Shabby Summer

by Warwick Deeping

  “That’s right. Snort off,” said Jane, and went and emptied the vinegar-drenched salad into the dustbin. What had been good enough for my lord was not good enough for my lady.

  * * *

  Ghent was sufficiently human to allow himself three or four expeditions in the direction of the river. Keeping among the trees, like a swimmer whose head alone projected above the water, he did witness some of the incidents of the tragi-comedy. He saw Mr. Broster in solitary occupation of the garden, and later his abrupt exit from the house with his two yellow real-leather suit-cases. He witnessed the recovery of the hat, and could distinguish the good Jane on guard in the porch doorway.

  Then had come the roar of the car’s engine, and the complaining of harshly-treated gears. Peter had seen the black and beige machine shoot up to the Folly Farm gate, take the high road and cross the bridge.

  So, she had kept faith with herself! She had persuaded the past to withdraw itself in a fume of frustration. And Ghent exulted. If the male in him had coveted the dramatic privilege of going across and throwing the other fellow out, he had sufficient subtlety to grasp the more delicate significance of this other form of expulsion.

  Bunter’s bark and the ringing of Mrs. Maintenance’s bell warned him that supper was ready. The sky was a limpid blue, and filled with little flocculent clouds that were beginning to blush as the sun set. A perfect evening, still and calm. As he sat down to his supper, facing the window, he could see the light playing on the Folly Farm trees and along the tawny grass. Should he go across there presently, as he had threatened to do? Had not the provocation passed? Would it not be more gentle to refrain, and to leave her unvexed on this critical evening?

  His mind could not satisfy his heart over this. What did a woman ask for, especially a woman of sensitive and fastidious texture? Would it not be rather loutish to rush in just when she had written explicit at the end of a particular experience? He lit his pipe, and sitting by the window, watched the dusk come down. The day drew in its slender fingers, and ceasing to touch the green world, suffered it to go grey.

  Mrs. Maintenance came in to clear the table.

  “Have you finished, sir?”

  Oh, yes, he had finished, and he wanted to be alone. He took Bunter with him, for a dog can be no more exacting than your shadow, and going down to the river, he sat down on the bank. The darkness deepened. The weir kept up its ceaseless underchant. He was watching for lights to appear in the house across the water, and presently one window on the ground floor came to life. He saw someone pass between the window and the light, and the lover in him smiled. But it was Jane he saw, an agitated Jane, which goes to prove how a man’s fancy may go astray.

  He remained there, with the dog curled up beside him. The stars came out. How was she feeling, assuaged, happy? She had kept faith with herself.

  And then he heard a voice calling in the darkness.

  “Mr. Peter, Mr. Peter!”

  It was Mrs. Maintenance’s voice, and he scrambled up and answered it.

  “Hallo.”

  “Will you come here, please. Jane’s here.”

  Jane! Why Jane? He walked back towards Marplot, and in the yard he saw two dim shapes standing close together.

  “What is it, Sarah?”

  “Jane’s worried, sir.”

  Jane’s shriller voice broke in.

  “She went out, sir, and she hasn’t come back. Her supper’s been waiting hours. I’m worried, Mr. Ghent. You see——”

  “How long has Mrs. Strangeways been away, Jane?”

  “Hours, sir. I’ve hunted all over the garden and the orchard. I don’t like it, sir.”

  Neither did he.

  “I’ll come back with you, Jane. We must find her.”

  XVI

  Neither Mrs. Maintenance nor Jane would have had any use for your psychological hero who might have demanded five pages of rather futile self-analysis before condescending to function as a positive and helpful person, which goes to prove that the world’s sanity is in the keeping of the common folk. Mrs. Maintenance would not have thanked you for a negation in trousers, or for any sickly sophistication that suffered from habitual queasiness of the soul. Nor would most women, for that matter. Ghent’s “We must find her” was immediate and human, as was the first question he asked of Jane as they crossed the Weir Bridge.

