The Constant Nymph

by Margaret Kennedy

  And it was so with all of them. She watched them as they listened; even old Rachel, gross and ugly though she was, had a strange light on her face as she leant against the door, smiling and watching the violinist. Teresa and Sebastian were fixed and intent. Jacob had forgotten wife and child, had turned away from them and was staring through the room, all dim with smoke, as though he could see some lost vision beyond the window among the dark trees of the garden. And Tony, though she pressed her baby in her arms, had wandered in her mind elsewhere. Her lovely eyes had an inward brooding look. Music, with all these people, came first; that was why they talked about it as if nobody else had any right to it. Once Florence had liked them all too well; now that she understood them better she was frightened of them. She wanted to challenge them, to make a demonstration of her power, to call them back to that world of necessity and compromise which they so sublimely ignored, but with which they would have ultimately to reckon. After all, she was the strongest. She had order and power on her side. They were nothing but a pack of rebels. But she must do something immediate that would prove her strength over them. When the music was finished she rose to her feet, and it was as if they had all grasped something of her emotion. They were silent and watched her curiously as she made her farewells to Antonia. Only Lewis, on the piano-stool, kept his back turned to her and went on strumming softly. But she knew that he was listening.

  ‘Good-bye, Tony,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring Teresa round to see you again before she goes. She’s our next departure, you know. She’s going to school at Harrogate the day after Lewis’s concert.’

  This was the earliest day that Teresa could possibly go. Florence finished buttoning up her gloves while her bomb took effect. Teresa turned very pale but made no protest. Lewis stopped playing, swung round on the piano-stool, and asked his wife:

  ‘Is she really going so soon?’

  His look disturbed her, but she managed to reply firmly:

  ‘As soon as I can get her off.’

  ‘When did you settle it?’ he asked very low.

  ‘Just now,’ she answered, meeting his glance.

  ‘She always speaks the truth,’ he said, turning to Teresa with a grin.

  He got up and came into the hall with them. He took down his hat and Florence asked in surprise if he meant to come back to Chiswick.

  ‘To the Silver Sty,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’ve no time to lose.’

  They went down the steps, out of the heat and haze of the smoky, untidy room into the sharp Spring evening. Florence said in an undertone:

  ‘You don’t think that by coming back you can alter my plans for Tessa? I warn you, it’s no use.’

  ‘Tessa!’ He smiled a little and glanced over his shoulder at Teresa, who was dragging along listlessly behind them with her young brother. ‘Oh, it’s all up with her now, isn’t it, Tessa.’

  ‘What?’ she asked blankly.

  ‘It’s all up with you now, isn’t it?’

  She said nothing. She shook her head in a kind of dumb fright, looking at the pair of them as if she would ask how much more she would have to endure at their hands. She felt rather sleepy and yawny, walking along after them, and paid very little attention to where she was going. At a crossing she narrowly escaped death beneath the wheels of a taxi. Instantly the stored exasperation of her elders was poured out upon her. She walked between them, blinking mildly at their furious, frightened rebukes.

  ‘Why can’t you look where you are going?’ stormed Florence.

  ‘There are prettier ways of committing suicide,’ Lewis told her.

  ‘It’s pure carelessness.’

  ‘You seem to know nothing at all about self-preservation.’

  ‘A child of five should have more sense!’

  ‘And so inconsiderate! Spoiling our pleasant walk!’

  21

  The young Sangers could never quite accustom themselves to the immense importance attached to concerts at Strand-on-the-Green. This was because they had, as yet, hardly learnt the difference between private and public life; the transitions between the two had been, in the old days, much less abrupt. They had been used to live, as it were, without reticences, transferring themselves noisily from the racket of their home to the racket of the Opera House without an appreciable change of atmosphere. There had been none of these secret toilets and preparations, these studied issuings forth into the larger world.

  Their cousin, on the other hand, possessed a special concert room demeanour – a still, serious, attentive carriage which sometimes, on special occasions, showed itself quite early in the day, as though she were practising inwardly. Traces of it were apparent for a whole week before the performance of the Dodd Symphony, which was, of course, the most important thing that had ever happened. An extreme solemnity hung over the actual day, a suspense which damped even the hardened flippancy of Teresa and Sebastian; they went off of their own accord, at an early hour in the evening, to wash their faces and put on their best clothes, a business to which they generally required to be driven.

  Florence had told Teresa to put on her new white frock. It was a maidenly garment of embroidered muslin with sleeves to cover her sharp elbows and a high yoke which hid the hollows in her young neck. A white ribbon spanned the broad middle of the dress in that region where it was to be hoped she might some day have a waist, and other white bows tied up her tail of fair hair. Also she had new patent leather shoes, with steel buckles, and thick, black silk stockings. All this gear was designed for school parties and concerts, and became her almost as little as it would have become that Delphic Sibyl whom she so closely resembled. Its infantile scantiness emphasised everything that was out of scale in her person: the lanky awkwardness of her rapid growth, and the shy, abrupt grandeur of some of her gestures. She peered at the glass rather dismally and could not help feeling that she looked foolish.

