Yet, in the case of Aunt Hetty, could anything whatever be said against murder? Roland considered the thing conscientiously and impartially from every side. Honestly, he could not attach to himself the smallest blame.
And how blameless he had been, the outcome abundantly proved. The nine households whose unity and happiness had been gradually destroyed by the old lady’s venomous influence, grew calm, peaceable, and happy once again. Ann and her husband forgot even the subject of their disagreement; Flora abandoned her bus-conductor and returned to her family, who received her with tears of joy; Lucy, as if by magic, became cheerful and vigorous again. The very cats, dogs, and parrots lowered their bristles and feathers and lay down together in amity. ‘And all so simple!’ said Roland to himself. ‘No pain! No complications! The simplest and the most successful operation of my career!’ And as in the course of the ensuing year he visited the pacified homes of his relations, he had more and more reason to congratulate himself on his strength of mind.
At first, of course, they were inclined to disguise their feelings about Aunt Hetty’s curious disappearance, referring to her always with an upward cast of the eyes as ‘Poor Aunt Hetty!’ But as time went on, they would admit in confidential and expansive moments that really … after all … it would be hypocrisy to deny … almost, in fact, providential. And Roland Mason, his face shining with affectionate pleasure, would with difficulty refrain from answering: ‘Not at all, old chap. Please don’t mention it.’
Unhappily, on the occasion of a great family reunion, it was he himself who mentioned it, casually, modestly, over a bottle of ’87 port. It was one of those occasions when family affection loosens the bonds of conventionality, when the heart expands and every reticence seems a crime, and the thing popped out in the frankest, most natural way in the world: ‘As a matter of fact, though I ses it as shouldn’t, it’s me you’ve got to thank.’
‘To thank?’ They were puzzled. They raised their eyebrows.
‘Yes, for that little matter of Aunt Hetty; because, between ourselves …’ and in his own inimitable after-dinner manner – for he was, poor fellow, an admirable raconteur – he told, with a hundred picturesque details, the little story of Aunt Hetty’s disappearance. In doing so-as he himself was forced to admit when, a few days later, he stepped into the prison van – he made just that type of mistake that Aunt Hetty had made when she placed too strong a reliance on the economic appeal.
A Romantic Temperament
Nicoll paced the platform. he had re-tained two places in a first-class carriage by means of his coat and suitcase. People carrying bags and newspapers, porters pushing trucks of luggage, kept streaming past him up the platform. In ten minutes the train would start, yet still no Pauline! It was just like her, Nicoll thought to himself with irritation: no sense of time, no order, no poise. She would arrive, he knew, excited and bewildered at the last moment with some idiotic excuse for her lateness, and there would be one of those moments of breathless panic which he hated so. Fortunately there were still plenty of empty carriages left.
He felt curiously cold for one on the brink of an adventure: but, after all, the adventure was hers, not his. He sighed wearily. What a nuisance these women were! Why was it that they would keep falling in love with him? He was not a bit good-looking, he knew that; yet there was something about him, apparently, which attracted women, and always, unfortunately, the type of woman that he himself did not much care for. This Pauline, for instance – Mrs. Forrest – had been a perfect plague. For months she had actually been worrying him to go away with her for a week-end. At last, a few days ago, he had wearily acquiesced. ‘Well, if you insist!’ he had said.
And she had replied with one of those aggrieved Sassoferrato glances which always annoyed him: ‘You don’t seem particularly eager!’
‘I’m not!’ he had replied; but, feeling next moment that he had been too brutal, he smiled to mitigate the words, and immediately she had forgotten them and was chattering away as usual.
‘And what will Edward think of all this?’ Nicoll enquired as she poured out an amazing variety of schemes.
For a moment a shadow crossed her face: but soon all was serene again. ‘I shall tell him, of course,’ she said, ‘that I am going to Kitty.’
‘Of course!’ But Pauline did not notice the ironical tone of his answer. A feeling of weariness came over him: he had argued about Edward and Edward’s rights so often. Latterly he had given Edward up: after all, it was Edward’s job, not his, to look after his own wife. Whenever things reached a certain point of complexity Nicoll invariably gave in: it was generally the simplest thing to do. That was why he had given in to Pauline about this week-end at Margate.