  “Have you looked in the boat-house?”

  Jane had not.

  “But she wouldn’t go punting at night, sir, would she?”

  Ghent was silent, and his silence implied that after the stresses of an emotional crisis anything might be possible.

  He had brought a torch with him, instead of some dim horn lantern of dreams, and he made straight for the boat-house with Jane at his heels. The river doors were open, and when he shone his light into the dark interior he saw that the punt had gone.

  “She’s on the river, Jane.”

  He did not say that his fear was that she might be in the river, but Jane seemed to divine the possible tragedy, and to shiver over it.

  “Oh, dear, sir!”

  “Better go back to the house, Jane, in case—— I’ll go exploring.”

  Up river the Folly Farm orchard ended in an old thorn hedge, and beyond it lay open meadows. Ghent’s first reaction had been to remember that other occasion when she had let the punt-pole drop in the river, and had gone drifting down towards the weir. Had she——? But the lover in him flung off that tragic question. Was it not more probable that she had taken to the water to avoid the solicitations of the other man? If he worked his way along the river he might find the punt tied up under the willows. The thorn hedge ended at the top of the bank, and the bank itself was fenced with posts and wire, and Ghent forced his way between the strands, and moving along the bank, kept flashing his torch. The most blessed thing about the crisis was that this was open country, with no cottage near, and that no curiosity was likely to be aroused by his flashing torch, or by his calling to her.

  “Mrs. Strangeways, Mrs. Strangeways.”

  He did no more than speak the words, for he knew that his ordinary speaking voice would be sufficient. Working from willow to willow, and turning his torch on the water below the bank, he covered the stretch of river as far as the Temple Reach. He saw nothing, heard nothing. And then it occurred to him that she might have crossed the river to put it between her and Folly Farm. The punt might be lying under his nursery. He retraced his steps, passed through the orchard and garden, and recrossing the bridge, began his search of the Marplot bank. He worked along it as far as the Temple Towers boundary, and found nothing.

  Returning, he became aware of Folly Island lying dim and blurred in the centre of the stream. Of course! She might be there. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He stood and flashed his torch once or twice, and spoke to the island.

  “Mrs. Strangeways, Mrs. Strangeways. Are you there? We’re worried.”

  No answer came to him, and yet, though he could not say why, he had a feeling that she had taken sanctuary on the island. He did possess a semi-derelict old punt, a sort of black and tarred coffin that lived under a little penthouse a hundred yards above the bridge. The thing leaked, and was usually to be found with an inch of water in its bottom. Ghent made for the punt, and unmoored it. As he had expected the floor was awash, but he stepped in, and picked up a paddle, and kneeling, drove the clumsy, sodden craft in the direction of Folly Island.

  The night seemed to have grown darker, and looking up, he saw half the sky obscured, while in the eastern arch the stars still shone. He heard the thunder of the weir behind him, and the splash and suck of the paddle, and the drip of water from it. The willows of Folly Island loomed up ahead, indistinguishable save as a blurred mass in the darkness. The river itself retained a vague suggestion of light, and the black bulk of the island rose sudden and solid above the windless polished water.

  Ghent let the punt slide in close to the bank, its nose pointing up the river.

  “Mrs. Strangewa
ys.”

  Silence. And then, close to him and lying against the bank he saw a lighter object, the Folly Farm punt. It swayed slightly in the swell made by his own craft. So, she was here!

  “Mrs. Strangeways.”

  No answer. He dug the paddle in and stopped his punt.

  “I only want to know that you are safe.”

  He heard a faint stirring in the grass. Her voice, when it came, seemed to drop down to him out of the near obscurity of a willow.

  “Is it you?”

  He stood up.

  “Yes, Peter Ghent. We were worried. I had to find you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He could not see her. He was speaking to an unseen presence and a voice.

  “I’m not. I could not help being scared.”

