I have done for myself. I repeat the words with the rhythm of my stride. It has become dark, very quickly, and no stars can show through the clouds. Winter has begun already, as Miss Carlice said this afternoon—some twenty days too early. What will she think, I wonder, when Dora tells her? Will she say, “Oh, what a pair of fools, to quarrel over a theory?” (But it’s more than a theory. It’s a practical danger, that outlook of his.) Still, she must hate his theory. Her sympathies must be with me, even if she deplores my suburban lapse of manners. It’s Board-School boys who throw ink-pots. I’ve thrown an ink-pot in my time. I threw one at the window in Barling House School.
This is a lovely night for a long walk, even though there are no stars or moon. The damp air carries the smell of the dying leaves to my nose. How I could wander through the Cornish lanes, finding a joy in every twist or sudden slope, every loose stone that trips me, every branch that brushes past my body, every sound of those uncommercial waterways. If twenty-eight and sixpence would take me there, I’d go—and die there, if I must, of starvation.
If there were no Don Rusper in the world—if he could be struck by lightning, or run over, or or poisoned, or shot by accident, I should be there in my own right—the honoured guest, perhaps, of the farmer who encouraged me to shoot at rats and rabbits. I should be looking round for a little house, that I’d fill with my own knick-knacks, forgetting the colourless creeds of modern sociologists and preparing to embark on my own life—a small thing, if one must reckon by the sum of things, but to me, the central pathway through an universe. It’s funny how clearly I can think when slightly drunk. I even said an universe. (It was his fault, giving me those three whiskies. He knew my failing. Or had Dora kept my terrible secret from them? Why couldn’t I have had Miss Carlice for my sister?) So near and yet so far. The more I have begun to discover happiness in myself, the more the outside world threatens to smash me—with a new war, or a new economic system, or an absurd caprice on the part of my trustee. I have a feeling that if I weren’t happy in myself, if I were ill or bored or lonely and couldn’t get through my days, the future would seem absolutely secure. I’m all right. I’ve done my part. It’s for the rest of the world to do its part. It’s for some motor-car to collide with Rusper as he marches self-importantly with his stethoscope through South Mersley Garden City. It’s only an accident that I’m in these straits. It’s for an accident to put me right again. Perhaps it’s only an accident that I am what I am—an accident of badly functioning glands, Ronald Carlice would say. Well, it may be. You can explain away why I want what I want, but it is a fact, an objective, scientific fact, that I do want it very much indeed. And that, being a person, I have an access to reality which the ant hasn’t, and won’t have when the whole beastly brood are ants together. Oh, I could have said so much more to him. (And, doubtless, he to me.) Our talk was too short. We made our points too quickly, without giving them an atmosphere. After all, he didn’t disprove anything I said. All he could answer was, “Well, you’re going to have a nasty time. The world isn’t moving your way!”
And that was all a good deal truer than he knew.
4
It has begun to rain again—a drizzle this time. The stones on which I am leaning are quite damp. What is it, the parapet of a bridge over a river? No, a railway-bridge. A high one too. I can see dimly the lines glistening far down there in the darkness. Across the road, the ground rises steeply. It must be a bridge over the entrance to a tunnel. Perhaps it’s the railway I came by—the line to Busley.
I’m getting wet—the second time to-day. I shall have to give the footman my suit to dry. I hope my other one will be ready. I’m talking as if I’m going back quite soon—as if this were a pleasant after-dinner stroll. I forget that I ran away, and that Dora is mopping her eyes with a silly little handkerchief, sniffing at smelling salts or ringing up the police. The police! Perhaps they’re scouring the country for me. But they can’t do that, till Rusper gives them the word.
There’s a policeman over the road, talking to a man outside the pub, by the new red telephone kiosk. This must be a kind of village—or an important bus stop. Perhaps it’s known as something or other bridge—marked on the map and all that—a real place. Perhaps some day I shall look it up on the map and say, “I walked there from Carlice Abbey, the night before I went to Ebermann’s Asylum.” Will map-reading be one of my accomplishments then? Will they leave me that? It is the one agreeable thing the war taught me.
