by E. H. Young
“Oh, come in Agnes,” she said as Miss Spanner poked an aggrieved face round the door. “I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting but I’ve had rather a busy evening.”
Chapter XI
She had a queer feeling the next morning when she rose as usual, at six o’clock. There was a hush on the Square and in the house at this hour and to-day it seemed to be a little stealthy, telling her to move quietly and, still more urgently, to keep her mind closed against the quick perceptions of these strangers with whom she lived. Never, in all her life, had she been self-conscious, except, by choice, with Fergus, when she evoked response from all his senses as a kind of exercise in her power to charm him. Otherwise, she went her careless, natural way, growing a little more cautious when she had to act the buffer between him and the children, but not suspecting their possible interest in her own character and reactions. Until lately she had not been interested in them herself. Now she feared she must be alarmingly transparent if Felix thought it necessary to warn her against herself, and it occurred to her suddenly that, since he had reached an age when he could fit effect to cause, he had never before last night seen her so radiantly at ease. She must have shown more signs of strain with Fergus in the house than she had known and it was natural for the boy to see danger in her new aspect. Nevertheless, she ought, she supposed, to have been annoyed at his presumption, but it seemed to her rather pathetic and it must have needed courage. What chiefly concerned her as she stepped on to the balcony and looked into the quiet square where all the windows were like the eyes of sleepers, then went downstairs to do some tidying and dusting before she woke the household by turning on her bath water, was the light Felix had thrown on his own character, the comparative darkness in which the characters of all her other children remained, the likelihood that in their different ways and for different reasons they made their silent criticisms. Even Paul, who blundered in and out of the house, whose real life was in his school, to whom the family was of not much more importance, at present, than the furniture, must see her from his own peculiar angle and she did not know what it was. She did not know how any of them saw her and she had no doubt she saw them all askew. She had always been vaguely conscious of this and she had nothing to complain of, for one of the few definite rules she had made for herself, and easily kept, was to avoid soul searchings with her children. She had sense enough to know that she was more likely to crystallize than to dissolve a trouble by first discovering and then discussing it. Moreover, their troubles were their own possessions; she could only share them when they were offered and she had not expected to find in any of her children the discernment Felix had shown. She wondered whether he had heard any disparaging remarks, any suggestion that her conduct had driven Fergus away and, knowing her native city, she could well imagine how certain of his elders, and she could name them, had put him to occasional and what they thought skilful questioning. Yes, she thought, and she damned their prurient curiosity, something more than Piers Lindsay’s visits and her own pleasure had inspired Felix’s warning but, as she had told him, she would not be influenced by provincial gossip, even for the greater comfort of her children. They were all involved in what he called a peculiar situation and they would all be impoverished by a cowardly discretion.
She carried her cup into the garden room and stood by the open door. It was a grey morning, but the birds were pleased with it. They had their troubles too, she supposed, and very anxious times bringing up their young but, after a little while, their responsibilities were over. The early days of her own young had been her most light-hearted and her responsibility for them would never end. It would grow heavier as their lives became more complicated, when, for instance, as was more than likely, they married the wrong people. She had not married the wrong man. It would be mean and disloyal and untrue to pretend now that he had not been everything she wanted and, without children, their undeniable claims and what, to him, was the burden of them and the pressure of their personalities, she and Fergus would have been together still and in all probability nothing would have happened to reveal the faults of either to the other. But they were not together and it seemed to her that there was a monstrous moral tyranny in social and religious conditions which could penalize two mature people who chose to part. And the funny part of it was that the one person to whom she could adequately express her feelings on this matter and be sure of sympathy, was Fergus himself, and she sighed as she turned reluctantly from the open doorway. The porridge had to be made, the table to be laid for breakfast, Paul to be dragged out of bed, reminded to clean his teeth and got off to school in time, innumerable little tasks had to be done, though marriages went awry and the whole of Europe threatened to go up in flames. It sometimes seemed that Providence had arranged things very inconveniently, but actually the tiresome and perpetual business of keeping people fed and clothed and clean was a merciful dispensation and life, she thought, as she began to hear human signs of it in distant rumblings and the nearer clatter of the milkman’s cans, had an extraordinary charm, as though, in the gloomiest moments, the sufferer was upheld by something less definite but more certain than knowledge, a willingness, even in rebellion, to accept unhappiness in the unconscious realization that it would drop into its place with all other experiences and enlighten or leaven them.
“But I am not unhappy,” she said to herself as she went about her business yet, during that day, she thought very often of her father, wishing she could have his counsel, or rather, for he had always hesitated to give it, she wished she could know he was aware of her now and wanting the best for her. She was thinking of him when she went on to the hill at about six o’clock that evening. There was hardly a place within eyeshot or for miles beyond where at some time or other she had not been with him, but how careful he had been not to impose himself on her, to retire as she made friends of her own age and, while he made no claims or forced on her any offerings of love or service, she had always been conscious of him as a pervading wise beneficence. She had tried to be as little intrusive with her own children, but she had not his selflessness and she doubted whether she were capable of so much love and, while she looked on the scene they had so often enjoyed together, she thought of Piers Lindsay, in whom she fancied she had found something of that beneficence and selflessness, and she thought of him with a warmth she did not try to deaden, until the crunching of footsteps distracted her and she saw, approaching her, Mr. Blackett, of all people the most inappropriate to her mood.