  ‘God in His wisdom gave you that face,’ she informed her reflection, ‘and Florence in her wisdom gave you that dress. But they don’t understand the value of team work. And neither of them consulted your feelings very much. It’s not your beauty, my girl, that will get you into trouble in this world.’

  She had reached a pitch of wretchedness when all evils looked very much alike. Her detestable clothes, the forlorn certainty of school before her, the effort of decision behind her, the loss of her home, the separation from the people she loved and understood, the reverberation of that terror and bewildered shock which had haunted her ever since the night of Sanger’s death, all these oppressed her with an equal weight. To thrust her love out of her heart and life had been so monstrous, so unnatural an effort, that all vital feelings had gone with it. The impulse of protest had died; she had no wishes left and felt, with an odd, surprised relief, that it would be quite easy in future to do what she was told and go where she was bidden. Desiring nothing, she was afraid of nothing save the bodily pain which so often assailed her. To endure this without complaint was now her chief care, for, though its onslaughts were appalling to her mind, she could not bear to think that anybody should know. Illness of any kind was, in her eyes, a little shameful; in Sanger’s circus it had never been tolerated, and Kate was the only person there who sympathised with aches and pains. This illness especially, this unsparing enemy that took such complete possession of her, that conquered her spirit and turned her into nothing but a tortured body, seemed base to Teresa, as though there was something indecent in the ugliness of such a contest. She tried never to think of it, but she could not help being rather frightened when she thought of school where she would be running about all day. Really nowadays, when she had to run, she felt almost ready to die.

  Two buttons at the back of her dress proved to be beyond her management, and she did not like holding her arms up, so she went downstairs to demand aid. In her cousin’s room she found Lewis, with all his red hair standing on end, submitting to a toilet. He was to leave the house before the rest of them, but it seemed likely that he would not be despatched in time. H
e had been got into his boiled shirt and was standing, palpitating but patient, while his wife dealt with his tie. Both were looking distraught but on better terms than they had been for months. The excitement of the moment was such that they had no time to think of their grievances.

  In moments of animation Florence always appeared to advantage. Her fine silver dress, with a brilliant Chinese shawl, was flung on the bed, and she was running about in a little silk petticoat, a narrow sheath for her slender, supple beauty. Her hair, tossed back from her face, hung all soft and cloudy over her white arms and shoulders. Self-forgetfulness was, in her, as rare as it was delightful; both her companions were conscious of its charm. They stared at her in dumb but unconcealed admiration, moved to that immediate pleasure in beauty which was the strongest impulse in their natures. Lewis, especially, could not take his eyes away from her; he was nervous and preoccupied, secretly dreading the night’s work before him, shrinking from the effort, and she was like a reassurance, a solacing repose. There was a sort of dim gratitude in the looks which he cast at her. Teresa saw that he was half bewitched again and wondered if another period of reconciliation was due. She gauged in her mind the command over his senses which Florence so palpably possessed, and balanced against it the inevitable rebellious reaction in him, the rancour, the protest against domination, which had made the history of these two so stormy. She thought:

  ‘Does she want him back? She could get him for a little while, when he’s resting after the concert …’

  She felt no personal concern in the idea that they should come together again; such thoughts would trouble her little in the careful, safe grave she was digging for herself. It was not in her disposition to be jealous of her cousin’s beauty; she could never grudge a quality which so enriched the world. Nor was she afraid, now, of any failure in her own resolution, since she would not see Lewis again. He was not coming back to Chiswick after the concert; he would sleep that night in town and next day he was going abroad. He said that he did not know where he was going and the implication that he would not, at any rate, come back had been perfectly understood by the whole household. Florence had seemed to acquiesce. Nobody seriously believed that she was going to join him later, and this sudden tender cordiality was, therefore, very puzzling to Teresa, who could discover no cause for it On no grounds could she explain the generosity with which Lewis, in spite of his amazing faults, was always treated, unless as an exhibition of that forgiving quality which she had once described to Charles as bonté, the persistent, noble benevolence which she firmly believed her cousin to possess.

  ‘There you are,’ said Florence, finishing the tie. ‘Flatten down your hair and make yourself neat. What do you want, Teresa?’

  ‘My frock.’

  ‘Can you really not fasten your own frock? Come here.’

  ‘Is this neat?’ asked Lewis, after dealing with the brush that had been given to him.

  ‘Passably,’ said his wife.

  ‘You look like a calf going garlanded to the sacrifice,’ Teresa told him.

  Immediately she was sorry she had said it. It was a great deal too true. He did have very much the look of a dumb beast driven to the shambles, and all this festal preparation only made it worse. She exclaimed encouragingly:

  ‘It’ll be over quite soon, you know.’

  ‘Very soon,’ he agreed, with an unamiable expression. ‘Where shall we all be this time tomorrow? You’ll be saying the multiplication table along with the other young ladies, Tessa. And I shall be … God knows where!’