I’d better not let that policeman see my face. I’ll look down over the parapet on to the railway. If he went away, I could easily climb up and jump down. I wonder what it feels like to jump down. No one can tell us, I suppose. Probably it’s no worse than turning on the gas or taking an overdose of something. But it sounds worse. It needs more courage. And if one didn’t die? If one was left, all crumpled up, but living, till a train came along—as that one’s coming along now. It’s marvellous how far away you can hear trains on a still night. The wind has quite dropped. There it comes. I can see sparks shooting out of the funnel. Rumble, rumble. I have always loved the sound of distant trains. Perhaps one can make everything real, humanise everything, even modern science, by thinking about it and growing familiar with it. Nowadays, a train seems such a gentle creature, like a docile dog. And the railway line, flowing perpetually in a fixed course through the fields, is a romantic thing, like all old things which are wrapped round by the leisurely musings of mankind. If ever mankind stops musing, then there’ll be trouble.
The man has gone into the pub, and the policeman’s moving up the lane. No, he isn’t. He’s coming across the road to have a look at me. What shall I say if he speaks to me? Something fantastic, such as that I’m composing a sonnet or a sonata? No, simply “Good-night,” and agree with what he says about the weather. He is coming here. He’s coming to talk to me—to find out my business. I could get across to the telephone-box in time. Quickly. Now.
I’ll look up Carlice Abbey in the Directory. They hang them so awkwardly by these bits of string. There we are. Mrs. Claude Carlice, Carlice Abbey. Maggerham 15. I must pretend to ring up somebody. He’s watching me through the glass panel. Why must I have this bright electric light in here? I can’t see him, but he can see me. I suppose I must spend twopence out of my poor twenty-eight and sixpence. I haven’t any coppers. Only a sixpence. Shall I be really bold and ask him for change? Why not, after all?
“Good-evening, Constable. I wonder if by any chance you could change me a sixpence?”
“Sorry, Sir, I know I haven’t any coppers on me. But they’ll change it in there, right enough.”
“Of course they will. Thank you so much. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
An excellent idea this—a visit to the pub and a hair of the dog that bit me. Only one man drinking. He looks like a broken-down doctor—a down-at-heel Rusper. I won’t speak to him.
“Good-evening, can I have a double Haig and splash?”
“You can, Sir, with pleasure. Nasty day it’s been.”
“Yes, very nasty. Thank you. Give me some coppers in the change, will you?”
What fun it is to part with your last pound note. I should like to die with a pocket full of silver. Which pocket shall I put it in, I wonder? Do the engine wheels grind all the coins together, or flatten them into silver strips on the rails? I should like to ask Dora that question. (How pale her face was against the panelling at the head of the stairs.) I could ring her up and ask her. Why not? Why not do anything now, however fantastic? Nine o’clock. They’ll have finished dinner. Young Carlice will be sitting alone in his library, looking at the broken glass in the china cupboard door. Dora will be moping in the drawing-room, or else worrying Miss Carlice and yapping away about me. And Miss Carlice herself will be sitting very rigidly in a rather uncomfortable chair, flashing a ring in the light from time to time, not listening to Dora, but wondering a
bout her own perplexities and searching for some master-card to play. I’ve had a feeling the whole time that she intended to use me—just as I came to Carlice intending to use her, if Dora failed me. Of course, not knowing how. Just hoping somehow that she could give me help, as she hopes vaguely for some help from me. A superstitious impulse, really. Or shall I give it one more desperate chance?
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Sir.”
Insert two pennies. Yes. What a noise they make as they drop. No dial. I must wait for the operator.
“I want Maggerham 15.”
“Maggerham 15?”
And now a pause. I suppose Eames will answer.
