by A. J. Cronin
Was she dreaming, possessed suddenly by some disordered fancy, some false sentiment of melodrama, something wholly foreign to her sane and normal nature? But no, it was not fancy. This likeness, striking so acutely into the suspense of her excited mind, was to her not merely a shock, but a revelation. That Anna’s son and her own son should be as one admitted of but a single explanation – a single terrifying solution which was indeed the solution of everything which she had feared.
She trembled. And within her also something trembled unliberated, straining to escape. Everything that had hitherto evaded her, the unrealised presentiment of these last few days, the whole undercurrent of her mind seethed upwards to consciousness and overwhelmingly engulfed her.
‘Oh, God,’ she thought blindly, ‘now I understand everything.’ Now it was complete – the edifice. Five years ago Frank had lived for months in Anna’s home. Then Anna’s child – their child had come. It was true, then. Frank was the father of Anna’s child. She knew it to be so.
With a movement of frightful agitation she thrust back the photograph, snapped down the lid, sank down upon the edge of the bed. Stunned, her eyes wide, darkened by fear, she sat stricken. Her heart stopped beating. She was dazed, beaten, confounded; virtue had gone out of her and out of her life. The echo of a thousand voices resounded in her ears, a low muttering, insistent voices all whispering – whispering of Frank, her husband whom she loved unfaithful to her.
With a little cry she recoiled. Violently she straightened her sagging figure. She did not believe it. Quivering, she drew a long, determined breath, swept by a quick revulsion of feeling. She would not believe it. It was impossible. This stunning likeness between Anna’s child and her own child was a circumstance of chance, the outcropping of some family resemblance. It was not the keystone of her edifice. There was no edifice. All – all meant nothing beside her love for Frank. She had her love, her loyalty. I’m mad, she thought with fierce compunction, to suspect Frank! It seemed suddenly monstrous that on the evidence of a word, a look, a chance resemblance in a photograph, she should accuse him of an action inevitably destructive of their happiness. Clearly she was not a woman to be meanly jealous or suspicious; she was above that. It was the sheer intensity of her love for him which had driven her to this pass, had made her feel the wound within her breast before the arrow had been loosed. And there was no arrow. Frank had no connection with this wretched business. She would not believe it of Frank – this atrocious suspicion – Frank who through these years had been her husband, who had caressed her, loved her without once alluding to this nightmare fact which now so painfully oppressed her.
But why – she paused, her eyes again clouded – yes, why had he made no mention of the matter? It would have been so easy, so natural to drop a word, a hint, before Anna’s arrival. And why had he opposed her coming when now his every action gave evidence of his regard? With a gesture of despair she flung her arm upon the bed-rail and leaned her brow upon it.
She had no proof. She was mistaken. She was making a fool of herself. It was a pure coincidence, Frank’s visit and the birth of this child happening within the compass of a year.
But what – what a hateful coincidence! And was it mere coincidence? Merely at the thought she shivered. Besides, to have hidden it from her – therein lay the fiercest anguish of it all. A flood of bitter recollection swept over her: looks she felt to have been interchanged between Anna and Frank, words passed slyly. She started fiercely. Had they even a sign of secret understanding?
She bit her lip, clenched her hands tightly in the effort to command her reason. Her pulses pounded in her ears, and in her throat was a dry constriction like the clutching of a painful grief.
Suddenly she raised her head, her chin curved to a resolute set, her body arched to a fine-drawn tension, her will fighting something unseen. Violently her instinct of possession flamed. Frank was hers. Let the past contain what it might; she was concerned now with the present and the future. Abruptly she started to her feet and with a firm compression of her lips went down the stairs. Accepting the fact as certainty, she forced herself fiercely to confront it. She would confront it.
But she could not continue with her work. She went into the parlour, sat down upon the sofa. And then, sitting stiffly upon that sofa, gradually the lines of her figure drooped, her lips softened, her eyes became again remote. Her shoulders drooped listlessly. She began to go over it again.
