by John Bingham
“I think that you and John are well suited to each other, but I am not at all certain that one can build happiness upon the unhappiness of somebody else.”
“I suppose not,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Some people could, but not you, Beatrice dear. Not a person with your burden of conscience.”
“No.”
She wiped her right hand on her apron, and then pushed some hair back from her forehead. The blood had mounted to her head, and her lower lip was trembling. She raised her hand again, and brushed it across her eyes.
“I wish I could advise you otherwise. I would willingly sacrifice Barty, if I thought that you and John would be happy.”
She stood at the sink, saying nothing, cleaning a small glass marmalade dish with a small mop, pushing the mop round and round.
“John might be happy,” I went on, “but not you, Beatrice dear. Your thoughts would go out to Barty, all the time, souring everything. Perhaps even embittering your relationship with John.”
The winter sunlight shone through the little window, touching her beautiful red hair. Once, she looked quickly at me and tried to smile, and I saw the tears in her eyes. She nodded her head, with that quick little trembling smile, and bent over the sink again. And all the time, forgetful of what she was doing, she continued to push the little mop round the marmalade dish.
For a moment, despite my resolution, I felt sick at heart, not merely at her heartbreak, but at my own treachery.
I saw her standing, almost symbolically, at the sink, a woman who had been faced with the greatest temptation which a married woman can encounter. But because her conception of duty, of what is fair and decent, was so strong, she had won her struggle.
I suddenly flung the dishcloth over the back of a chair, and murmured an apology and went out of the kitchen.
I was nauseated by my own actions. “Beatrice dear,” I had called her. “I wish I could advise you otherwise,” I had said. And with it all, I had spoken in a low, regretful tone, as though the one thing I longed for was to be able to tell her something different. I went into the drawing room, and paced up and down in front of the fireplace.
I couldn’t go on with it.
I was not as tough as I thought I was. This was the invisible X, the unseen factor which was going to upset my plans.
I had the power to make three people happier than they had ever been before, and one person reasonably happy. As is so often the case with ruthless people like myself, I was swept by a wave of the most revolting sentimentality.
I conjured up mental pictures of Bartels, with his gentle smile, and quiet good nature, and diffident manner; Bartels, the unsuccessful wine salesman, traipsing round the countryside, longing for Lorna, whom he believed to be in love with him, and who would certainly never let him see that she was not.
I thought of Beatrice, whose heart called out for the strong masculinity of John O’Brien; Beatrice who was fundamentally so good that she was prepared to sacrifice her own happiness rather than harm, as she thought, a devoted and dependent husband.
Even the forceful and sturdy John O’Brien came in for his share of my pity: John, fundamentally decent, too, who was prepared to stand by Beatrice’s decision, whatever the cost to himself. John, the good-humoured, the generous, the kind.
The wave of sentimentality receded.
In its place I felt quite cool. I lit a cigarette, and threw the match in the fireplace, and stood smoking and looking out of the window. Bartels had apparently finished his work on the trellis, and must have gone down to the vegetable garden, for he was no longer in sight.
I had never imagined that I would be prepared to sacrifice my own ambitions for anybody else, not even for Beatrice and Bartels.
But that is what I now proposed to do.
I walked to the door and into the passage and along to the kitchen. My heart was beating a little faster than usual, but I was determined. Beatrice had finished the drying-up, and was going over the floor with a mop. The back door was open. The dog Brutus lay dozing on the mat.
I stood by the kitchen door in silence for a few seconds, watching her.
“Beatrice,” I said, at last, and now I had come to it, the word had to be forced through my lips. She looked up, but said nothing.
“Beatrice,” I said again. She stopped mopping the floor and looked round at me. A wisp of hair had fallen over one eye. She looked listless and tired.
“Yes?”
Curiously enough, at that moment I felt a surge of happiness within me. Even at this late date, I can still recall a faint flavour of it. It was the unalloyed, pure joy which only a giver can know.
For a second I hesitated, looking upon Beatrice’s unhappy face and anticipating the wild happiness I was going to bring to her. Yet I wasn’t feeling smug, or virtuous: just happy. It was most odd.
But the dog Brutus raised his head.
I heard the sound of footstep, then a noise as Bartels kicked some mud off his shoes on the scraper. Then he came into the kitchen. And I thought of him, with Lorna, his wide, colourless lips pressed on hers; his deep musical voice, in such contrast to his appearance, murmuring endearments. I imagined him married to her and all that that implied. It was too much for me.
“Beatrice,” I said loudly, “let’s go along to the local for a drink at twelve. What about it?”
If Bartels had stayed outside two minutes more, so much might have been changed.
We did not go to the local. Beatrice said she had to stay and watch the joint. It was my joint. I always brought a joint for the weekends. There is no point in being in the hotel business if one cannot scrounge a reasonably sized joint for oneself now and again.
But Bartels asked me to come for a stroll across the fields with Brutus. I went with him willingly enough, for the wave of jealousy was still around me, and the foolish, generous weakness had been replaced by the old well-known feeling of determination to fight for what I wanted by fair means and, if necessary, by foul ones-in that order.
