The Dark Tower

by Phyllis Bottome

  Was it really coming, the place at which he would have to be stopped, after all her fruitless endeavors to get him to move in any direction at all? It looked like it; he was very obviously embarrassed and flushed; he did not even try to meet her eyes.

  “The fact is,” he went on, “I simply can’t go without saying it, and you’ve been so awfully good to me – you’ve let me feel we’re friends.” He paused, and Estelle leaned forward, her eyes melting with encouragement.

  “I am so glad you feel like that, Lionel,” she murmured. “Do please say anything – anything you like. I shall always understand and forgive, if it is necessary for me to forgive.”

  “You’re awfully generous,” he said gratefully. She smiled, and put out her hand again toward the chair. This time he sat down in it, but he turned it to face her.

  He was a big man and he seemed to fill the room in which they sat. His blue-gray eyes fixed themselves on hers intently, his whole being seemed absorbed in what he was about to say.

  “You see,” he began, “I think you may be making a big mistake. Naturally Winn’s awfully fond of you and all that and you’ve just started life, and you like to live in your own country, surrounded by jolly little things, and perhaps India seems frightening and far away.” Estelle shrank back a little; he put his hand on the back of her chair soothingly. “Of course it must be hard,” he said. “Only I want to explain it to you. Winn’s heart is yours, I know, but it’s in his work, too, as a man’s must be, and his work’s out there; it’s not here at all.

  “When I came here and looked about me, and saw the house and the garden and the country, where we’ve had such jolly walks and talks – it all seemed temporary somehow, made up – not quite natural, I can’t explain what I mean but not a bit like Winn. I needn’t tell you what he is, I dare say you think it’s cheek of me to talk about him at all, I can quite understand it if you do, only perhaps there’s a side of him I’ve seen more of, and which makes me want to say what I know he isn’t – what I don’t think even love can make him be – he isn’t tame!”

  He stopped abruptly; Estelle’s eyes had hardened and grown very cold.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Has he complained of my keeping him here?”

  Lionel pushed back his chair.

  “Ah, Mrs. Winn! Mrs. Winn!” he exclaimed half laughingly, and half reproachfully; “you know he wouldn’t complain. He only told me that he wasn’t coming back just yet, and I – well, I thought I saw why he wasn’t.”

  “Then,” she said, turning careful eyes away from him, “if he hasn’t complained, I hardly see why you should attack me like this. I suppose you think I am as unnatural and – and temporary as our surroundings?”

  Lionel stood up and looked down at her in a puzzled way.

  “Oh, I say, you know,” he ventured, “you’re not playing very fair, are you? Of course I’m not attacking you. I thought we were friends, and I wanted to help you.”

  “Friends!” she said. Her voice broke suddenly into a hard little laugh. “Well, what else have you to suggest to me about my husband – out of your friendship for me?”

  “You’re not forgiving me,” he reminded her gently, not dreaming what it was she had been prepared to forgive. “But perhaps I’d better go on and get it all out while I’m about it. You know it isn’t only that I think he won’t care for staying on here, but I think it’s a bit of a risk. I don’t want to frighten you, but after a man’s had black water fever twice, he’s apt to be a little groggy, especially about the lungs. England isn’t honestly a very good winter place for him for a year or two – ”

  Estelle flung up her head.

  “If he was going to be an invalid,” she said, “he oughtn’t to have married me!”

  The silence that followed her speech crept into every corner of the room. Lionel did not look puzzled any more. He stood up very straight and stiff; only his eyes changed. He could not look at her; they were filled with contempt. He gave her a moment or two to disavow her words; he would have given his right hand to hear her do it.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I have overstated the case if you imagine your husband is an invalid. I think, if you don’t mind,” he added, “I’ll see if my things are ready.”

  “Please do,” she said, groping in her mind for something left to hurt him with. “And another time perhaps you will know better than to say for my husband what he is perfectly competent to say for himself.”

  “You are quite right,” Lionel said quietly; “another time I shall know better.” The rain against the windows sounded again; she had not heard it before.

