Ladies of Lyndon

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘Then you would really like to go to America?’

  ‘I should quite. It depends entirely upon your decision.’

  She felt at the moment that New York was the last place in the world she would wish to live in. But she replied:

  ‘I don’t mind particularly where I live. Really I don’t. I’ll go quite happily anywhere that you have to go.’

  ‘Right! I’m glad you’re so decided. I thought you might rather hate the idea.’

  ‘Did you indeed? You were right!’ was Agatha’s inward comment.

  Why on earth should it be New York? Almost any other place would have been better. She had always disliked the idea of it, a great, noisy, new city, perpetually in a hurry. If it had to be the States, why couldn’t it have been Virginia, or California, or somewhere in the South? She was all for warmth at the moment.

  Gerald was saying:

  ‘Then I’ll find out the particulars of the thing and close with Green if it’s all satisfactory. The only drawback is that he wants me rather soon; almost at once, in fact. I’m afraid I shall have to be off in six weeks at the outside. That would give me time to dispose of my affairs here. You could, of course, come over later, if you didn’t want to leave England so soon. Or you could wait here until the divorce proceedings were through, and then come out. In that case we could be married as soon as you arrived, but it would mean a longish separation.’

  ‘Does Dr Green know of your … position? I mean would it make any difference to his offer that we shall probably be in the divorce courts?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m almost sure it wouldn’t. But I must find all that out. In fact I expect I’ll have to explain the circumstances to him.’

  ‘I think I could be ready to leave England in about six weeks. It’s really quite a long time. I’d rather not stay here and be divorced all by myself.’

  ‘Just as you like. Only I must go then if I’m going at all. He wants my help in getting the thing started. Otherwise, of course, I wouldn’t contemplate leaving you.’

  ‘No. We’ll consider it tomorrow when I have seen my mother. We shall know better what to do then. I can’t think why John hasn’t divorced me. I made sure he would be very prompt about it. And he should have no difficulties at all; his case is perfectly clear.’

  ‘Well, you must talk to your mother about it.’

  Silence again overtook them, this time prolonged and mournful. The hour was late and the fire quite out, but neither made a move to leave the cold hearth. Their brief, bleak colloquy had given them too much to think about, and they crouched over the ashes, pondering. Gerald was asking himself, with that wearing, secret uneasiness which now so frequently assailed him, whether she would be happy in this new life. He was beginning to feel that this beloved, yet incongruously magnificent creature, whom he had so unexpectedly acquired, was a charge—an obligation. Beholding her at Lyndon, he had raged against the opulence of her setting; but a mere removal had not satisfied him. He now felt that he must himself provide some sort of background for her; she was more inseparable from backgrounds than he had thought. He had already half forgotten that tide of indignant pity which had driven him to snatch her from Braxhall. Though obstinately counting himself a happy man he would sometimes pause and gasp in amazement at what he had done.

  Still he loved her intensely, and sustained himself with an impassioned belief in her fortitude. Not many women would take the prospect of exile in an alien, uncongenial country as she had taken it. But he did not tell her this, which was a pity, for she wanted to hear it. She was discovering that he took her virtues for granted and she was not sure whether she liked it. But he would have thought it rather insulting to tell her how noble she was, so he said nothing.

  ‘That’s not an alarum clock going off upstairs?’ she cried. ‘It must be late! I can’t bear to think of people getting up already; I need to recruit a lot of energy before I can even think of a new day.’

  It was indeed late in the following morning when she finally dragged herself from her bed and set out on her anxious pilgrimage to South Kensington. Upon the road she rehearsed all that she must say and it seemed to her that she was quite ready for the encounter. She would point out that she intended to go to America with Gerald, and that, in this case, divorce would be the simplest remedy. She must display no regret, no penitence, and no exaltation. Emotion of any sort would put her at a disadvantage. Calm common sense was the only platform on which to meet her mother.