  “Was it necessary?”

  “Yes, if a thing can’t be helped. He’s gone, you know. You don’t mind my telling you?”

  She did not answer him for a moment, and then she said: “Why should I mind?”

  Nor could he answer her question. His punt was beginning to drift downstream, and with three or four sweeps of the paddle he brought it gunwale to gunwale with hers. The wretched thing was leaking, and he could feel the water washing round his ankles. Well, her crisis was past, and he could assume that she would ferry herself back to Folly Farm.

  “Can you manage? The bank’s rather steep. I’ll steady your punt for you.”

  Almost her voice sounded casual.

  “Oh, I’m staying here for the night.”

  “Staying on the island?”

  “Yes, I have a rug and the punt cushions, and the grass is dry.”

  “But, you——”

  “I am not going back to that house.”

  “You mean, not till the morning?”

  “No, I am never going back to it.”

  He stared up into the darkness under the willows. Was she serious? Had that cad said such impossible things to her that no compromise of any kind was possible? Yes, he could understand the finality of her revolt, and a wounded fastidiousness that shrank from every contact with certain associations. Meanwhile, his wretched punt was proposing to sink under his feet. Probably his weight had strained a plank and the thing was leaking like a sieve.

  He said: “I’m awfully sorry. Do you mind if I come ashore for a moment? My boat’s trying to sink.”

  “Oh, take mine. I shan’t need it to-night.”

  So, she did not want him to land! Well, that, too, was understandable. She had suffered sufficiently from male interference, and she was accepting no sympathy on trust. He transferred himself to her punt, and getting hold of the mooring rope of his own craft, worked it into the bank, and groped for a convenient willow bough to which he could tether it. The waterlogged punt could be baled out and recovered by daylight.

  Her voice came to him suddenly out of the darkness.

  “Peter, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You are going back?”

  “No. You will have to fetch me in the morning. Are you very wet?”

  “No, only socks and shoes.”

  “Don’t go for a minute.”

  He sat down in the stern of her punt, for her last words had touched him.

  “All right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Sitting in your punt. I’ll stay here as little, or as long as you please.”

  He heard a movement in the grass and water-weeds. She had slipped half-way down the bank, and was sitting there with her feet about a yard above the water. He could see her now, and the darkness had become like a veil half shrouding her presence.

  “Oh, my dear, I expect you think I’m quite mad.”

  “One can be in love with some sorts of madness.”

  Almost, he could feel her flinch.

  “No, not that word, please! How many women must have felt as I do. You are up against things, and some man comes along and is kind, and perhaps you are grateful, and he has a tale to tell. And perhaps you fancy that you are being rather fine and human, until you realize that you are just an incident. Oh, these incidents, and the men who are misunderstood by their wives! But, the woman who believes is the fool.”

  He could distinguish a foot in a light-coloured shoe lying near him in the grass. He wanted to touch it, but held back.

  “So many men think they can buy things, my dear. I don’t think I realized till to-night how utterly I had been wrapped up and passed over the counter. And why am I telling you this? Because I won’t be a lie any more to anybody. I couldn’t sleep again in that house.”

  “Clean grass and the sky.”

  “Absolutely. Now, please go, Peter. I want to be alone with myself, my new self.”

  He stood up.

  “I’m to come and fetch you in the morning?”

  “If you think it worth while.”

  “I’ll come, almost as soon as it is light.”

  He was unfastening the rope of her punt, and as he fumbled at the knot, he was moved to ask her the obvious question.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean, you have nowhere to go?”

  “Nowhere, my dear, after I have packed and settled with the good Jane.”

  He had cast the rope loose, and the stream began to carry the punt away from the bank. He caught a willow branch, and held on.

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Freedom’s impossible, unless——”

  “But one’s never free. I mean, things and people. One’s always tied up in the human show.”

  She was silent, and then she said: “Please go now, my dear. I’m not going to tie you or myself to anything. Good night.”