And yet, to be honest with himself, had it been no more than weary acquiescence? After all, he was a man, and if quite an attractive little woman persisted in throwing herself at his head … well! But at least he had never for an instant deceived her about his attitude towards the affair. The trouble was that, despite his frankness, Pauline was determined to deceive herself. In this she showed an amazing ingenuity. Facts, for her, were nothing more than so much plastic material to be moulded by her into the romantic fictions of her imagination, fictions in which she was always the ingenuous but irresistible heroine and he the ardent lover seeking to lure her from her home.
A few hours after their talk he had received a long, excited letter from her. She half feared, he could see, that he might iepent of his promise and she was resolved to prevent that. ‘If you fail me, Arthur,’ she threatened, ‘I believe I shall do something desperate.’ There followed a long tangle of instructions, for Pauline, when occasion demanded, could be fiercely practical. The actual arrangements, he read without surprise, were to be made by him. He was to wire to an hotel at Margate for rooms and find out about the train – a train about midday when Edward would be safe in his office – and, when all was settled, he was to let her know. Well, he had done so, and she had wired in reply that she would meet him on the platform a quarter of an hour before train-time. Nicoll glanced at the station clock: the quarter of an hour had now shrunk to two minutes. In two minutes the train would start: an inspector was snipping tickets. Obviously Pauline was not coming. Well, all the better! Naturally, when things had gone so far, he was a little disappointed: but, in the long run, what a saving of trouble! He turned to rescue his coat and bag from the carriage and at the same moment saw her head bobbing along among the hurrying crowd. On she came, fluttering, anxious, small and neat as a Jenny-wren. Angry, amused, and somehow melted, he ran to meet her and took her bag. ‘As usual !’ he scolded, and they bundled into a carriage as the train was starting.
‘But, my dear,’ Pauline explained, leaning back and fanning herself with a tiny lace handkerchief, ‘I’ve had the most frightful rush. You see, I had all the meals to order.’
‘The meals?’
‘Yes, Edward’s meals, while we are away.’
‘Thoughtful creature! But couldn’t Edward’s meals have been ordered yesterday?’
Pauline looked at him and her eyes began to assume the Sassoferrato expression. ‘Yesterday, Arthur?’ she reproached him. ‘Do you imagine I was in a state to attend to anything yesterday?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why? Well, your letter, Arthur … ! I was so upset, so bewildered … !’ She covered her face with two small champagne-suède hands. Nicoll watched her, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. She dropped her hands and gazed at him with eyes full of tragic seriousness. Nicoll laughed outright.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she asked, furious that her carefully selected mood was not being taken seriously.
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’ There was a pained haughtiness in her reply.
Nicoll felt the usual irritation breaking through his amusement. ‘Come now, Pauline!’ he said. ‘Why must you keep up this everlasting pretence? There was nothing disturbing for you in my letter which was, as you pe
rfectly well remember, a reply to an extremely dictatorial one from you instructing me when and whither I was to bolt with you. Shall I read you yours?’ He put his hand to his breast-pocket.
‘Please! Please, Arthur!’
‘What? You’re ashamed of it? I only wanted to read it to remind you of the real facts. You will persist, you see, in … how shall I put it? … in adapting the facts. You are determined that I shall be the wicked seducer and you the innocent little wife. Well, I don’t like the part you have cast me for, and so I want once more to recall to your memory the actual facts, which are that I have at last consented, after seven months of unremitting persecution … !’
‘Arthur! Arthur, please! You make me out absolutely shameless!’
‘So you are, my dear. Shameless and indefatigable! I have documentary evidence.’ He patted his breast-pocket.
‘I wonder,’ she remarked, as though it were an interesting philosophical point, ‘what you would say if I were to get out at the next station and go home?’
‘I should probably say, “What a waste of money!” ’
‘Money?’
‘Our tickets! They cost over thirty shillings each.’
She heaved a disillusioned little sigh. ‘And that’s all!’