For himself, Mr. Blackett did not believe in luck. He saw it squandered on other people; his own good fortune could always be attributed to some creditable quality or effort; to foresight and making the best of his opportunities and, as he walked home that evening, he saw Mrs. Fraser, making her way across the Green, as an opportunity and he did not let it slip. How to find her alone had been a puzzle and he solved the puzzle as he followed her slowly, pausing to look upwards at the grey clouds, to admire the copper beech, now at its most beautiful, presenting himself to anyone interested as a man refreshing himself with natural beauty after the confinement of his office.
It was not exactly refreshment he experienced when, after losing her round a bend in the little hill, he came within close sight of her. Her hands, one of them holding her gloves, rested lightly on the railing and there was something in her stillness which prevented him from accusing her of a studied pose and might have persuaded him to turn back and leave her to her contemplation, if the sound of his footsteps had not already disturbed her. And when she saw him he did not get the smile he had expected. Her lips parted, but no greeting came from them and, after a little nod of recognition, she looked again at the woods across the water. This he found more irritating than the smile would have been. He could account for the smile in his own way and at once: what was practically a dismissal demanded a little thought before he could transmute it into something he liked better. Until then, he was angry enough to persist in his purpose and he ha
lted beside her.
“A delightful view,” he said.
The grey morning, heralded so gaily by the birds, had developed into a characteristic Upper Radstowe day. Until an hour or two ago there had been a very fine, steady drizzle and wisps of mist were hanging about the trees, like giant thistledown caught in the branches. The water and the banks of mud and the low, motionless clouds all had their varied density of greyness which seemed to muffle the sounds of traffic in the roads and the slow progress of cars and carts across the bridge. And to-morrow, if the sun shone and the wind blew, this sombre scene would be changed to one of colour and movement and the day after that it would be different again. But she would not discuss the view with Mr. Blackett; it vexed her that he should be privileged to see it. However, she smiled when she thought of Felix. Surely being alone on the hill with Mr. Blackett, for there was no one else about, was much worse than entertaining Mr. Lindsay in a house full of people, and Mr. Blackett, looking at her profile, saw half that smile and thought it was very sly. At the same time, studying her in a rough tweed coat and skirt of indefinite blues, he wondered why Bertha’s clothes never had this suitably casual air. Bertha, he had lately discovered, always gave the impression that she was going to a tea party which had taken place a good many years ago, but she did habitually wear a hat and he was glad to be able to find fault with Mrs. Fraser’s bare, delightful head, and he wanted to find much graver fault than that, to disturb her easy, assured poise, without driving her away.
“I am very glad of this opportunity to speak to you,” he said.
“But,” she said, turning to look at him, “we are always within easy reach of each other.”
“Alone,” he said solemnly.
“Really? Well, here I am.”
“About your son,” Mr. Blackett said, and she remembered what Felix had told her and then made her forget.
“Oh,” she said regretfully, “has Paul been on your flat roof again? He can drop on to it, you know, from the bathroom window, and I’m afraid he drops other things sometimes and then has to go and fetch them. I do hope he hasn’t disturbed you.”
“Not in that way,” said Mr. Blackett. “Indeed, I do not think that is the young man’s name and that is not the way in which he has chosen to amuse himself. I find, to my great disgust, that one of your elder sons is having clandestine meetings with my daughter.”
“Is he? How old fashioned that sounds! And how very foolish.”
“Foolish!” Mr. Blackett exclaimed. “Is that all you have to say about it?”
“Yes, it’s so unnecessary.”
“Your son evidently thinks not.”
“My son? Why not your daughter? That’s possible, you know.”
“My daughter has been very carefully brought up,” Mr. Blackett said coldly. “Anything so contrary to my wishes and our general standards as secrecy of this vulgar sort would be quite incompatible with everything I know of her.”
“Yes, I can believe that,” Rosamund said.
“Therefore,” he went on, “you must realize that it is your son who is to blame.”
“But I don’t. Incompatible with all you know of her, yes, but then, how much do you know?”
“How much do I know of her? What unpleasant suggestion,” he demanded, “are you trying to make?”
A bright pink spot appeared on each of Mr. Blackett’s cheeks and with these dabs of angry colour above the silky blackness of his beard and a glimpse of very red lips he, too, Rosamund thought, looked like an enamel and she made a guess that what he did not know of his daughter was what he would not acknowledge in himself, that what was healthy and natural in Flora was manifested here in the perverse pleasure of trying to irritate where he would have liked to charm. One way and another, she had given a good deal of thought to Mr. Blackett because she knew he had given much to her and her baser nature would thoroughly have enjoyed provoking this man to indiscretions for which he would later loathe himself, a salutary experience for him, but her baser nature was well under control and she determined not to encourage his by allowing him to quarrel with her.