  As she stood on the doorstep she felt that she was very calm and sensible indeed. But she no sooner caught sight of her parent, waiting at the head of the stairs, than a part of her defences began to slip from her. She had been a fool to think herself ready, when her mother would, in every one of life’s emergencies, be always so infinitely more prepared.

  ‘Well, Agatha … what kind of a crossing? I was afraid it would be rough. So sorry to have missed you last night.’

  Meadowes faded away down the hall as Mrs Cocks kissed her daughter. They went into the drawing-room and sat down on a sofa by the fire. The hearth was dominated by a large wooden frame on which was stretched squared canvas, half worked into a thick woolly rug. Mrs Cocks displayed it jubilantly.

  ‘It’s perfectly fascinating,’ she said. ‘You do it with this little needle, threading it through and through … so! Of course the designs you get in the shop are hideous, but you can do your own. I was in the British Museum the other day, looking at their carpets, and I’ve got several new ideas. I’ve made two already. One I gave to Lady Peel. The other was the first I made; it isn’t very interesting. I put it in that peculiarly draughty place on the landing by the bathroom. It’s just the right size. You must come up and see it after lunch.’

  Agatha admired the rug and wondered if her mother was being unexpectedly subtle or more superficial than usual. She had looked for censure on the very doorstep. Was all this talk of rugs merely meant to disconcert her—to put her to the necessity of opening the difficult question herself? Or was her mother really indifferent and incurious? She sat for some time listening to inconsequent gossip, until she could bear it no more.

  ‘Mother,’ she began, ‘I rather wanted to discuss some of my private affairs with you.’

  Her mother’s reply enlightened her not a little, revealing, as it did, a carefully rehearsed attitude.

  ‘Of course, that is as you please. But unless your plans are of a kind that I can countenance and approve of, the less you tell me the better. As my daughter I don’t want to lose you, so I’d really rather not hear anything that might make things difficult between us. Remember, Agatha, at present I know nothing of what you have been doing lately, except that you have been abroad for a time.’

  Agatha recognized this line of argument, for she had heard it before. Mrs Cocks had always been a little inconsistent in her ethical conventions. The line she drew, where the social irregularities of her friends was concerned, had strange curves in it. Agatha often thought that she strained at gnats and swallowed camels. She would exclude one from her house, in rigid disapprobation, and welcome another, equally culpable, with warm cordiality. ‘Of course I know nothing of all that,’ was her plea on these occasions, ‘and I don’t see that it’s my business to know.’ A policy of invincible ignorance. She was now evidently prepared to maintain, in the face of an outraged world, that she knew nothing of her daughter’s misdoings.

  Both women were silent for a few minutes and then Mrs Cocks said carelessly:

  ‘I’ve had a fire lighted in your room, as you will be wanting to unpack this afternoon, I expect. When are your things coming round? You haven’t got a maid with you, I suppose? You’d better let my woman do it for you.’

  ‘But you weren’t expecting me to stay here, Mother?’

  ‘Why not? I thought you might like to be here for a week or two.’

  ‘I don’t think I can leave Gerald, thank you. We are staying at the Talisman Hotel, you know.’r />
  Mrs Cocks flushed with irritation. It was really very tiresome of Agatha to ignore her plea for reticence.

  ‘I don’t know that I particularly want to hear about that,’ she said with cold distaste. ‘But since you insist upon talking in this way, may I ask how long you intend to continue thus?’

  ‘Until we can get married. I want John to divorce me. I can’t think why he doesn’t. Mother! I know you think it all very wrong, but …’

  ‘You can hardly expect me to approve,’ broke in Mrs Cocks, impulsively forgetting her role of cool incuriosity. ‘You’ve dragged my pride in the dust. I can’t possibly hold my own with Marian Clewer now, and you’ve no idea how odious she’s been. I’m quite defenceless. When she brags of her daughters, what am I to say of mine?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mother.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ continued Mrs Cocks bitterly. ‘I cannot understand it. I couldn’t have believed you capable of such folly. To risk your position and reputation like this! Because, even nowadays, you would be considered déclassée by most nice people, if it became generally talked about. Fortunately, hardly anyone does know, outside the family. I think a lot of people guess that you are not on very good terms with John, but nothing worse than that. If you will come to me now, you are likely to get out of it all a great deal better than you deserve.’