I thought I did quite well during that walk, for I made him promise that he would not leave Beatrice until Easter, pointing out to him that at that time she would be spending a fortnight with her parents in Falmouth, and that the blow would be softened if she were with her family.
He promised readily enough.
In view of what he had in mind, I am not surprised.
I recall now, incidentally, how kind he was to the dog Brutus during that walk. Indeed, he had been unusually kind to the dog at breakfast, feeding him with titbits from the table, a thing he never normally allowed, and caressing him.
So now, upon that beautiful February morning, Bartels led the dog along hedgerows where a scent of rabbits could perhaps be detected, encouraging him with soft words, and sometimes calling him for a pat. And once we went through a small copse, because sometimes a cock pheasant lurked in the undergrowth.
The dog Brutus seemed for a space to regain some of his youthful vigour, and though he could not move fast, he showed all his former enthusiasm, and snuffled in the hedges and among the briars, tail wagging; and once, when he put a rabbit up, he lumbered after it excitedly, until shortness of breath made him abandon the chase after a few yards.
Bartels was quieter than usual, and I noticed in the bright sunlight certain lines upon his face, and a suggestion of a shadow under the eyes, which I had not seen before.
He talked to me of his future plans for Lorna and himself; how Lorna, at least for a while, would have to continue with her dressmaking.
“But she says she doesn’t mind,” he said.
“She is not the sort of woman who would,” I answered. And I thought that if I had my way, and I was sure I would, Lorna would never make another dress as long as she lived, except for her own pleasure.
“But I hope it won’t be for long,” said Bartels.
“You do?”
“She is the kind of woman who makes a man want to conquer the world for her.”
/> “She is?”
I thought how odd it was that love could make even an intelligent man like Bartels fall back upon platitudes, cliches, and worn-out phrases to express his feelings.
“When I marry Lorna, I shall insist upon a better position in the firm. Something at head office. By God, I’ve earned it. And I shall demand it.”
“You will? Supposing they don’t give it to you?”
“I’ll make them give it to me.”
“Splendid.”
“There’s no reason why I should not be a director one day.”
“None at all. There is no reason at all why you should not be a director. I hope you will be. I think you probably will be, before you have finished.”
It was one of those broadly reassuring things which one says to failures. With men who are likely to succeed, you can afford to discuss the probabilities and chances: you can’t do that with failures.
The idea that Bartels would ever become one of the heads of the firm was, of course, laughable. He was a failure on the road; he had neither the organizing ability nor the assertiveness to force his way to the top.
The likelihood that the diffident and reserved Bartels could even compel his firm to give him a better job seemed small enough to me. I reckoned that it was about all he could do to hold his position at all. But my words elated him.
“Is that your honest opinion?” he asked. His eyes shone, and the lines and the shadows seemed to disappear.
“Of course it is.”
“If I succeed, it will be entirely due to Lorna’s influence.”
“So you suggested before.”
“She makes me feel that I’m pretty good at my job.”
“So you are, I expect,” I said mildly.
My fit of jealousy had departed. I watched his thin figure walking along the narrow track in front of me, the wind ruffling the absurd patch of hair on the crown of his head, and I did not begrudge him his mood of buoyancy.
“You’ll have to come and stay a lot with Lorna and me, when we’re married,” he said over his shoulder.
I almost laughed out loud. “That’s very kind of you, Barty. I shall enjoy it. When are you thinking of telling Beatrice?”
“Oh, one of these days,” he said vaguely. “Sometime when the moment is ripe.”
He walked along in silence for a few moments. The dog Brutus, beginning to tire a little now, was walking at his heels, indifferent to the possibilities which the hedges offered him.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” said Bartels suddenly. We had come to a gate, and were looking over it, smoking our pipes. The dog, glad of the rest, had flopped down on the ground.
“Go ahead,” I said absently.
“Well, I just wanted to say how much it has meant to me to have your friendship at this time. That’s all.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. I couldn’t look at him.
“It may be nothing to you, but it’s made all the difference to me.”
“I haven’t done anything,” I replied uneasily. “You’d have been all right without me.”
But he shook his head.
“I sometimes wonder whether I could go through with it without having somebody to talk to, I think I might even have given it all up by now.”
For a moment I had a fleeting feeling as though a hand had gripped my heart.
“I should think it’s time we went back,” I said, and turned away from the gate.
It was after lunch that the dog Brutus died.
The circumstances were as follows.
Bartels and I returned with the dog from our walk. Beatrice had finished the simple household work which she did at weekends, and the cooking was well under way. She had laid out a tray of drinks in the drawing room, and was reading the papers when we arrived back.
We helped ourselves to drinks, and Bartels and I joined Beatrice in dipping into the newspapers. The dog, tired after his walk, but by no means distressed, lay in his customary place on the rug before the fire. He licked his paws for a few seconds, and then lay content but not asleep.