  This was not quite true as Teresa knew where. He had told her privately that he was going, by the early boat, to Brussels, in case she might feel disposed to slip out of the house next morning and join him; a communication which she had received with that mute obstinacy, that sulky demeanour of resolution, which was her last line of defence. But she did not point out his inaccuracy. She saw that the allusion to the garlanded calf had stung him, and she felt that he was perhaps justified in giving her an unkind reply. She merely made a noise of melancholy assent and retreated in good order. It was not until she had shut the door behind her and Lewis was half-way into his coat that the truth flashed across his mind. His wits that night were not at their best. He could hardly believe that he had said good-bye to her, that an incredible, impossible thing had really happened, that they would never speak to one another again. For a few seconds he stood petrified; then he turned to Florence and said:

  ‘I shan’t see Tessa any more!’

  ‘No,’ she said easily. ‘Except, of course, across the Regent’s Hall. You can give us a special bow if you like. You … you won’t be seeing me again either, you know.’

  She glanced at him sideways. He was wrapped in thought and replied absently:

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  He wanted to tell her about it; she had been so nice all day. He was seized with a strong, sudden impulse to deal openly with her, to lay the whole truth before her, and to trust that the truth might mend matters. The truth, to him, was the story of Tessa’s goodness, her sweet, staunch loyalty. There had been some baseness and enmity between the three of them, but none of it had touched Tessa, and he scarcely believed that it could live if it was brought into the light. He was going away. He had to leave his love behind him. It seemed to him that he might endure that if Florence would but comprehend her. He turned round and said to her, with a new, grave friendliness:

  ‘I wish that you would be better friends with Tessa … that you would love her. She deserves to be loved. Everybody must, I think, that really knows her. If you could hear how she speaks of you, how she admires you, you … you couldn’t help it I don’t think you quite understand how … how good she is.’

  ‘No … I don’t quite understand,’ she said, with a bitterness which, in his eager appeal, he failed to remark.

  ‘I can’t bear to go away and leave her with people who don’t know that,’ he said simply. ‘Do try, Florence! I know I’m a bad advocate. I know I’ve behaved very badly to you. This has been a wretched business and it’s best that I should go away, for I’ve only made you unhappy, and I should go on making you unhappy. But I feel that the worst thing I’ve done is that somehow I’ve put you and Tessa against each other. Because you ought to love each other. My fault, that is! I’ve not spoken plainly. You see … I love her so much … so much! I want to know that she’ll be happy. And now I have to leave her with you and you treat her as if she was an enemy. She’s not. What can I say? You are so much better fitted to love each other, you two, than I am to have anything to do with either of you. Oh, Florence, can’t you see it? If you’d only see it, I could go away and say God bless you both.’

  She had not thought it possible that he could speak like this. In all their life together she had never heard these tones in his voice, or met that look of unreserved appeal, save once in the Tyrol, when he first spoke to her of the little girls, and begged her to take them to England. She had loved him from that hour. And now she knew that it was all for Teresa, the gentleness which she had divined in him then. She had given her heart to Teresa’s lover.

  ‘Since when have you loved her so terribly?’ she asked.

  He didn’t know. Always, he supposed.

  ‘Why, then, did you marry me?’

  ‘I was a fool. Oh, Florence, be angry with me, not with her! She’s done nothing to deserve it. She loves you.’

  ‘Have you told her? Does she know?’

  ‘Yes, she knows. And you knew it too, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You’ve known it for a long time. That’s why I’m speaking of it now, because you know it already, and you’re a person one can dare to speak the truth to. And you were angry because I didn’t tell it; weren’t you? You thought you deserved straighter dealing. And now you see that it isn’t her fault. You’re too generous to do anything else …’

  She would not look at him. Instead, she looked at her watch, and said that it was time for him to go. But the crazy fellow would not go; he still
pleaded, hoping absurdly that this appeal might somehow make things easier for Tessa.

  ‘Florence, don’t put me off like this. Can’t you see …’

  ‘I can see no good in discussing this business now.’

  ‘If I could make you understand what she is really like,’ he cried despairingly. ‘I think she never could have a vile thought about anybody. She couldn’t do a base thing. She …’

  At that she cut him short, flinging at him abruptly the question which for weeks had tormented her, returning to her mind as often as she banished it. It burst from her.

  ‘You may as well tell the whole truth now. What, exactly, has there been between you?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I love her.’

  ‘And what does that mean? Is she your mistress?’

  Though she would not look at him, she could feel the shock of his sudden anger. But he tried to control himself.

  ‘No, she’s not. I tell you, she’ll have nothing to do with me because she loves you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. She would never be as unjust to you.’

  ‘What am I to believe? I’ve seen enough of the whole pack of you to know that you can’t be trusted.’

  She went across to the dressing-table and began rapidly to pin up her hair. Glancing furtively into the glass she was surprised to see that this mortal wound had, as yet, written no history on her face. Only her eyes had an alarmed look. She said to herself that it was too soon. Lewis, watching her, was passing rapidly to a pitch of extreme fury, baffled by his helplessness and the necessity of leaving his friend in the power of a woman who hated and maligned her.