  ‘But, Mother, I want John to divorce me, and then people must …’

  ‘John is not going to divorce you. And very rightly. He cares for the scandal if you don’t, and he isn’t going to have his name dragged into publicity like this. And allow me to tell you that you will live to thank Heaven that he had such good sense and moderation.’

  ‘But unless he divorces me, I can’t marry Gerald.’

  ‘I cannot see why you should be so anxious to rush into a second marriage when you did so badly over your first.’

  ‘But he has to go to America in six weeks and I want to marry him and go too.’

  ‘America! In six weeks? My dear child, the quickest divorce that ever was heard of would hardly enable you to remarry in time for that. But what on earth do you want to go to America for?’

  ‘I don’t want to go there particularly. But Gerald has to go, and I naturally want to go with him. He’s got work there.’

  ‘Oh, well, of course, if you insist upon living with him, emigration will be his only chance of supporting himself—and you. You’ve probably ruined his career here. Yes! Since he has had the misfortune to love you, my child, he’d better try the States.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’ murmured Agatha turning pale.

  ‘Of course I do. It’s obvious to anyone. His practice here will fall to pieces as soon as ever this scandal comes out. Bound to! His best type of patients are exactly the sort of people who would have nothing further to do with him. People that one knows. But tell me … is this work in America well paid?’

  ‘Not very, I believe.’

  ‘And have you considered how you will like straitened circumstances in … in … wherever it is….’

  ‘New York.’

  ‘New York? Oh, it’s quite impossible! My dear Agatha, you’ve never been there. I have, so I know what I’m talking about. You wouldn’t stand a week of it. It’s the most entertaining place—for the very rich. But only for the very rich. Unbearable otherwise. You surely can’t contemplate such a thing? You don’t know what you are doing.’

  ‘Well … you see … I love him.’

  ‘Love him! But eight years ago you loved John.’

  ‘I was mistaken. I didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know that this is not a mistake?’

  ‘I always loved Gerald. But I didn’t always know it.’

  ‘Then you did very wrong to marry John, that’s all I can say,’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can’t understand it. But then I never could understand these things. I can’t understand how you, of all people, could be so ill-bred.’

  ‘Do you think it is ill-bred?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s very vulgar. But it’s the same everywhere, nowadays. In all the books one reads, on the stage, all over the place. All these violent passions! It’s the war, I suppose. But that sort of thing has always rather disgusted me. I daresay I’m out of date, but it revolts me.’

  Agatha reflected mournfully upon her recent sentimental journey. It seemed, at that particular moment, to have been all customs houses and rough crossings. She could not remember any violent passions anywhere.

  ‘I don’t think you are quite fair,’ she said defensively. ‘I don’t think Gerald and I are very passionate people, whatever else we might be accused of.’

  ‘But if you haven’t even the very inadequate excuse of passion, why in Heaven’s name have you misconducted yourselves in so frightful a manner? Do explain yourself, Agatha! You told me just now, with some fervour, that you love him.’

  ‘So I do! So I do!’

  ‘Very well, then. What, exactly, do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you know what I mean?’

  ‘I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Well …’ began Agatha laboriously, feeling how hopeless was her task, ‘he’s the only person in the world that I’ve ever wanted to … to make happy … to give to … to make sacrifices….’

  ‘I see!’ said Mrs Cocks drily. ‘And what sacrifices have you made for him so far? Apart, I mean, from the loss of principle, position and reputation, which was, after all, mutual.’