Her face torn by the conflict of emotions, her form outlined against the clear light of the window, she made a figure strangely youthful and pathetic. An air like that of tragedy enveloped her. But was that tragedy her discovery? Or was it deeper, coming solely from within?
She was still sitting there when Netta came in to announce that lunch was ready. And with the same intense preoccupation she rose, went into the dining-room. Peter was there, seated at the table, his napkin already around his neck; and at the sight of him warm tears of sentiment ran into her eyes. He at least is mine, she thought, and always will be mine. With a sudden restrained movement she slipped her arm over his thin shoulders and swiftly kissed him.
‘Where’s Anna, mother?’ he cried, attacking his broth with vigour.
‘In Glasgow,’ she answered in a low voice.
‘I missed her this morning,’ he said cheerfully,’ ‘I like Anna. She’s a good sort.’
She made no reply. That her son should have become attached to Anna struck her as incredible – a repellent thought.
‘She said something about a yacht the other day,’ he went on; ‘with real sails, you know.’
She tightened her lips suddenly lest she betray something of the turmoil within her. In this moment of desperate disquietude she saw even in Anna’s attitude towards Peter something unnatural, excessive, suspicious: Anna being good to the boy because he was Frank’s son, because he reminded her of her own son of whom Frank also was the father.
Abruptly she got up from the table, anguished, her hand pressed against her cheek.
‘Mother,’ cried Peter, ‘where are you going?’
‘I’ve finished,’ she answered with difficulty. ‘I’ve got some sewing to do’ And hurriedly she went out of the room.
The afternoon dragged on; steeped in the pale autumnal sunshine, marked by the slowly ticking seconds, evoking sadness, touching her with the poignant recollection of other afternoons, quiet and sleepy and intimate, when Frank and she had proved their love.
She had no sewing to do. There was nothing that she could do. She must wait – wait feverishly for his return. And when, at last, it drew towards the time of his train, her quivering impatience drove her to action. She would go to meet him. She rose, put on her hat and coat, then set out for the station. She went by the front road – this was the usual route of his return – and, keyed to meet him, she suppressed the impulse to take Peter with her. It was Frank alone whom at this moment she desired. Oh! how poignantly she longed to be alone with him, to plumb this wretched business to its uttermost depth, to be convinced, to tell him that she loved him, to be assured conclusively of his love for her.
As she drew near to the town, her gaze sought vividly amongst the passers-by upon the promenade, ready to light at the approach of that familiar figure. But he was not in sight. Surely he had not taken the other road when this invariably was the way he favoured? Gradually her pace slackened; at the middle of the esplanade she halted indecisively, her face pale and troubled, her eyes anxious, perplexed.
Then suddenly a voice at her ear made her start and turn with swift expectancy. But instantly her look fell; she swallowed hard upon her disappointment: it was not Frank who stood there, but Miss Hocking, gravely appended to her dog, beaming towards her with generous serenity.
‘I,’ said Miss Hocking reasonably, ‘ shall stroll back with you.’
Lucy was in no mood for this meeting – it was the last thing she desired; she wanted Frank: her very heart, it seemed, swelled urgently towards him.
‘I’m mee
ting my husband,’ she answered stiffly.
‘At least let me walk with you,’ suggested the other, with greater logic than before.
‘All right,’ said Lucy miserably. ‘I’ll go back now.’
They began to walk together.
‘If you could come to tea with me,’ advanced Miss Hocking mildly, ‘there will be crumpets – and a cream cake.’
Lucy gazed up at the other with swimming eyes, then smiled lest she might do worse. But it was a wan, strained smile.
‘Not today,’ she answered wretchedly.
‘And after – I should play to you on my ’cello. Classical, perhaps; but not tiresome. Very low and sweet.’
Lucy shook her head.
‘I can’t come,’ she said in a low voice.
‘A thought,’ murmured Miss Hocking without regret. ‘Simply a thought. No harm has been done.’
