I hope you will agree with me that it would be unwise for Ellen’s friends to interpose at this point. Personally, I should like to go and knock the daylight out of Dick (a bold desire, for he would certainly knock the daylight out of me if I tried), but what good would that do? Ellen must want him back or she would not make these attempts to carry it all off. She bears up wonderfully. But if he comes back it will not improve matters if his brothers-in-law have tried to kick him. Ellen’s happiness is the only important consideration.
Gordon has just come in, and I have read this last paragraph out to him. He agrees with me, but he is so stunned by it all that I do not think his opinion is worth much. He minds dreadfully that such a thing should have happened in his house. I don’t tell him what we all think: that he counts for very little in his house, and that, next to Ellen, we all of us feel most for him. He was really fond of the harpy. He was deceived in her. But then, have we not been deceived in Dick? We thought him a man of character, and it appears that he is not. Even now I can scarcely believe it. To desert such a woman as Ellen, in her condition, too, without the shadow of an excuse, with such cold-blooded brutality! No! Whether they make it up or not, I don’t think I shall ever be able to speak civilly to him again.
This is all I have to say about it. I hope Ellen confides in you, for she must suffer deeply in spite of her courage.
Your affectionate son,
KERRAN ANNESLEY.
Letter from Louise
MY DARLING MOTHER,
There is no fresh news. Not a word or sign to-day, and our suspicion that he does not mean to return is becoming a certainty. Gordon feels it very deeply. He feels that it is his fault. If he had not opposed me when I first wished to break with Elissa one might have staved off this catastrophe. But it is no use crying over spilt milk. What is done is done, and it can never be undone.
Ellen takes it very calmly. It is impossible to know what she thinks. Has she written to you? It does not seem to me that she has faced it at all yet, and nobody has the courage to broach it to her. But we cannot go on like this. It will have to be done sometime. Could you possibly come? We shall need you badly, when she comes to realise, as she must realise, that this is a final break.
One might have staved it off, but there are fundamental things behind it that might have made it inevitable, whatever one did. The truth must be faced. Dick and Ellen are not suited to one another. She does not understand him. You know I have always said this. And now that he is gone I do not think it likely that he will come back to her. Elissa is a bad, immoral woman. I hold no brief for her. But she is much more likely to hold him than poor Ellen. She is much more nearly his equal, unfortunately. Because one condemns them I don’t think one has the right to suppose that their love has no element of greatness and tragedy. It must have. He would not have left his wife and children, thrown up his whole career, unless he had loved her passionately. Gordon says it is bound to have a damning effect on his professional position.
Do not think I am justifying him. I feel, of course, that we must all stand by Ellen and see that she gets her rights, especially the custody of the children. She must not be soft-hearted about that, for it would not do to let the children grow up in any way under Elissa’s influence. But she must be made to see that divorce is the only dignified thing, and you are the only person who can make her see it. Do you agree with me?
I must stop, though I had a great deal more to say, as the post boat is coming.
Your loving
LOUISE.
Letter from Maude
DEAREST MAMMA,
I’ve nothing to add to my note of yesterday. We are still pretending that nothing has happened. Barny feels it very much and he is not at all well. I am worried about him.
What I say is, we ought to think only of Ellen. She seems to have the situation very well in hand. I admire her TREMENDOUSLY. If I were she I could not keep it up, though I do agree that her attitude is the right one. I have always felt that she must have a great many difficulties that we know nothing about. Because you know, Mamma, this sort of thing must have happened before. She could never have learned the ropes so well without some practice.
Now, Mamma, Louise has already begun to talk about a divorce, but I do hope you won’t agree with her. If Ellen thinks that keeping her home together for the children is the most important thing, why should anyone want to bully her out of it? She evidently knows the kind of man Dick is and she prefers to put up with it. After all, the wife has such a very strong position. I am helping her all I can, inventing convincing details about Dick’s walking tour, and I have actually gone so far as to remember that he told ME he was going! May I be forgiven!
But I foresaw it all, you know, before the others, so perhaps I was better prepared for it!
Please do not worry more than you can help. I think it may turn out all right in the end. I have not given up hope!
Your affectionate
MAUDE.
P.S.—I don’t think the servants know, but Louise has coughed it all up to Muffy, which I think rather a pity.
Letter from Ellen
MY DEAR MOTHER,
Here we all are in pouring rain, which is very disagreeable, for we have nothing to do. It is a good thing we got in our picnic to the Haunted Glen before the weather broke. We climbed up the glen, which was rather ugly—nothing but stones, etc., and very hot. But we got a good view at the top, over into the Ardfillan mountains. Dick has gone there on a walking tour. I am afraid he will get very wet. I wish he had gone sooner.
