She essayed an ironical laugh. She shut her eyes and put her hands to her face: “How sordid it is! How unspeakable? I feel so degraded!” She shuddered, and added quickly: “Go now, please.”
He went at once, without another word.
She had not quite expected that. Not that she was not sincere in her command, but she thought at least he would protest, explain, extenuate, do something to make her feel better toward her own outraged morality. He had left her to wrestle with her discomfiture alone. And her misery was increased by her shameful, heart-aching longing for him.
For two days she was in an agony that she thought would send her out of her mind. She hoped it would. And then, on the evening of the second day, Edmund turned the key in the lock and entered. He stood there looking at her. He said nothing. He was deadly pale. The French clock loudly ticked the silence away. Then, with nothing said, they were frantically in each other’s arms...
By mutual consent they kept off the subject for several days, but it lay like a sword between them. They were sad, distrustful, guarded with one another.
Once he broke the quietness to say, a little breathlessly, as though he had been running:
“If I ever get my divorce, will you marry me?”
She said almost irritably:
“I don’t know, I can’t answer you now.”
There were moments when she decided that she really hated him. He seemed so utterly unimaginative and insensitive. He had evidently no idea how great the shock had been to discover that he had lied to her so successfully, so shamelessly. To have four children and never to mention the fact to the person you were most intimate with revealed a callousness in his character that was terrifying: a callousness toward her and toward his children. Or an obstinate grim secrecy that might even be worse.
And then to try and smooth things over by asking her calmly to marry him in the event that he was divorced! Prepared apparently at the crack of Genevieve’s whip to abandon his wife and their four small children, the eldest of whom was barely seven years old... Genevieve could not restrain a shiver.
He put out a hand in the dark and touched her:
“What is it, sweetheart?” he said. “Cold?”
She dropped the back of her wrist across her mouth and said in a stilled voice:
“Cold, to my very marrow.”
“You’re trembling!”
She moved out of his embrace. She would not make a scene because she was not the sort of person who could. Scenes were never any part of her life. She did not know how to be other than lovely and graceful and dignified. She had perhaps never in her whole life had occasion to lose her temper. Any display of unbridled emotion was abhorrent to her. In her sheltered life, angry shouted words, even though not addressed to her, were like blows on her body; a blow would be as unthinkable as death itself. So one was civilized, restrained, mannerly, even in despair. It was a similar restraint in Edmund that had showed up so well against her braggart compatriots. Just as she never let Edmund or anyone else see her with a hair out of place, her whole person as exquisitely contrived as a Fabergé enamel, so in her life she could not endure anything the least disapprobatory. The world, which was Genevieve’s conscience, would not excuse her or believe that she had not known she was engaged in an enterprise that was amazingly squalid and scandalous for a person in her position. (Her mind’s eye shrank from the imagined headlines and publicity.) Edmund had placed her in an invidious position and it was that she could not forgive.
Edmund did not revert to the question of marriage. It was she who brought it up incidentally by asking him incredulously if he had no feeling for his children at all.
He was amazed at her.
“How could I have? I’m hardly aware that they exist. I haven’t been home for three years, you know, and in the last five years I’ve had two home-leaves – one of a week and one of ten days. The only one I’ve really seen is Lionel, and he was only a baby when I went to the war. They’re their mother’s business, not mine. It’s no one’s fault, but what else can you expect? What can ‘Daddy’ mean to them, after all? It is absurd to be sentimental about these hard irresistible facts.”
“You speak like a monster! Doesn’t it occur to you that they need you?” she protested.
“I don’t think I’m particularly unnatural really. They’ve had to do without me all these years, and it may be another year or two yet. I can’t see why I’m obliged to give you up for their sake, or how it can benefit them. Provided I see that their voracious maws are well filled and their growing bodies clothed, haven’t I done all that can be expected of me as a father? I’m not particularly fond of children, you know. It was Linda who wanted a large family. After Oliver I said, no more. Linda was still so young, it was absurd. When the war came I wanted children less than ever. It had the opposite effect on Linda. She wanted more children and more, to help her forget my absence, she said—” He cut himself short.
“Is she pretty?”
“I think so,” he answered after a moment’s thought.
Well, what else did you expect him to say? Genevieve asked herself.
She found herself asking the same questions Cleopatra had asked about Anthony’s wife, Octavia. Twisting the knife in the wound, she asked:
“What is she like?”
“Oh... Black hair. Blue eyes. I’m no good at describing people... She’s a simple sort of person. Very young.”
“Younger than me?” asked Genevieve, turning her face a little further from the light.
He looked across at her in vague speculation.
“I’ve no idea how old you are. Linda will be twenty-eight next January. But I didn’t mean in years; I meant she’s young in her ways. Unsophisticated.”
‘Yes, I see,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, bowing her head. It was hopeless, hopeless...
But when he was obliged to return to Europe, the anguish of separation and the fear of his being killed in one of the theatres of war effectively banished all rancour between them. More than half believing they would never meet again, Genevieve promised, promised faithfully, to marry him directly the war was over, or as soon as he was free. It seemed the smallest sop to Fate she could provide.
