’

  But Celeste stood up, in acute restlessness. She started to speak, then stopped. After several poignant moments, she said: ‘Annette, why are you divorcing Henri?’

  Annette rose, also. She forced herself to look at Celeste directly, and yet with detachment. She felt the rapid and painful throb of her own heart, though she concealed it with a smile. ‘Because, it’s gone on long enough, Celeste. He never cared about me, though sometimes I think he’s had some affection. It’s been awfully long. And very wrong of me. It isn’t very soothing to know that one’s husband married one—for an advantage. But I’ve deceived myself all these years. Now I know it’s no use. It gets worse, as time goes on. It isn’t fair—to either of us. I’m not a child, Celeste, though I’ve continued to think I was, for too long. I see now that I have a life of my own to live, and that I can live it, if I have the courage. It is now or never.’

  Celeste stared at her in a silence in which there was a sort of white grimness. She moved away a little, and began to rearrange a bowl of garden flowers on the tea-table. She said, almost inaudibly: ‘It was he who was wrong. He had no right to treat you as he did, Annette. He is a cruel man.’ ‘No!’ cried Annette. She came to Celeste, and took her by the arm. ‘It was I who was cruel. Believe me. I married him, knowing he didn’t want me except for a personal advantage. I ought to have had more pride.’

  ‘He was cruel,’ repeated Celeste, and now she was breathless with sudden passion. ‘If he hadn’t been cruel, and vicious, he wouldn’t have married you, knowing that he could give you nothing. He never tried to make you happy, Annette! It was the least thing he could have done. It was only honourable. But he never tried; he never treated you with anything but indifference. Worst of all, he constantly humiliated you!’

  Her dark-blue eyes glittered in the dusk. She stepped back from her niece. She was breathing with great distress.

  Annette was alarmed. Her fragile colour disappeared. ‘You are wrong, Celeste! He was often very kind to me. You don’t know! How could you? When I asked him for a divorce, he asked me to change my mind.’

  ‘He—’ began Celeste, then her mouth went dry, and she stood, petrified.

  ‘Yes, dear. He did ask me to change my mind. Finally, he persuaded me to wait until things were settled, and Papa’s will was opened.’

  She wondered, in her huge distress and fright, why Celeste suddenly appeared so gaunt, so haggard, and why her eyes blazed wildly. What have I said to upset her so? she thought, in confusion.

  ‘Why should he ask you to wait?’ said Celeste, and she spoke as if her tongue had swelled enormously, and was choking her.

  Annette began to tremble. Something had gone horribly wrong. She fumbled for words in her aching throat. ‘I—I don’t know, Celeste. I, myself, thought it better not to wait. I’ve been sure that Papa has made everything right for Henri, in his will, and that a divorce wouldn’t matter.’

  Celeste had begun to smile, darkly, and with increasing wildness. ‘Don’t you understand, Annette? He is afraid there is something else in the will. He is afraid that if there is a codicil, forbidding him to divorce you, he will lose everything he has perjured himself for. Can’t you see?’

  ‘No!’ said Annette. She withdrew her hand from Celeste’s, and now, for the first time, Celeste saw Annette’s anger and indignation directed at her. But she was too distracted to care.

  ‘And, Annette,’ she continued, very loudly, ‘if there is such a codicil, what will you do? Will you divorce him, then?’

  Annette was silent. She walked away from Celeste with stumbling steps, so sick and dizzy that she feared she would collapse.

  Celeste’s loud wild voice pursued her: ‘Why doesn’t he open the will now, Annette, and know for sure? He can give the word.’

  Annette swung back to her, quickly, her small white face afire. ‘Does it ever occur to you, Celeste, that it is too early to open it, that Henri has work he might do, before it is opened? That to open it prematurely might spoil all his plans? Don’t you know at all that he has something more important to think about just now than women?’ She lost control of herself in her extremity, and selfless indignation: ‘Don’t you know that even you are not as important to him as the work he must do?’

  And now the words she had spoken unthinkingly, in her vehement passion, lay between them like a sword that could never again be sheathed. They stared at each other over it, hardly breathing, their eyes locked. A sudden icy coldness wrapped all Annette’s body; her throat closed in despair and anguish. She spoke again, while Celeste, pallid and frozen, waited: ‘Celeste, I should not have spoken. I hoped I might never need to speak. I won’t say I am sorry. It is too late. But I can tell you this: if there is such a codicil in the will, I won’t divorce Henri. He is still more important to me than anyone else on earth, including myself.’

  Celeste had never seen her niece like this. Even though the dark room heaved and spun about her, even though her heart was flaming with shame and agony, even though she experienced the most awful desolation and sickness and horror of her life, she was still conscious of Annette’s wide, light-blue eyes, steadfast, undaunted and clear as bright water.

  For speechless and terrible moments they confronted each other. Then, Annette began to sigh. She dropped her head and turned away. She left the room. Celeste watched her go. Unable to move, she listened acutely. She heard the sound of Annette’s car turning down the driveway. She ran to the window, and flung it open. The car had reached the first turn.

  Then Celeste cried out, though she knew Annette could not hear: ‘Good-bye, Annette! Good-bye, darling, dear! ‘Good-bye, good-bye!’

  She dropped on her knees before the window. She pressed her cheek distractedly against its cool darkness. Her hands fell to her sides. She began to weep, but without tears.

  CHAPTER LXIII

  Though Henri had seen Celeste some dozen times in the past year, their encounters had been casual and distant, in the homes of relatives. However, he had been greatly pleased at the improvement in her appearance, at her look of serenity and health, and her colour. She had always greeted him with pleasant indifference, and then had directed all her attention to Annette or others.

  Henri�
��s first impression, as he walked into Celeste’s drawing-room this early October night and she rose from before the fire to face him in stern and iron silence, was that she had lost all the freshness and colour she had acquired in the past year, and that it was an embittered and hardened woman who faced him. She made no such banal remark as: ‘Why have you come?’ She only said, at last: ‘Please sit down, won’t you?’

  He did. She sat down at some distance from him, and waited, all coldness and withdrawal. He said, after a hard silence: ‘You look ill, Celeste. What is wrong with you?’ His voice was impatient.

  ‘Do I?’ she asked, dully, and moved a little, so that she was slightly averted from him. ‘It is the weather, I suppose. I hate the winter. That is why I am going to California for a while.’

  ‘Yes. I heard that. That’s why I came tonight.’

  She turned to him quickly, and smiled unpleasantly. ‘That is why you risked being indiscreet, I suppose? But, why should it concern you, anyway?’

  The sound he made was even more impatient, and very rough. ‘The longer I live,’ he observed, ‘the more I wonder why we ever treat women as though they mattered. The Orientals are much more sensible than uxorious Occidentals, or rather, Americans. I don’t like women. I never did. They are a damn, necessary nuisance.’ And then he began to smile. ‘Very necessary, sometimes.’

  She flushed angrily, but said nothing.

  ‘I happen to find you necessary, Celeste,’ he continued. ‘For some reason, you were always necessary to me. I’ve never liked you such, as a person. I thought that as I grew older, my necessity for you would lessen. It didn’t, much to my surprise.’ He waited for her comment, but she had lifted up her head, and was now regarding him with flashing scorn, mixed with humiliation.

  ‘There were times,’ he went on, ‘when I thought you possessed more than the birdlike brain of most women. You returned from Europe a woman. I had had considerable feeling for you as a girl; I had much more for you, as a woman. Not that I’d ever expect that any woman could be a “companion” to me, by God!’