‘No. I should probably also say, “What a waste of time!”’
‘You’re hateful, Arthur!’
‘Then why badger me so persistently to go away with you?’
She snuggled up against him like a bird warmed by sunshine. ‘You do treat me barbarously!’ she cooed.
‘How else should I treat you, my dear child? You are a barbarian. Most women are. Creatures of impulse, entirely without principle in the pursuit of their desires!’ He laid an arm round her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘You ought to be in the Zoo: then only would the world be safe for us men!’
She turned her face up to his. ‘How much do you love me?’
‘Love you? Not a bit. I’ve always told you so, my dear. That I am your passionate adorer is only, you must bear in mind, a part of your ingenious fiction.’
She shook off his arm and moved away from him. For a minute she sat thoughtful and impassive. He knew exactly what was happening. She was making up her mind whether to be offended or not.
‘Is it worth the trouble?’ he asked.
She turned to him loftily, as if disturbed in a profound meditation.
‘What?’ she raised puzzled eyebrows.
‘You know well enough what I said and what I meant by it.’
Pauline snorted. ‘You simply don’t know how to treat a lady, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t you mean rather that I understand rather too uncomfortably well how to treat a certain lady?’
Pauline broke into one of her unexpected ripples of laughter. ‘Yes, I do, you detestable wretch!’
At that moment an attendant passed down the corridor announcing lunch, and Pauline, all agog for a new excitement, sprang up and executed a rapid titivation before the mirror.
‘Am I all right?’ she asked, turning to Nicoll for inspection.
‘I see no change,’ he replied, ‘but you were all right before.’
In the dining-car she was like a child on a holiday. ‘What fun!’ she chuckled rapturously. ‘And how frightfully fast we’re going! Do time it, Arthur, and see what the speed is. It must be at least seventy miles an hour. I’ll look out for the mile-posts.’
But next moment she was helping herself to sardines and had forgotten all about mile-posts. ‘Poor Edward!’ she sighed. ‘My heart almost failed me, Arthur, as I said good-bye to him this morning. He seemed, somehow, as if he couldn’t let me go. He offered to leave the office early and come and see me off at the station, but I wouldn’t hear of that.’
‘Naturally not!’ But cynicism was lost on Pauline. She was talking, not listening – the one, with Pauline, often excluded the other-and, besides, she had already passed on from the incident of Edward and was imploring Nicoll to look at the extraordinary old man at the table opposite. ‘Not now!’ she whispered. ‘Don’t look now, because he’s watching. Wait till I tell you!’ and she went through an elaborate representation of innocence to prove to the old gentleman that she had not been talking about him.
In less than two hours they had reached their destination. The gay seaside town was flooded with sunshine. A delicious salt breeze blew up from the sea: everywhere there were gaily-dressed people, flags streaming, ribbons and skirts fluttering, Pekingese dogs with ears blown back straining at their leashes, and on the sea-front the few deck-chairs that were unoccupied flapped inside out and back again. Somewhere a band was playing.
As soon as they arrived at their hotel Pauline went upstairs to put on a new hat: but in less than five minutes she came running back into the lounge and dropped into the chair beside Nicoll. Something had happened: Nicoll could not at first make out what, for Pauline was almost inarticulate. ‘To think of it!’ she declared with hands clasped and voice on the brink of tears. ‘To think of it!’
‘But it’s impossible to think of it, dear,’ objected Nicoll, ‘unless you explain.’
‘Oh, it’s unbelievable,’ she wailed, ‘and he seemed so upset this morning!’
‘Upset, Pauline? But whom are you speaking of?’
‘Edward. I’ve seen Edward.’
‘Edward? Here?’ Nicoll leapt from his chair, seriously alarmed.
‘Yes. We went up in the lift together.’
‘Good God! Then he saw you?’
‘Not at first; but I took good care that he did before we got to the top.’
Nicoll opened his hands in bewilderment. ‘Do explain, Pauline. Do you mean to say you actually thrust yourself on his notice?’