“And write to me, darling,” she cried. “Swear you’ll write!”
All women weep, all women say the same things when their lovers sail off to fight. Yet somehow life goes on. And mostly they forget. But sometimes they do not.
CHAPTER 5
It is hard to decide now whether Linda made a serious blunder in not telling Edmund the facts at once or whether she was cleverly guileful to let it unfold itself piece by piece before his appalled eyes, as the turn of events called them up. For the fact is, his affairs were in an atrocious state – worse even than he had imagined in his bloodiest hours. Even before the war he had been dropping a steady six hundred a year on the estate, and by 1941 it had risen sharply to twelve hundred and thence, under Linda’s adroit mismanagement, had easily turned the two-thousand mark and more. That was why Linda had been obliged to sell some of the pictures; also his mother’s old-fashioned tiara of diamonds (a hideous affair that Linda knew she would never wear; she didn’t care for jewellery, anyway).
Edmund turned over the rent books, studied the accounts, frowned over the bills.
“I kept everything for you to see,” Linda said complacently.
“But I don’t see...” muttered Edmund. “Here’s over three thousand pounds’ worth of things you sold, and where did the money go?”
“To the Bank of course. I told you.”
“But according to this balance sheet the overdraft isn’t reduced by a penny. I don’t understand.”
“Isn’t it?” she said stupidly, with anxious face.
“Where has the money gone?” he repeated on a higher note.
She could think of nothing to say, and she burst into tears.
Edmund’s heart sank.
“Well,
it was George, poor darling,” she began “He came to me in a frightful jam; they were going to call a creditor’s meeting or something – you know how stupid I am about business, Eddie! Anyway, he needed three thousand pounds desperately, he said. And who else was there for him to turn to? It would be only for a few weeks, he said, and he explained why. Of course I said I couldn’t possibly. And he assured me that there was no risk whatsoever. I can’t remember all he said now, but I know at the time it was all quite clear. Still, Eddie, I did tell him I hadn’t got that amount of money – nor anything like it. I told him I wouldn’t know where to lay my hands on three thousand – in cash. And then, you see, Eddie, he said he didn’t want me to give him any money, he only wanted me to guarantee him for that amount at his Bank. I didn’t see how I could refuse, Eddie; my own brother. He swore it was perfectly safe... And I suppose it would have been. Only, three days later, he was killed by a cheat-raider, coming out of an air-raid shelter just after the All Clear... So, you see, Eddie, I had to meet the guarantee,” she ended disarmingly.
“But honestly, what else could I have done?” she kept saying unhappily. “You’d have done the same yourself if you’d been here. I know you would. You’re my generous Eddie.”
He said nothing. It was not worth answering.
And still, it appeared, the Bank were urgently pressing him to reduce his overdraft. One of the first things he did was to go down and see his Bank Manager, who greeted him genially, rather to his surprise. He was a new man since Edmund’s day, very sleek and affable, with a bright flow of conversation about everything under the sun—except overdrafts. It was Edmund who first mentioned the beastly word. And Mr. Wayborough said hastily:
“Yes, yes. Most reluctant to press. Orders from Head Office, I’m afraid; nothing to do with my own feelings in the matter. However, all’s well that ends well! I am so glad we were able to make little Mrs. Campion see that she would be well advised to sell. And considering that it has been rather neglected during the war – inevitably of course – I really think you were offered a very fair price for it. Yes.”
“For what?”
Mr. Wayborough looked taken aback.
“Surely... Do I understand? I was referring to the sale of Hawkswood.” He glanced quickly away from Edmund’s face. He said uneasily: “You must have known.”
“I gave my wife power of attorney when I left England.”
“But, my dear sir, she must have cabled, she must have written you letters?” He said more hopefully, “Very likely your mail was lost. A very likely thing to happen in the circumstances. How very distressing for you to learn of it so abruptly. And you have been home three days... Dear me!” he said in confusion. His sleek seal’s face was agitated.
“Not at all. Please go on. Has the sale been concluded?”
“No! Oh, no! The conveyance has not yet been signed, I understand.”
It was easy enough to stop the sale. He had only to say he had changed his mind and withdraw the house from the market. But it was another matter to find a way of keeping it, a way of paying off its debts and earning enough to keep it going once again. Ah yes, that was a very different story. If now he had been married to Genevieve, she was so rich that running Hawkswood would be a bagatelle to her... He visualized the urgent repairs, the improvements and alterations that could be carried out with her money. It would be like damming a breach... He visualized her in ball dress, radiant, under the glittering chandeliers... It was hard to keep her out of his thoughts in connection with Hawkswood. But he also was sternly practical. He began at once cutting down expenditure.
An obvious entrenchment was to dispense with all his unwanted guests. He said to Linda harshly:
“How much longer do these people intend to stay here? Do they think this is a charitable institution?”
She looked really shocked.
“Oh, Eddie, how unkind! And how unfair, besides! They’re not living on charity; they all help with the expenses; they wouldn’t want it otherwise. But even if they weren’t paying, they are my family. You’d hardly call it charity to look after one’s own family, would you?”
