When Laurence had gone back to school, Caroline still spent half her days at Swan Walk. Whenever it could be managed without too much argument she got Miss Brown to bring Elizabeth to join her. Otherwise she was there alone. There was little to keep her at home. John was having trouble with the end of his book and was blaming it on the life he led.
“It’s impossible not to write in a cramped way in London. Never free of people. Never able to get away alone.”
Caroline did not suggest: ‘Then why not let’s move to the country. I’d love it.’ She had suggested that before and had only heard that ‘It would be suicidal. I must meet people or I go dead on myself.’ Instead she said: “Why not go away for a bit? When you come back I’ll have Swan ready. You’ll like that.”
For two or three days John was going away. He half-booked a passage to Egypt, he enquired about trains to Spain, he got a list of sailings to South Africa. In the end he went nowhere, but wrestled with his book at home, emerging from his study tired, nervous, and totally uninterested in the outside world.
Caroline, seeing him in this mood, was convinced that the right thing to do was to take his mind off work. With this aim she chattered about Swan, and the amusing things Helen had said, and baby James’s first teeth, and darling Laurie’s last letter, until he could have screamed. The one relaxation he had in those weeks was Lilias. She was exactly the sedative he needed. Caroline refused to let her conscious mind wonder where he went when he had finished writing for the day. But her sub-conscious mind wondered, and when she was sure John was sleeping, she let herself go and cried.
Beyond her troubles at home Caroline was troubled about Ellison. She had done what she could. At the funeral she had begged him to count her house a second home, and told him she would never be too busy to spend a few days with him if he wanted her. But he had neither come nor had he answered her letters. She tried to ask advice of John, but he found Ellison a bore as a subject of conversation.
“My dear Caroline, why worry about him? If you start worrying about that brother of yours, you’ll never be able to stop. We’ve told him we’ll have him here whenever he likes, and he hasn’t liked, and you’ve offered to go to him, and he hasn’t asked you. You can’t do anymore.”
Caroline felt this to be true, but she worried all the same. She had promised her father she would do what she could, and she was doing nothing. She wrote to her sisters for news, but they had none, and either ignored her questions or replied they supposed he was all right, and went on to news of their own families. Once or twice she thought of going down to the Manor for the day, but she stopped herself. Her grandmother was in the house, and at the funeral had made it more than clear that she had no wish to see anything of Caroline. A quarrel with his grandmother would not help Ellison.
Ellison was far from all right. Rose (owing to the constant deaths in the family, always in mourning) had settled like some scraggy old black bird on the Manor. She filled Ellison with distaste and fright but he was unable to summon up the courage to turn her out. As the weeks went by he had not the courage for anything. All his life he had spent in the shadow of terror. If he was understood and liked, and saw nothing and heard nothing to upset him, he could ward off depression; but given the wrong people, the wrong surroundings, and lack of understanding, it swooped down on him and buried him. So desperate was his fear of his depressions, that it was almost as bad as the depressions themselves. Of his own stamina, he was quite incapable of warding them off and had to resort to some sort of stimulant. In Paris Timothy Foldes had provided it. The feel of his arm tucked into his gave Ellison courage and he needed little outside support. Foldes was not a man who believed in swallowing your stimulants; he got them from what he saw and the air he breathed. He had incredible vitality and plenty to spare to bolster up another. For years the dread of coming into the Manor had hung over Ellison. He hated the house. The rooms creaked. The windows rattled. Depression fell on him the moment he was inside the doors. Yet he was sufficiently of a Torrys to know his duty. He had been bred to the fact that his was the kingdom, the power and the glory, and he saw no means of avoiding his fate. The question of an heir he never quite looked in the face. He knew he was expected to marry, he knew he must have a son, but the idea was so distasteful that he pushed it into the shadows and left it. He had been cheered when he had come over to plant the coronation oak to find Caroline and her husband in the house. They had something of that quality which was a feature of Timothy Foldes. They were bulwark people. Caroline, with her strongly developed maternal instincts, was definitely comforting. He had needed comforting. He had scarcely spoken to his father since the ghastly conversation when he had left Oxford. Perhaps his father could not see how it had happened there. It was true he had found an hysterical way of living, but it had at least blasted the terrors. He had come unwillingly to the Manor for the Coronation, stipulating that he would only stay for the day itself and then return to Paris. It was Caroline who had told him about his father. Cancer! The mere word added another shadow to the thousands around him. If his father could die of cancer, might not he? Caroline spoke of a lump. Even while she was telling him, his fingers were surreptitiously fumbling through his shirt. Was there a lump? Had he not got a queer pain now and then? The complete naturalness with which Caroline accepted her father’s illness helped him; it slightly eased his mind for the future. If there were Caroline, and that odd husband of hers, and all those children to come down and stay, perhaps it would not be so frightful. Even after his father died he need not be at the Manor altogether; he would have money, could dash away. He could get to Timothy when he could bear things no longer.