“Hello? Hello? Is that Carlice Abbey? . . . This is Mr. Payne. Has Miss Carlice finished dinner? . . . Will you ask her, please, if she would speak to me for a moment?”
She’ll come. Never fear. She’ll come. She won’t be stopped by Dora.
“Yes? This is Stephen Payne. Miss Carlice, first I’ve got to beg your pardon. I had a frightful row with your nephew and threw a glass at him. Yes, I missed. . . . Oh, you’ve heard all about it? . . . And did Dora tell you that she rang up my trustee, Dr. Rusper, and that he’s coming to-morrow at five to take me off to a——”
“We can deal with him when he comes.”
What is she saying? She’ll speak to him herself. “Come home at once. Eames will let you in. Don’t bother to say good-night to us, but go straight upstairs to bed, and come down to breakfast to-morrow as if nothing has happened. I think I shall have more influence than you imagine.”
O great woman! (Lord, I nearly said that aloud.)
O great woman. She’s rung off. Well, that’s that. And so to bed.
But these things aren’t so easy. There’s more to come yet. And if she helps me, it won’t be for the love of my blue eyes. The essence of a bargain is a quid pro quo. What quid have I to give her this lovely night of drizzle and no stars? The policeman has gone away, and the solitary drinker has just come out of the pub, lurching a little. Am I lurching a little too? Perhaps, poor devil, something was bothering him. Is he a city clerk turned farmer, and losing his little savings? It might be that. I ought to have talked to him. But he goes that way—over the railway-bridge—and I go this way. He stops, as I stopped, and looks over the parapet, as I looked over, on to the railway line.
Fifty feet? Sixty? The drop should be big enough. I don’t like the way he’s looking over the parapet. Perhaps he’s wishing I’d go away, but I’ll outstay him, if I have to stay here all night. Besides, I think that bridge is a lucky bridge. (Now don’t get too elated, Stephen Payne. Troubles don’t end so easily as all that. A few words from a great woman aren’t enough. Still, she has spoken.) And now comes the last train; rumble, rumble through the rain; rumble, rumble through the night, showering tiny sparks of light. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? His last chance. He might do it now. There’s just time. And I, like a fool, couldn’t stop him. I’m too far away—mouthing a mixture of poetry and doggerel. Rumble, rumble. I’ve got to see this out, then I can go to bed. Rumble-rumble-roar. He’s missed his chance. He’s too late. The train’s in the tunnel. He moves on now and crosses the bridge. I shan’t see him again. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Depart in peace. In peace. . . .
Chapter XIII: ISABEL CARLICE
1
NOT one of our happiest breakfasts—in fact, I was thankful to have got it over. Yet, with the possible exception of Dora, we all behaved well. Especially Ronnie. I almost dared to hope that the row last night had produced a change of heart in him. It hasn’t, but I think, despite himself, he feels we are entitled to a few hours’ magnanimity from him, and he can’t help giving us the benefit of it. He came down with his hair more carefully brushed than usual, and reminded me of a very young subaltern who has been given a kind but firm lecture by his Colonel—a young subaltern who very soon, perhaps, will be facing death at the front. There was an air about him, too, of a theological student who has strayed into a house-party, and, while keeping his spiritual values jealously intact, resolves that Mammon shall have no cause to reproach him for bad manners. Ronnie’s manners were not only good. They were “obliging.” He even said, “Do let me give you another piece of haddock.” I hope he has the sense not to try to apologise to Stephen Payne, or take the blame for what happened. That would produce more emotional tension, and I can’t do with any more.
Stephen Payne was filled with a suppressed radiance—the radiance of a fatalist. I can understand that. When you’ve been through an agony in anticipation, there’s bound to be a period of frivolous relief, even though the real crisis comes nearer. I was able to mutter to him, “For God’s sake, say nothing to Ronnie. It would embarrass him too much.” He nodded at me like a conspirator. We were both standing by the hot-plate, while Dora was eating fastidiously by herself. Somehow Payne’s complacency irritated me a little. I don’t like such unstable people. Still, I shall have to do what I can for him.