“Your family, they may be, but I fail to see why I should be obliged to keep them and cripple myself further.”
“But, Eddie – really how strange you are! – I’ve told you that they do contribute. Well – something, anyway.” When he stiffly inquired how much, she looked sulky and said: “Daddy and Auntie Tory both give me twenty-five bob and the Hausers pay me thirty bob, which is absolutely all they can afford, poor lambs, and I only take it because it would humiliate them so to feel they were living on charity. Darling little Priscilla naturally can’t pay, but I wouldn’t expect her to; I look on her as one of my own children.”
Edmund felt again that painfully familiar sense of irritation. It was like arguing with a maddening child.
“It’s very good of them to contribute so generously to the domestic exchequer, but all the same, Linda, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask them to leave here.”
“I couldn’t be so heartless,” she protested. “Honestly, Eddie, I couldn’t! What would become of them? Where would they go? Poor old things! Auntie Tory has only a small annuity, and Daddy – ”
“Your father has quite a bit salted away, you can take my word for it. I know more about him than you think. He can well afford an establishment of his own, believe me. He can set up house with your aunt; and the Hausers can do a job of work.”
But Linda was so reluctant to turn them out that she made one excuse to herself after another, that the moment was not opportune (the sale of Hawkswood had been a different prospect – it would have been a year or more before they had to leave), and in this way several weeks slipped past with nothing said. It was fortunate that Edmund was not aware of this, but he had so much to attend to that he never bothered to inquire whether she had obeyed him. Besides, he scarcely troubled to speak to her unless he was obliged.
The fact was that he was beginning to realize that there was no way out of this mess for him – as things were. And even if he sold Hawkswood he would be no better off. The situation, then, was untenable; something had to be devised. His sense of futility, his distrust of life itself, made it seem an unreasonable task. He looked with a mounting sense of horror into the future, with Linda. It was not only that he had ceased to love her; he now bore her an active resentment. He would have liked to strike her, to knock her about really savagely as a punishment for her criminal stupidity. Of course that was impossible, but he elaborated the idea imaginatively as a sort of safety valve for his ill humour. He thought it was a piece of psychological cunning, on his part, to defraud himself. He had not the least suspicion of the danger inherent in this practice.
No, really Linda did not stand a chance from the beginning. Even if she had been faultless, one may doubt that the outcome would have been any different. It would be stupid to underrate Genevieve’s influence on Edmund’s desires just because for a year she had been only a memory. He wanted her: that was the point. It really did seem to him that if only he could marry Genevieve everything would be all right. Hawkswood restored...and Genevieve, the elusive, the mysterious, the desirable… Why, even life itself might take on some meaning then; or if that was too much to hope for, at least it would be more worth living than it was at present. He made up his mind and in his next letter to Genevieve he told her his intentions toward his wife.
He had been home nearly a fortnight when he went to Linda and told her he wanted a divorce.
She was sitting before her dressing table when he came in, and he saw the color flood into her face. He said quickly, to disabuse her mind of hope:
“I want to talk to you.”
She said ironically:
“Well, that will make a nice change!”
He put his hands in his pockets and said:
“Linda, I want you to divorce me.”
She went on mechanically smoothing the pad of cotton wool over her ch
eeks, along her forehead, and round her eyes, staring at her image in the glass, as if she had not heard. Indeed, in a sense she had not heard, for her mind had simply refused to accept the meaning of the words.
Into the silence he projected with an effort further words:
“I’m sorry it has to be like this. I know it must come as something of a shock. But it’s better to say a thing straight out than beat about the bush. You’d have to know sooner or later; we can’t go on as we are, so much is obvious.”
“Oh, stop it! Stop it!” she cried, her face distorted, covering her ears. “I won’t listen to you! I don’t know what you’re talking about! You must be mad, coming here and talking like this to me!”
“Perhaps it was clumsy of me to blurt it out like that. I’m sorry. But it’s no use running away from things because they’re painful or unpleasant. One has to face facts. For God’s sake let us discuss it calmly like rational beings.”
She dropped her trembling hands into her lap where he could not see them, and forced herself to speak calmly.
“Like rational beings? Suddenly, out of the blue, you come out with this terrible thing, something that’s never entered my head, as coolly as if you were asking me to get you some new shirts. You’re the one who is not being rational, believe me. And then you talk about sparing my feelings! Oh, my God! What do you think it feels like to have been married to a man for nearly ten years, to have borne him four children, and to be cast aside like – ”
“For pity’s sake,” said Edmund, closing his eyes, “spare me the Lyceum rhetoric, I beg. Even people who have been married for ten years have been known to get a divorce when they were no longer happy living together.”
“According to you, marriage is no more significant than engaging a servant; you’re on trial, and if you don’t please, you can be dismissed, with alimony in lieu of a month’s wages. I’m afraid it isn’t quite as simple as that.” She gave him a strange little smile through the mirror; she looked white, queer, like a mad girl by Modigliani. “Marriage is a sacrament. I will never divorce you.”
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