They went on for a while in silence.
‘You haven’t,’ said Lucy with difficulty, almost in spite of herself, ‘you haven’t passed Frank – my husband? I came to meet him.’
Miss Hocking’s face drew to a profound consideration, then ultimately she said:
‘No!’
They walked for a further spell in silence; then with calm directness Miss Hocking declared, as only she could declare:
‘You are looking for him. But it is he surely who should be looking for you!’
Lucy coloured violently: the words, ingenuously amicable, held no implication, but they struck at her with painful force.
‘A woman,’ went on Miss Hocking, with unexpected eccentric philosophy, ‘ should be pursued. I do not pursue, but I know instinctively that I am pursued.
Lucy bit her lips at the fantastic words; it was all such nonsense, yet through the nonsense gleamed a thin shaft of truth. Her hands moved nervously; there was a break in her voice as she said:
‘I’m referring to my husband. I hope you understand.’
‘Ah!’ said Miss Hocking mildly.
Nothing more was said. They parted at that point beyond the pier which marked the divergence of their ways – Miss Hocking ascending to her flat in the select quarter upon the hill, Lucy continuing along the front towards her home.
Unreasonably, she felt distressed, disturbed by the recent circumstance, by Miss Hocking’s grotesque but none the less exasperating suggestion that she had been running after Frank. Who indeed had better right to seek for him than she? She had gone simply to meet him. She did not demand that he run after her; that, in Miss Hocking’s ridiculous phrase, he must pursue her. But was the phrase so ridiculous? She frowned. Her mind, again insinuated into the channel of suspicion, chilled at an odious thought; her body, conscious of the bleak autumnal mist marking the approaching twilight, turned colder.
What a frightful thought it was, piercing her, that Frank had once pursued Anna, had loved Anna, had lain with her, filled her with his child; that he, himself, everything she had felt to be hers, had been Anna’s also. And all – all happening without her knowledge. Yes, it was back once more, torturing her,
And again, with amazing association, she recollected her brother’s frigid opposition to her marriage, his constant aspersions against the Moores, even his warning of catastrophe. Surely this was inexplicable on the mere grounds that by her marriage she demeaned herself. Had Frank and Anna – was it possible they had been lovers even in their early days at Levenford? Did Richard know something of which she had then been ignorant? From that indeed, though in her heart she felt it might be true, her pride recoiled violently.
Then into this recoil came a moment of calmer reason, a shaft of light striking through the haggard obscurity of her mind. Why, if Frank and Anna were lovers – she was hounding her surmise to its bitter end – why had they not married in the beginning? Frank’s weakness, Anna’s perversity towards a settled life – neither of these facts explained conclusively their failure to take a step so logical and sane. She started, and for a moment felt light, relieved, almost happy. For this reason alone that suspicion was unfounded. She was wrong!
Then suddenly from some secret cell within her brain rose a prompting which chilled her happiness and tore away this newfound hope. Frank and Anna were cousins, a relationship which made their marriage forbidden by the Church. Her tormented mind, aghast yet avid, seized upon this unessential fact with an almost sinking dread. She felt cold again, conscious of a raw dampness sweeping inwards from the firth which seemed to freeze her very soul.
Now it was almost dark, and tiny points of light were pricking out around the sweep of the bay. She had been out longer than she had anticipated; already Frank might have arrived; but she made no movement to hasten her pace. How curious it was that she, so open and loving, taking such pride – a conscious pride – in her house, should be apparently reluctant to enter that house – afraid, as it were, to enter her own home. Even now at the gate she hesitated, as though, hidden by the vast outer blackness, she were safe; as if, indeed, it were she who harboured some secret which she must conceal.
Then again came the passionate uprising of her love. She must see Frank, her Frank, immediately. Her heart yearned suddenly towards him with all the intensity of her present suffering. Let them be alone together; let him explain; then all would come right. She was no tyrant; she would listen to him, and would understand. With a movement almost vehement she twisted the handle of the door and, her eyes glistening, her lips resolute, she entered the house.