There is no news except that everybody seems to be very ‘dowly.’ Gordon has got lumbago. Barny isn’t well either, but I think that is just boredom. The children get very impatient and quarrelsome, shut up in the rain. Can you send me some books to read to them? Dick is anxious that I should read classical books to them; he says they can read E. Nesbit, which they prefer, to themselves. What about one of the Waverley novels? Not Ivanhoe, or The Talisman, or Woodstock, or Kenilworth, or Rob Roy, because we have read them. One of the others, only not Waverley, because that is not so interesting for children: the beginning is so long. Which was the one where somebody got starved to death? I think they would like that. Dick says they ought to know their Scott when they are so young that the impression sinks in. He wanted me to read them Vanity Fair, but I do not think Peter would care for it. Or what about Lorna Doone? Or the Gladiator? I wonder if Dick would think they were classics. Anyhow, if you are near a bookshop I should be very grateful if you would send me some.
Your loving daughter,
ELLEN.
26
EMILY, the Napiers’ nurserymaid, was expert at telling fortunes in tea-cups. Her prophecies always came true, but she had to make them when Muffy’s back was turned, because Muffy did not approve of such things.
On the third day of Dick’s disappearance, there was a good deal of by-play in the keep at breakfast time. Emily, looking into the bottom of her cup, gave a little squeak:
“Well, I never!”
“Whatever’s the matter now?” asked Muffy irritably. “Is a dark stranger going to send you a pea-green elephant for a Christmas present, or what?”
“No, but there’s going to be a fatal illness in the house. I’ve never seen it so plain before. Look there, Rosie.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. I will not have such nonsense talked in my nursery.”
Public opinion was against Muffy, who had been as cross as two sticks ever since it began to rain. The children crowded round to look into Emily’s cup.
“A fatal illness!” said Peter. “That means somebody will die, doesn’t it, Emily? How soon will it happen?”
“Within three days,” said Emily, with gloomy relish. “Sure to. I’ve only seen it once before so plain and then my stepfather fell off a ladder. He was …”
“That’s enough about that. I won’t have it.”
Emily and Rosie were cowed, but Peter continued defiantly.
“Emily said
that Rosamund would get a letter and she did. And she said that Mrs. Ames would hear something that surprised her very much …”
“Peter, be quiet! I’ve said we’ve had enough of it.”
“Could a person die of lumbago?” asked Rosamund in a sudden panic.
“Another word of this … the first person who mentions tea-leaves or illnesses again will go upstairs.”
“All right,” said Peter. “But if the things—we mayn’t—mention in Emily’s cup are right, and somebody does get a fatal what-we-don’t-talk-about will they be buried here, or will they have to take the coffin home?”
“Upstairs you go, young man.”
“But I didn’t …”
“You’ll go upstairs for impudence and that’s all about it.”
Peter went upstairs as slowly as he could, and was presently joined by Hope and Charles, who had taken up the game of inventing periphrases for the forbidden topics. They were all in revolt. Muffy had no right to treat them as if they were nursery children, just because they took their meals with the babies. All day they baited her, bringing the conversation back to ill-health at every possible opportunity until she announced that the next offender would be sent to bed. So that nothing could exceed their glee when Maude bustled into the keep, while they were having tea, and said that Barny was ill.
“Ssssh!” shrieked the children. “You mustn’t! Muffy says you mustn’t!”
“Be quiet, children, I wish you’d come, Muffy. He’s got a ghastly pain.”
“Got another chill,” said Muffy, hunting for her goloshes, without which it was impossible to cross the courtyard.
“No, no. I don’t think it’s a chill. He was sick this morning, but that seems to have gone off. And the pain seems to be getting more to one place.”
Maude looked white and scared, and her face, without its bright, fixed smile, seemed unfamiliar. The children were sobered. In the fun of baiting Muffy, they had forgotten the origin of this tabu. Now that they remembered, they were frightened. Only Rosamund had the courage to ask if it was appendicitis, like the King had, whereat Maude, suddenly losing control of herself, boxed her ears.
“Serve you right for talking nonsense,” said Muffy, as they hurried out of the keep.
Barny lay groaning upon his bed, doubled up and ashyfaced. His eyes looked feverish. He had, as usual, refused to let Maude take his temperature. But when Muffy produced her thermometer he submitted. Nor did he take much interest in their verdict. He was too much occupied with his pain.
One glance at the thermometer was enough to banish the scepticism in Muffy’s bearing. She went out with Maude on to the landing.
“I’ll get hot bottles and help you to put him to bed,” she said. “And I’ll tell them to send for a doctor. You go back to him.”
“Muffy … you don’t think …”
“With that temperature we’d better be sure.”
Maude leant for a second against the wall and closed her eyes. The one thing which she had always dreaded most was really going to happen to her. She had always felt that she could face any emergency but one, and that God, knowing this, would not let Barny get appendicitis in some remote place. A feverish voice called her from the bedroom. She braced herself and went back to him.
“Maude!” He clutched her hand. “Don’t go away. Don’t leave me like that again.”
“That’s all right, darling. I won’t. You’ll be better soon. We’ll get you to bed with hot bottles. We’re sending for a doctor.”
“Maude! Do you suppose I’ve got appendicitis?”
“No, no, no! It’s probably a frightfully bad chill.”
“It’s exactly in the right place,” said Barny, who knew just enough anatomy to ruin his peace of mind. “I’m pretty certain myself. In which case I shall die.”
“Nonsense. Wait till the doctor …”
“Not a bit of good.”