  Agatha considered, with a shock of dismay. The past months, reviewed in the light of her mother’s derisive irony, did not seem to be very full of sacrifices, as far as she was concerned. She had in no way requited his unremitting vigilance for her happiness. So far, he had been the victim of their escapade. ‘No,’ she said candidly. ‘I’ve not done much for him as yet. But I’m going to.’

  ‘No you won’t. You never will. Don’t deceive yourself, Agatha. You aren’t that type of woman, though you may occasionally wish you were. You are the sort of woman who takes, who accepts sacrifice; the prize and privilege of successful men, not the helpmate of the failures. You were expensive to produce and you are even more expensive to … to keep. Don’t wince like that! It’s a very useful type, and stimulates nine-tenths of the culture and civilization in the world. But you are frightfully mistaken if you think you can change your nature. You have never, in all your life, put up with anything you disliked, or done anything you didn’t want to. You can’t begin now.’

  ‘I’m not so very old.’

  ‘Too old to change your character. And anyhow it’s unfair to experiment on poor Gerald. If you think you can go with him to America and be a good wife to him in poverty and discomfort, you’ll make the mistake of your life. You haven’t the strength of character. You’ll bring misery and disillusion on him. Have you thought of the consequences, supposing you couldn’t stand it?’

  ‘Other women …’

  ‘Other women are trained in harder schools. Just consider for a moment the sort of middle age you are storing up for yourselves.’

  Agatha had a moment’s horrible vision of herself growing old, an inefficient, fretful figure, clouding his life with her querulous demands and eclipsed beauty. Had she that generous love which survives the hard middle years? Hastily banishing the nightmare, she said with decision:

  ‘There will be hard times, of course. But we shall get along as other people do.’

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of supposing that you have a noble character because you would like to have one. It’s rank folly.’

  ‘But I’ve burnt my boats. I’m his, now. I must go where he goes. People may not know it yet, but that doesn’t alter the essential fact. It’s true that I’m taking great risks. But I must. I can’t leave him, Mother, whatever you say.’

  ‘You must leave him for a little time, at any rate. I’d hoped to persuade you of that without being forced to tell you something which I really have no business to speak of, since I promise
d not to. But you compel me.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t, if you oughtn’t!’ cried Agatha shrinking back.

  ‘I’m afraid I must, for nothing else will make you see reason. Besides, it’s something which you have every right to know, and which you ought to have been told long ago. In fact I spoke pretty plainly to Marian about it. I said that she had absolutely no right to keep it from us. It … it explains why John is not getting a divorce. I went to see Marian soon after you left Braxhall, to talk things over, you understand, and find out what John meant to do. And after a good many preliminaries I began to gather how ill he really is.’

  ‘Ill! Is he ill?’

  ‘Very ill, dear. He has been for some months past. He was when you were at Braxhall. I got it out of Marian that he’d seen a specialist just before that time. It was that old heart trouble, you know.’

  ‘But I knew he’d seen a specialist. He saw Sir Newman Crawley. But he was quite reassuring.’

  ‘I’m afraid he wasn’t. You were most unjustifiably kept in the dark. His verdict was very grave.’

  ‘Grave! … What did he say?’

  ‘This is bound to be rather a shock to you, dear. He … he practically told John that he was … dying. He gave very little hope of his recovery….’

  ‘Mother! Oh, Mother! No!’

  ‘He said that it would probably be quick,’ said Mrs Cocks, looking into the fire. ‘A few months, he said….’

  ‘But he said all this before we went to Braxhall? Before we went?’

  ‘Yes. Of course he should have told you.’

  ‘Before we went….’

  ‘I consider that you should have been told at once. I suppose he wanted to spare you, poor boy, as nothing could be done. Still, I might have been told. But he only confided in Marian, who of course told Lois, and Hubert, and Cynthia, and Sir Thomas, and Dolly, and James for all I know, but elected to keep it secret from the people most concerned. But had you absolutely no idea of it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t gape like that! I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying.’