She wanted Frank. And Frank was there, occupying an easy chair before the glinting fire in the parlour, with Peter on one side of him. But upon the other was Anna. Anna! She paled, winced as from a blow at the sight of the other woman. Her figure drew together, taut in the half-light of the doorway. Frank and Anna had returned together.
It came like oil on the fire of her suspense, like gall thrust into the raw wound of her jealousy – a sudden confirmation of her fear. All the open tenderness went out of her in one sudden inexplicable rush, and in the instant her softness turned to bitterness, her face hardened, her lips sealed into a narrow line. Blinking defensively against the brightness of the lamplight, she felt like some stranger intruding unexpectedly upon a group that already was complete. She, the mistress of her home, to feel like this. For a moment she stood, watching, then all at once she cut in, her words vibrating harshly in her ears:
‘So you ran into each other.’
Peter gave a lively, excited laugh.
‘Ran into,’ he echoed. ‘ That’s a funny way of putting it. They came home in the same train, mother.’
‘So I see,’ she answered, in a choking voice.
‘And look, mother,’ he cried, and in his tone the rapture still persisted. ‘Look at what Anna has brought me.’ Entranced, he held out a model yacht, a lovely, slender, white-sailed craft, a most enchanting and expensive gift.
‘It’s a treat of a boat,’ said Frank enthusiastically. ‘It must have cost Anna a mint of money. I’ll sail it myself on Sunday.’
She stared at him fixedly.
‘Speak, mother, speak,’ cried Peter, tugging at her dress. ‘Say that it’s wonderful.’
‘You all seem to find it wonderful,’ said Lucy with painful bitterness, and in the hot room she had a sudden, flushing of her wind-stung cheeks.
There was an awkward, unexpected silence; then Anna, who had been watching her, her lower lip protruding, that look upon her face as though she smiled, yet did not smile, exclaimed:
‘We thought you were lost!’
‘No,’ said Lucy, with cold deliberation, ‘I’m anything but lost.’
‘My boat,’ said Peter, aggrieved, smoothing the shining hull. ‘My lovely boat. You might have said you liked it.’
‘Be quiet,’ cried Lucy fiercely. ‘I’ve more to think of than your toys.’
She could not help herself: she, torn by her anguish, faced by the crisis of her life, to be harassed by this triviality – this gift of Anna to her son.
The gong rang for tea.
>
‘Well,’ said Moore at length, rising, ‘even if we can’t be pleasant we must eat.’
Her flush deepened, but without a word Lucy turned and went into the dining-room.
‘Where did you get to?’ said Moore again, when they were seated. His humour was good; he seemed anxious to please, even to placate her. ‘ You don’t often go out at this time.’
‘I have my own affairs to attend to,’ she answered in a hard voice; she saw his desire to placate, and bitterly she suspected it. ‘I suppose you realise that.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed mildly, ‘that’s right, my dear.’
A pause followed, a stiff, unnatural pause. Then Anna spoke.
‘It was funny, Lucy,’ said she with unusual graciousness, ‘Frank and I came down on the same train, and we didn’t even know it till we got to Ardfillan.’
‘Indeed,’ said Lucy with a curl of her lip. ‘ That’s almost unbelievable.’
Yet the effort to produce that inflection of disdain made her heart break. She knew, of course, that Anna was deceiving her – how else to explain her mood of unusual complaisance. Poor Lucy! Had Anna’s mood been sullen, she, in her present anguish, would surely have construed it to this same suspicion.
But it was for her an intolerable meal. Scarcely could she swallow; each mouthful seemed to choke her. She had a sudden impulse to rush out into a freer air, a desire to escape from the insufferable burden of her thoughts. But she could not move; she could not escape. She was compelled to sit, to listen; and all the time to watch – yes, compelled by some growing force to watch painfully for some look or word passing between these two which would confirm this dread which tortured and infuriated her.