Dora had not forgiven me for not backing her up last night. She still remembered how I had said to her, after dinner, “I think you’ve made a mountain out of a molehill. Can’t you cancel your doctor friend’s visit?” She tossed her head, as girls used to toss their heads when I was a girl, and said, “I know perfectly well I’ve done right. It’s what father intended.” And she went on to say that it was all for Stephen’s good, and besides, she couldn’t let Ronnie be insulted in his own house. It was only giving Ronnie a taste of his friends’ methods, I suggested, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and told me I was prejudiced.
So this morning, she’s on her dignity, and, as none of us could gratify her taste for drama by pulling a tragic face, she feels herself slighted and unappreciated. What she intends to do about her own little worry, I don’t know. Perhaps, like her brother, having lived through months of apprehension, she has found the peace of indifference. It will be a tame birthday, after all, with nothing to harass anyone but me.
In the stress of the last few days, I had forgotten about the case of fritillaria imperialis I had ordered in July. It would arrive this morning, of all mornings. Fine bulbs too. If Ronnie is, as I suppose, in his library, he can see me planting them here in the grass in front of the birches. Twice I’ve caught myself thinking, “I must give orders that this grass isn’t to be mown next spring,” then remembering with a shock that I’m planting flowers for Communist children to pick or trample on. And Ronnie, if he is watching, is saying to himself, “She’s planting flowers for Communist children to pick. Let her go on.”
I’m horribly afraid, though, that they won’t be allowed to pick them. This part of the garden will be railed off as a rest-home for expectant mothers, and anybody who picks a flower will be sent to Siberia for five years. That’s the difference between their practice and their theory. More and more do I believe that what belongs to everybody belongs to nobody. Material objects need private owners to make them live. When I’ve seen museums, I’ve always felt, “What a pity these things aren’t in some private collection, littered carefully about a drawing-room or library. For students surely models would suffice.” I am reminded of one of Gwen Rashdall’s visits here last year, when Ronnie said, “In Russia there are eighteen thousand art galleries full of the great masters,” and she answered, “And how many drawing-rooms are there, full of the great mistresses? A drawing-room is a much better proof of civilisation than an art gallery.” Ronnie was furious. Like Claude, he has very little sense of humour.
I am planting bulbs whose flowers even the Communist children won’t be allowed to pick. I really don’t know why I go on. I ought to put them back in the brown paper bag and keep them till I get some earth of my own. Would Ronnie have a qualm if he saw them, as part of my luggage, to-morrow afternoon? Not he.
Here comes Stephen Payne, wanting to speak to me—or, rather, wanting
me to speak to him. He says:
“In a few hours my horrible trustee will be here. He’s confirmed his arrival by letter. Dora told me after breakfast. I can do nothing with her. . . . She’s the last woman in the world I’d guess was my sister.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ve got your trustee taped.”
He watches me drive the bulb-planter into the earth. Fine big bulbs. One has to make three overlapping holes to plant each bulb properly.
“Can I help you?”
“No. I couldn’t bear anyone else to have a hand in this.”
He wanders away.
It ought to be thundery weather on this last day of mine at Carlice. Instead, it’s just seasonable. Chilly at breakfast, then milder, with intermittent sun and threats of rain.
2
At luncheon, Ronnie could hardly conceal his boredom. The graciousness of breakfast had gone. I suspect he spent the morning looking at his watch—sometimes twice in the same minute—and saying, “O Lord, how long?”
Stephen Payne was still serene. While we were eating biscuits and cheese, two rabbits ran across the lawn. I said, “You must shoot those for me this afternoon. You shall go rabbiting among the silver birches.” He said he would try, and looked dreamily out of the window, as if he saw the future outlined against the sky.
Ronnie struck in with, “They don’t do any harm at this time of year. They never touch the vegetables till the winter.”
Birthday Party Page 24