‘Yes, I should think I did.’ She paused. ‘You see, he was … he was …’ – she almost broke down – ‘he was with some girl!’ She spoke the word girl as though it were the most disgraceful in the language.
‘Girl?’ echoed Nicoll, and then burst into smothered laughter. ‘Well, upon my word!’ he roared discreetly. ‘Good old Edward!’
‘Good old Edward?’ Pauline turned on him almost hissing with indignation. ‘What do you mean, please? I fail to see that there is anything to be amused at.’
‘Do you, Pauline? Honestly?’
Her only reply was to stare at him coldly.
‘You see no rather disturbing parallel between … ?’
Pauline looked him in the eye steadily and honestly. ‘None whatever!’ she replied. Then her lip trembled and she fumbled feverishly in her little bead bag for a handkerchief. ‘I should never have believed it of him!’ she sobbed with such genuine grief that Nicoll was profoundly touched. He took her hand in his, stroking and patting it.
‘There! There!’ he soothed her, and then, after a moment, he asked: ‘And what do you propose to do about it?’
At once her grief had vanished and she was all angry animation. ‘Do?’ she said. ‘I’m going straight to their room, of course, to have it out with him. I know the number: I heard him give it to the lift-boy.’ She rose from her chair and marched off indignantly to carry out her righteous purpose.
Nicoll’s eyes followed her in amazement. Next moment she was gone and he found himself alone, forgotten. Then he too rose from his chair and soon, after a brief conversation in the manager’s office, he was driving with his coat and suitcase towards the station. A train was starting for Victoria in ten minutes, and as he took his seat in it and lit a cigarette he murmured to himself with great conviction: ‘An astounding woman!’
The Matchmaker
‘Really not another cup?’ Madeline lifted the silver teapot, glancing towards fat Mrs. Muncaster who sat, a great complicated bundle of furs and silks, on her left.
‘No, my dear. I should love another, but I really mustn’t.’
Madeline set down the teapot, raising her eyebrows in hypocritical reproach. The moment of Mrs. Muncaster’s departure seemed, by her refusal, to be brought perceptibly nearer. There w
as hope now that she would be gone before five o’clock when Basil had promised to look in. But next moment that hope receded suddenly, for Mrs. Muncaster leaned back in her chair and put her head on one side.
‘I shall not be happy, my dear,’ she said, ‘until you are married.’
‘Married?’ Madeline received the suggestion with surprise. ‘But why should I marry?’
‘Why should you not? That’s what I want to know. You’re everything that a wife ought to be and you’re beautiful into the bargain. And the years are slipping by, you know, Madeline: you ought not to postpone it much longer. Thirty-three is it? or thirty-four?’
‘Still,’ persisted Madeline, ‘why marry if one doesn’t want to? I, for example, don’t want to.’ Liar, she said to herself, liar; and Mrs. Muncaster, too, reproached her:
‘But you must want to. Every woman wants to. It’s natural to want to settle down and make a home for oneself; and a home, my dear, includes a husband.’
Madeline smiled but made no reply. Her impatience was becoming more and more acute. What a disaster that Mrs. Muncaster should have called on the very afternoon that Basil was coming, and this afternoon of all, Perhaps if she were to let the conversation flag, Mrs. Muncaster would go; and so she sat, gazing into the fire, listening to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and silently urging Mrs. Muncaster. ‘Go. Go. Get up. You want to get up and go now!’ Surely she could drive in the idea of departure if she let her mind concentrate hard enough on the old woman. She raised her eyes to the clock. In a quarter of an hour he would arrive: he was always punctual to the second; and if, when he arrived, he found Mrs. Muncaster here, he would probably make himself extravagantly pleasant to her for ten minutes and then suddenly and unexpectedly depart. ‘A surfeit of Mother Muncaster comes over one so suddenly!’ he had once said to Madeline. Madeline had laughed. ‘But, after all,’ she had replied, ‘she’s a kind old thing.’ ‘Oh, a good sort, I admit. And kind, certainly: too kind. One flees, in the end, to avoid suffocation by kindness-to rescue the shreds of one’s individuality.’
Sir Pompey And Madame Juno Page 11