He had under-estimated what he might be called upon to overcome. He had forgotten that the moment the funeral was over Caroline and all the others would disappear and he would be left alone with his grandmother. He had not reckoned on the violence of the attack of nervous depression which must descend on him when he was left alone. He had not realised that some things were custom and would be carried out without his consent. He had forgotten that all the owners of the Manor had slept in the enormous best bedroom. He did not realise when he saw the mattress being aired on which James had died, the bed hangings shaken, and the carpet beaten that these things were being prepared for him.
The lonely days were horrible to Ellison but the nights were torture. To him the bed oozed with disease. Ghostly fingers tapped on the old north wall. There were scurries of feet in the wainscoting. Fear, ordinary childish fear, kept him awake until the first glimmer of daylight. When, in the early light, the furniture turned to grey lumps, his fears left, but were followed by self-loathing and terror. His overwrought nerves exaggerated and embroidered, they made him hear whispers of the horrors of living and the worse horror of dying. For all the tears at births and deaths that room had seen, it must have extended its greatest pity to Ellison. Afraid to lie down, crouched back against his pillows, perspiration standing on his forehead, his teeth chattering, as he sobbed “I can’t bear it. I can’t.”
That he stayed puzzled him. Every night he promised himself he would leave the next day. But with the daylight a modicum of courage returned. He was a Torrys, the place was his, he must give orders and see the men. Tragically well he knew himself. If he went it would be the end. Self-loathing would not keep him from what he was. By degrees he helped himself with drink. A few were a real assistance. Then the few became the many, and he ceased to think even as clearly as his poor ability allowed him. The Manor was his and he was its master. Everybody thought him a rotter, did they? Well, they should see. Thought he’d leave the place, did they? Well they were wrong.
From a few extra drinks to enough to become drunk was only a step. To be quite drunk was better for him than to be slightly muzzy. Quite drunk he slept heavily. In this way the worst of the night passed; and though the early mornings were, in ratio, the more unbearable, he had a weak stomach for drink and they often found him too ill to t
hink of anything, but how soon he would be sick again.
Rose turned a blind eye towards Ellison. He was the heir. There was nobody else to put in his place. However wretched a creature, he must be spoken of as if he were the pride of her heart. In a way he was better for her purpose drunk than sober. Sober, he had made an ass of himself; riding round the place (and what an atrocious seat he had), making futile suggestions, asking feeble questions. Drunk, she took his place. Every day, either on foot or in the carriage, she was about the estate. She made calls on the work people and tenant farmers. She found little to complain of as warning of her corning generally went ahead of her, and much tidying and pushing out of sight were done before she arrived. But if she did find anything of which she could disapprove, her tongue was like a streak of lightning, not for herself but for Ellison.
“Mr. Torrys has had to go out to-day, Mrs. Bellman, but you tell Bellman that if that fence is not mended by mid-day to-morrow, I shall get Mr. Torrys to call here himself, and you know what that will mean.”
It was the same over business with the bailiff. Together they planned the week’s work, but at the slightest hint of exceptional expenditure Rose would draw herself up. “Mr. Torrys is naturally very busy at present and I am trying to relieve him. But unless we can arrange this quietly between ourselves, I shall be forced to bring him with me to-morrow.”
No one on the estate was fooled by Rose, but she represented a tighter grip than James had ever held and if she intended to respect her grandson, some sort of respect would have to be given him, or there would be trouble.
Ellison was not left to sink without anyone making an effort to help him. Thomas Felton and Frederick Sykes tried to come to his rescue.
“Boy’s not a bit of good,” Thomas told Frederick. “Best thing for him is to cut him up and feed him to the hounds. Nearest he’ll ever come to being useful.”
Such talk, however, did not mean that Thomas did not try. He urged Ellison to come out riding. He dug him in the ribs and told him where he could find a bit of cock-fighting on the quiet. He even went to the length of news of nice little girls to be found in inns and shops. The whole of these suggestions made Ellison retch, the offer of blonde barmaids being the most repulsive of the three. Thomas went to Frederick again.
“The boy drinks. Not a doubt of it. Wouldn’t mind if he got roaring drunk with a lot of friends. They’d like that all right down in the village. It’s this drinking by himself I can’t stand.” He scratched his ear and made a dismissing gesture. “Can’t get him to exercise. I’ve offered him most of what’s tasty round here. He don’t seem to care for the flesh. You’d better see what you can do for his soul.”
Frederick often dropped in in a casual way. He had not taught Ellison for nothing. It was very easy for him to be around the place. He had, after all, known the boy all his life. But he made no headway with him. He came near to realising Ellison’s spiritual disabilities, and conceived an immense pity for him. He tried to soften old Rose about Caroline, but failed utterly. He tried to let Ellison feel that he was there when he was needed, but he knew he had done no good. He took his troubles to the church and prayed for the boy twice a day, but even as he did so he threw, as it were, a mental apology to Heaven. He thought that Ellison Torrys was a difficult problem to hand over to a busy God, and gave it to be understood that if Heaven could manage nothing in the matter he would not complain.
In the October of the year after James died, Timothy Foldes came to England. He came in part to arrange about an exhibition of pictures, but more because he was worried about Ellison. He had only been in the country a day when he went down to the Manor. He swept possessively up to the front door, and to Mary who opened it in answer to his rings, he pointed to the village fly which he had hired.