After a while, Bartels called the dog by name. The animal lifted his heavy head and gazed with his half-blind eyes in the direction of Bartels’ voice. He moved his tail slightly, lazily, but made no effort to get up.
Bartels called him again, and this time he got to his feet and walked slowly over to the chair where Bartels sat. He put his head on Bartels’ knee, and Barty fondled him, scratching him behind the ears, and stroking his muzzle with his forefinger.
Once, Bartels bent down and rubbed the side of his face against the side of the dog’s head. Beatrice made some remark about the dog having grown up with their marriage, because they had bought him as a puppy shortly after the honeymoon. Bartels made no comment about this, but continued to fondle the dog.
Shortly after, Beatrice went out to serve up the lunch.
A little later, we all went into the dining room, and the dog Brutus followed. When we had finished the meal, Bartels carved a few pieces from the outside of the joint for the dog. Meat being rationed, he did not carve a great deal.
He then went out into the kitchen, saying that he was going to break up some dog biscuits to mix with the meat. About five minutes later, he returned with the plate of food. Beatrice remarked that he had been some time. Had he had any difficulty in finding the biscuits?
Bartels said no, he had found them all right, but made no further comment.
He placed the plate on the floor at the side of the room, under the dresser, and called the dog Brutus. He laid his hand on the dog’s back, as he began to eat, kept it there a few seconds, and then returned to his seat at the table.
By this time we were smoking our after-lunch cigarettes. I was talking to Beatrice, but Bartels made no attempt either to join in or to listen. He sat watching the dog eat.
When the dog had finished, I remember seeing him, out of the corner of my eye, move slowly over towards the window. He did not reach the window.
Approximately two yards from the window, he sank slowly to the floor, and rolled on to his side. He sighed once, as though he were tired, and did not move again.
Almost at once, Bartels got up, and went over to the dog, and a few seconds later said, in a funny kind of voice:
“I think poor old Brutus has died.”
Beatrice gave a little cry, and put her hand to her mouth, but she did not rise from the table. I joined Bartels with the dog, and confirmed what he had said.
Bartels remained on one knee, his right hand still on the dog’s heart, his eyes fixed upon Beatrice. He said:
“He’s dead all right. Quickly, and without pain. That is a good way to go out; no struggles, no fears, no gasps. He just went to sleep.”
Beatrice had risen, and came over and joined us. She was biting the knuckles on her right hand. She looked down on the dog. Her eyes grew moist but she did not cry. She said:
“Poor old Brutus! The house won’t be the same without him. Still, he didn’t suffer.”
I remember noting the strange, unblinking stare which Bartels gave Beatrice, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I heard him say:
“No, that’s the point. There was no suffering. None at all. He had to die sometime. So have we all. A few days or months or years sooner or later make no difference. It’s not when you die that matters. It’s how.”
I recalled he had said that once before, all those years ago at the chateau. But I attached no importance to it.
We buried the dog in a grassy bank at the bottom of the garden, having first wrapped him in an old Army blanket. Beatrice said she would buy a stone with the dog’s name on it. Bartels shrugged slightly, and said:
“If you like. But when we leave here-when we’re gone-it’ll only be a matter of time before the stone disappears, too.”
He had a curious sense of the inevitability of oblivion.
I said that I had an engagement in London, and I left them that evening, Beatrice and Barte
ls, together, each to their own thoughts, and actions. I never saw them together again.
Just before I left, an unpleasant little incident occurred. Beatrice was mending some undergarment or other, and Bartels, at the other side of the fire, had been reading; but now he had laid his book on his lap, and was gazing over at Beatrice, apparently deep in thought.
Near the wall was a side table, and above it a landscape in oils, framed in an old-fashioned, heavy, carved frame. After a while Bartels glanced up at the picture, saw that it was not hanging quite straight, and got up to adjust it.
He placed his open book on the side table, and moved the frame. When he moved it, a large, hairy moth which must have gone behind the picture to die in seclusion and warmth the previous autumn, dropped down with a tiny thud upon the open pages of the book.
Bartels made a curious little noise, half gasp, half groan, and shrank back. His face had flushed pink with shock; he stood staring at the dead insect, not daring to approach it.
Beatrice quickly put her mending down, and went over to the side table, and picked the moth up by its wings. She walked to the fire.
“Not in the fire!” muttered Bartels, but he was too late.
The dead moth hit the embers at the side, and a small flame shot up, flickered for the space of a second, and died down. Bartels had swung round, as I recalled he had swung round before, when a live butterfly had fluttered into the grate at the chateau.
“Why not in the fire?” asked Beatrice. “It was dead, wasn’t it?”
Dear, practical, dutiful Beatrice!
She went out into the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, I followed her to say goodbye. She was rolling some pieces of filleted fish in breadcrumbs, and looked up at me and said sadly:
“See how he needs me?”
That was my last chance. I did not take it.
On the contrary, I said in those sad, regretful tones I know so well how to adopt: “He needs you all right. Yes, he certainly needs you.”
Then I kissed her on the cheek.
I went out, leaving her alone in the cottage with Bartels.