Barny, always possessed by an insatiable curiosity, had a way of picking up information concerning the whole population in any place where he stayed.
“The doctor here is a museum piece. The country people swear by him and there aren’t enough well to-do inhabitants to make it worth while for a younger man to come. He happens to be nearly eighty, and is said to drink. I shouldn’t think he’s ever heard of an appendix. We’d probably get on better without him. Oh, Christ!”
He doubled up again and clutched Maude’s hand. When the spasm was over she assured him that he could not die because she would not allow it. This seemed to comfort him a little.
Louise came to the door and asked if she could do anything. She said that Kerran was going at once to Killross in search of a doctor.
“It’s no use,” gasped Barny. “He drinks and he’s nearly eighty. A major operation …”
Maude was making signs to Louise. She could not leave Barny because he was grasping her hand.
“What?” said Louise stupidly. “I don’t understand.”
“She’s trying to tell you,” said Barny, “that you must tell him to bring his tools and chloroform and all that, in case—oh, Jesus Christ!”
“Why?” Louise looked frightened. “What …”
“It’s such a long way to send for things,” said Maude. “He’d better come prepared. If … if …”
“I’ll tell Kerran. I’ll catch him before he goes.”
When Louise had gone Barny said:
“She thinks this is just another of your scares.”
“Let’s hope it is.”
They both knew that it was not. Maude’s mind stood still, appalled. But Barny’s lively imagination pranced ahead. He thought of his own death as inevitable, saw Maude a widow, and remembered that he had only been able to save two thousand pounds.
“If only I’d stuck to Gilt Edge,” he groaned.
“Oh, Barny, don’t!”
“I wish I knew exactly how I stand over my mother’s marriage settlement. I know I should have had five thousand pounds out of her jointure on her death, and if we’d had children, of course …”
“Barny, please …”
“My darling, we’ve got to face it.”
Maude did not call this facing it, and said so. And as she got him out of his clothes and into bed, they had a stimulating dispute as to which of them was taking the more sensible line. He was not nearly so frightened as she was, and that comforted her. He could still dramatise his situation.
When Ellen came up to offer help, he was estimating the possible value of his furniture.
“I just came to tell you,” said Ellen, “that I’ve sent for Dick.”
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, and then Maude, flushing to a deep crimson, caught hold of Ellen’s arm. She scarcely knew what she was doing.
“Oh, Ellen! …” she stammered. “Oh, Ellen!”
She wanted to hug Ellen and kiss her. She felt like a drowning man to whom a rope has been flung. If Dick could not save Barny, then nobody could.
“You’ve what?” demanded Barny, confused between his pain and the effort to remember what his sideboard had cost when it was new.
“Mr. Fletcher is going to fetch him back,” explained Ellen. “Gordon can’t because of his lumbago. I thought we’d better have Dick here, in case … don’t you think so, Maude?”
“Oh, Ellen … but where … how …”
“Oh, what I said was, he’d better go over to Killross and ask at the inn. All the country people go in there, and everything is known that happens for miles round. Any stranger gets noticed in those parts. You can’t walk half a mile without a dozen people seeing you, though it seems so deserted. Dick can’t be very far off. I told Mr. Fletcher if he gives ten shillings to some little herd boy they’ll probably produce Dick in a very short time. It’s astonishing how quickly news travels.”
“And you think he’ll come?” asked Maude anxiously.
“Come? But of course he will, when he knows that Barny is ill.”
“I don’t want him,” announced Barny.
“I’d rather die.”
“Sssh!” said Maude. “Ellen, this is very, very good of you.”
She hurried Ellen out of the room before he could say any more.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she repeated.
“But it’s Guy Fletcher you must thank,” said Ellen, a little surprised.
“I know. I know. And Ellen … you mustn’t mind Barny.”
Barny was so indignant that he almost forgot his pain.
“I’d much rather die,” he kept saying, when Maude went back to him. “I don’t want him.”
Which cheered Maude up considerably, because it showed how far Barny still was from any real apprehension of death. She had seen people die. She had seen people come to that point when they no longer worry about the price of sideboards or the morals of their relations. Barny was still a long way off dying, even when, after a little while, he changed his mind and began to ask anxiously if Dick had come yet.
27
ELLEN found the Lindsays talking to Guy Fletcher at the bottom of the tower stairs. They all fell silent when she appeared, but she knew that they must be discussing this proposal of hers to send for Dick. And she was a little annoyed that they should still be talking it over. There was no time to be lost, and Guy ought to have gone at once.
“I’ve just seen Maude,” she said quickly, “and she quite agrees that Dick ought to come back.”
And then Louise asked the same question that Maude had asked.
“But, Ellen, do you really think he will?”
She found herself getting angry.
“But if it’s true that there’s no decent doctor in Killross, he must. And in any case, if there has to be an operation …”
Gordon nodded solemnly.
“He ought to come. It’s certainly his duty to come.”
But his tone suggested considerable doubt as to whether Dick would do his duty. Ellen flushed resentfully, and then she grew pale. For this sounded as if they must have guessed a great deal. Did they really think that Dick would refuse to operate?
A Long Time Ago Page 23