“Unpleasant?” she said. “No sort of unpleasantness occurred to me. I hope it didn’t to you. I meant, well, what you must have discovered for yourself, that all of us know only a very small part of the people we know best.”
“In my case, that is not true,” Mr. Blackett said firmly, and he thought of Bertha. Her pure mind was fully open to him he was sure. It was true that she had puzzled him last night with her laughter, but she had explained that, at once, at his request, childishly and not pleasingly, but with the simple frankness he expected of her. “It is not true,” he repeated.
“Isn’t it? How nice. Then why worry about this little affair? I don’t suppose,” she said, looking across the river, “it’s of any more importance or touch more clandestine, as you call it, than our meeting here to-night. You could so easily have found me in my house.”
She looked at him and saw his lips open and shut and his colour heighten before he said, with a hint of confusion, “What certainty of privacy could I have there?”
“And that,” Rosamund said slowly, “may be the very question Flora asked herself.”
“I do not believe it. She must have been instigated to such deception. I saw them myself, last night, evidently emerging from the trees beyond the Avenue.”
“Perhaps they had been admiring the view,” Rosamund said softly.
“And,” Mr. Blackett went on, “they were walking hand in hand, like—like—well, it seemed to me very vulgar. And, this is what troubled me, there they parted and went home by different routes.”
“I can think of a dozen good reasons for that,” Rosamund said. “I don’t think you understand the younger generation and, dear me, if everybody took these little affairs as seriously as you do I should have half the fathers in Upper Radstowe on my doorstep.”
“And I don’t suppose,” said Mr. Blackett with an unpleasant smile and she thought his lips grew redder still, as though he were about to eat a dainty he had long desired, “I don’t suppose you would have any objection to that.”
Long ago, she had dropped her hands from the railing and now she lifted the one that held her gloves, wondering whether she should flick them across his face. It would have given her great satisfaction for a moment but she knew she would regret it. Laughter was the best rebuff, so she laughed, saying, “I should be delighted. Most of them are old friends and I went to school with their sisters and their wives. And now I must hurry home. Shall we go together?” she asked gravely, “or,” she quoted him, “shall we go back by different routes?”
Mr. Blackett blinked. “I shall stay here for a little while,” he said, “but Mrs. Fraser,” he knew she had had the best of it and his pride, or his discretion, forced him to an appearance of generosity, “please tell your son that when he wants to see my daughter my house is open to him.”
“I will, certainly,” she said pleasantly. “I think that’s wise and kind, too. We can’t tell how much longer these poor young things may have for pleasure.”
Mr. Blackett’s face closed up like a trap. “No, not much longer,” he said angrily, “if many people encourage that point of view.”
Chapter XII
She thought of Fergus with another sudden gust of longing as she ran down the hill. She knew how willing he would be to smash the blandness out of Mr. Blackett’s face. The physical difference between the two men was that between a tomcat and a tiger and she would have been glad to show Mr. Blackett what kind of man she had married, a brave man with all his wounds in front, incapable of a sneering insult and if she had seen him coming towards her at that moment, lean and lithe, as he had been when she first saw him in this very place, she would have flung herself against him and burst into tears. And soon afterwards, he would have become an intolerable nuisance and she would have wanted
to be rid of him. The power responsible for the world to whom she had been grateful, early that morning, for the necessary tasks imposed on men and women, had evidently determined that nothing should be perfect. Even a fine summer evening must be ruined by midges, in the desire, perhaps, to create a divine discontent and the hope of a midgeless life hereafter. But, in spite of every kind of pest, Rosamund again asserted her hearty liking for the world she lived in. She was enraged with Mr. Blackett almost to crying point, she felt herself slightly besmirched by that smile of his, yet how interesting the episode had been and how well she had managed it! But Felix must be right She did do something not quite suitable in a deserted matron; she liked using her power over men and she certainly had deliberately teased Mr. Blackett when she had the chance, so no doubt it served her right that, too respectable for any other sort of impropriety, he had found his pleasure in the indication that he could have it otherwise if he chose, but as it was just possible that James might be really fond of that girl, there was an added cause for satisfaction at having kept her temper.
She was glad to be in her own home again and she stood for a moment, enjoying the familiar atmosphere and the sense of her own and her people’s past. It did not go very far back, but far enough to give her a feeling of security and pride, to restore what Mr. Blackett had tried to take from her.
“Oh,” said Sandra, appearing from the kitchen stairs. “I was wondering where you were.”
“And you were expecting a policeman, I suppose, to tell you I’d been taken to hospital.”
“Yes, something of that sort,” Sandra admitted, “but all the same, I’ve put on the potatoes.”
“Good girl. I think I’ll have a bath.”
“You haven’t caught a chill, have you?”