“Bring my luggage in and tell Mr. Torrys that Mr. Foldes has come to stay.” He giggled. “Be careful how you break the news, or he might swoon from excitement.” He gave her a nod and, moving her gently to one side, walked into the hall. He turned into the library. “This room looks atrocious from the outside. I must see if it’s quite as bad inside.” Ellison was lying on the library sofa. Mary, gasping, heard Timothy say:
“Isn’t this fun? But, dear boy, I can’t sit in here. The proportions are disgusting. Let me see the rest of the mansion, and we’ll decide which rooms I’ll use.”
Timothy was completely unmoved by Rose’s dislike.
He returned it internally to the full, but externally he was exaggeratedly courteous, leaping up at her slightest need, opening doors, and bowing whenever opportunity offered. Her icy voice, whenever she threw him a word, he treated as if she spoke like a dove. But she knew, and he knew, that they were fighting to the death. Timothy, in the first days of his visit, would have been prepared to have met her half-way. He conceived it impossible at first that anybody could be fool enough to let Ellison go on as he was. It was obvious that, left to himself, either drink or nerves or both would land him in a nursing home. But by degrees he grasped that he was dealing with a mind whose angle he was unable to understand. It seemed incredible that a woman, however old, could believe that Ellison would suddenly become the country squire that he was expected to be, yet that did seem to be what she expected, and she made it clear in the very few short conversations he had with her, that she thought it was a mistake to notice any little failings he might have. He would live them down, and ‘those sort of things’ were much better not put into words. It took Timothy a week before he quite grasped the net that was holding Ellison. He had always heard of the Manor and Ellison’s dislike of it. He knew Ellison felt he would have to put in a certain amount of time there. He had privately thought him a fool. Places like his, he considered, were intended to provide the wherewithal for enjoying yourself somewhere else. But staying in the Manor he began to grasp the hold of tradition even on a weakling like Ellison. If Ellison had shown any sign of being able to live in the place, or take up some career, and come down to it, he would have tried to leave him alone. As it was he thought his duty clear. He must dig him out and take him away.
It took some time to make Ellison grasp that there was a ladder at the window. It was true he had often told himself he would go away for a visit, but that was a very different thing from what Timothy suggested. Timothy wanted the house closed. Timothy wanted every inch of the land turned to money. Timothy wanted a really sharp bailiff employed.
“We’ve never closed the Manor,” he explained feebly, “except while it was being rebuilt.”
Timothy giggled.
“I do like the royal touch. But suppose ‘we’ make an exception. Life was meant to be enjoyed, old boy, not rotted away.”
“But my grandmother!”
A glint came into Timothy’s eyes.
“If you do what I tell you she’ll go of her own accord.” Timothy, when he did dislike anyone, took it to great lengths. The manner by which he got rid of Rose was callous, unrelieved by a hint of anything graceful. He collected various of the least pleasant of his friends and carefully staged what he called ‘an ’orrible orgy.’ It was so timed that not only she, but most of the household must come down to see if anything was wrong. Much of what was meant to disgust Rose in the exhibition passed clean over her head, but there was more than sufficient that she could not tolerate. She stood silently in the doorway, looking with loathing from one man to the other, then she fastened her eyes on Ellison.
“Have these creatures turned out.”
Ellison had been taught the rough drift of what he was to say, and had been made sufficiently drunk to say it. Even then his voice squeaked with fear.
“Get out. I’ll do what I like in my own house.”
Rose opened her mouth. All the scorn that burned in her longed to flow out, but she knew none of them would listen. They might even laugh. She turned to the group of whispering servants.
“Mary, pack a bag. I shall leave here to-ni
ght.”
Chapter XV
JOHN was told to be out on the day they moved his study furnishings to Swan. He spent the time in a state of irritation. He hated people fiddling about in his study. He had a lot of worthless treasures that he considered he could not work without. He had not liked to suggest special care should be taken of so childish a collection, but it fussed him to think they were being mislaid. That box with odds and ends of sealing wax, he ought to have packed it himself. Some idiot was sure to throw it away. The paper clips, some of them might be on the carpet; those men would be sure to think they were no good, not knowing how difficult that sort were to get. All his pencils. No mere workman could be expected to understand the excellences of that collection of pencils. There were countless other little things he would hate to lose, and there were of course the legitimate things which he was expected to worry about: his papers, his reference books and his manuscripts. Caroline said “Don’t worry, dear. I will see that nothing is disturbed.” This was in itself a worrying statement. Obviously things must be disturbed, the only question was how much?
He arrived at Swan half an hour before he had been told to be there. He saw nobody in the hall, and very quietly crept to his study. He looked round; then he walked round, giving a close examination. Caroline had not made a stupid promise. She had kept it. The study was a replica of the one he had left that morning. Everything was in order, even his pen lying as he had left it across his blotter. On the corner of his desk was a small pile of clips evidently found on the old carpet. He stood there studying all the trouble taken on his behalf and was furious. He could see his things had been moved as if they were the crown jewels, his day of fretting had been about nothing, and he now realised he had wanted things to be wrong, he had wanted to be able to storm and talk about inefficiency.
Caroline England Page 18