  He released the bough, and let the punt drift, and a moment later she heard the splash of the paddle. She was standing now among the water-weeds, and steadying herself against a branch that drooped lower over the river. And suddenly she felt dreadfully alone, and she called to him across the water.

  “Peter.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not showing off. You do believe that?”

  “Of course I believe it.”

  “Thank you, Peter. Good night.”

  * * *

  Ghent berthed the punt in his own small boat-house, and having spoken with Mrs. Maintenance, went across to reassure Jane. But what was he to tell Jane? That her mistress was spending the night on Folly Island because a particular house was so associated with unpleasant memories that she refused to return to it? And what would Jane make of that? Good lord, it was a pretty problem that she had set herself and him! In every sense she had cut herself adrift and he, though understanding her inspiration and honouring it, felt himself to be posed and helpless. She was not asking for interference. She was proposing to serve her penance as women will serve it, with passion and anguish and exultation. But how splendid! Yes, splendid and completely baffling.

  He was crossing the bridge when he remembered that Folly Island was part of the Temple Manor estate. Lady Melissa! Mrs. Strangeways was trespassing on Vandeleur property, and to-morrow Temple Manor was proposing to call on Folly Farm. Ye gods, what a tangle! And what the devil was he to tell Jane?

  The inspiration came to him as he passed through the Folly Farm gate. He saw lights in most of the lower windows, and he concluded that Bob’s sister believed in maintaining a cheerful appearance. Jane herself had carried a chair out into the porch, and was keeping vigil there. She heard Ghent’s footsteps, and came to meet him.

  “Is that you, sir?”

  “All right, Jane. I’ve found Mrs. Strangeways.”

  “That’s a blessing.”

  “She’s on Folly Island, and she’s staying the night there. The fact is, Jane, she’s rather afraid the gentleman might come back.”

  “I reckon he won’t do that, sir, after what I did to him.”

  “What did you do to him, Jane?”

  “Packed his bags for him, and took the bedclothes away, and locked hi
m out of the room. A rare pet he was in, I can tell you.”

  “Good for you, Jane.”

  “But, Mr. Peter, she can’t spend the night in a place like that.”

  “She has a rug and the punt cushions, and the grass is quite dry. I think we’ll leave her in peace, Jane.”

  “Well, poor dear, she needs it. Though what that cheeky blighter with his little bits of whisker——”

  “Yes, Jane, I know,” and he felt a quick desire to deflect her from the subject. “I’ll fetch her ashore in the morning. And what about you? Do you mind being left alone? I dare say Mrs. Maintenance——”

  “I don’t mind, sir. I always lock my door.”

  “Quite right, Jane. But if the gentleman should come back, fetch me. I’ll throw him out.”

  “I rather wish he would come back, Mr. Peter. I’d like to see you——”

  “Yes, Jane, but I think it’s best as it is. I dare say you settled him.”

  “I wish he had tried my salad,” and to Ghent the implication was obscure.

  “Not poison, Jane?”

  “No, I soused it in vinegar. Sort of hint, Mr. Peter.”

  Ghent laughed.

  “You’re your brother’s sister, Jane.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Maintenance was sitting up for him, with Bunter in her lap, a Mrs. Maintenance, who had divined in all these strange happenings, the imminence of romance. Dear, dear! And such an apocryphal person, a mysterious lady from London who was visited by strange gentlemen, and quarrelled with them! Mrs. Maintenance always thought in pairs or plurals, eggs by the dozen, tea and sugar by the pound. Rashers of bacon never arrived singly, and her habit was to multiply objects and circumstances. Ghent, seeing the light on in the kitchen, was wise as to the state of doubt that might exist in Mrs. Maintenance’s maternal mind. As Jane might have put it, “It was a noosance, but if your stocking had a hole in it, especially where it showed, peace and self-respect made you get on with the job and mend it.”