  He did not come back to say good-by. She heard him talking to Winn in the hall, the dogcart drove up, and then she saw him for the last time, his fine, clear-cut profile, his cap dragged over his forehead, his eyes hard, as they were when he had looked at her. He must have known she stood there at the window watching, but he never looked back. She had expected a terrible parting, but never a parting as terrible as this. Mercifully she had kept her head; it was all she had kept.

  CHAPTER VII

  It was shortly after Lionel’s departure that Estelle realized there was nothing between her and the Indian frontier except the drawing-room sofa. She fixed herself as firmly on this shelter as a limpet takes hold upon a rock. People were extremely kind and sympathetic, and Winn himself turned over a new leaf. He was gentle and considerate to her, and offered to read aloud to her in the evenings.

  Nothing shook her out of this condition. The baby arrived, unavailingly as an incentive to health, and not at all the kind of baby Estelle had pictured. He was almost from his first moments a thorough Staines. He was never very kissable, and was anxious as soon as possible to get on to his own feet. At eight months he crawled rapidly across the carpet with a large musical-box suspended from his mouth by its handle; at ten he could walk. He tore all his lawn frocks on Winn’s spurs, screamed with joy at his father’s footsteps, and always preferred knees to laps.

  His general attitude towards women was hostility, he looked upon them as unfortunate obstacles in the path of adventure, and howled dismally when they caressed him. He had more tolerance for his mother who seemed to him an object provided by Providence in connection with a sofa, on purpose for him to climb over.

  Her maternal instinct went so far as to allow him to climb over it twice a day for short intervals. After all he had gained her two years.

  Estelle lay on the sofa one autumn afternoon at four o’clock, with her eyes firmly shut. She was aware that Winn had come in, and was very inconsiderately tramping to and fro in heavy boots. He seldom entered the drawing-room at this hour, and if he did, he went out again as soon as he saw that her eyes were shut.

  Probably he meant to say something horrible about India; she had been expecting it for some time. The report on Tibet was finished, and he could let his staff work go when he liked.

  He stood at the foot of her couch and looked at her curiously. Estelle could feel his eyes on her; she wondered if he noticed how thin she was, and how transparent her eyelids were. Every fiber in her body was aware of her desire to impress him with her frailty. She held it before him like a banner.

  “Estelle,” he said. When he spoke she winced.

  “Yes, dear,” she murmured hardly above a whisper.

  “Would you mind opening your eyes?” he suggested. “I’ve got something I want to talk over with you, and I really can’t talk to a door banged in my face.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said meekly; “I’m afraid I’m almost too exhausted to talk, but I’ll try to listen to what you have to say.”

  “Thanks,” said Winn. He paused as if, after all, it wasn’t easy to begin, even in the face of this responsiveness. She thought he looked rather odd. His eyes had a queer, dazed look, as if he had been drinking heavily or as if somebody had kicked him.

  “Well,” she asked at last, “what is it you want to talk about? Suspense of any kind, you know, is v
ery bad for my heart.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “It was only that I thought I’d better mention I am going to Davos.”

  “Davos!” She opened her eyes wide now and stared at him. “That snow place?” she asked, “full of consumptives? What a curious idea! I never have been able to understand how people can care to go there for sport. It seems to me rather cruel; but, then, I know I am specially sensitive about that kind of thing. Other people’s pain weighs so on me.”

  “I didn’t say I was going there for sport,” Winn answered in the same peculiar manner. He sat down and began to play with a paper-cutter on his knee. “As a matter of fact, I’m not,” he went on. “I’ve crocked one of my lungs. They seem to think I’ve got to go. It’s a great nuisance.”

  It was curious the way he kept looking at her, as if he expected something. He couldn’t have told exactly what he expected himself. He was face to face with a new situation; he wasn’t exactly frightened, but he had a feeling that he would like very much to know how he ought to meet it. He had often been close to death – but he had never somehow thought of dying, he wasn’t close to death now but at the end of something which might be very horrible there would be the long affair of dying. He hoped he would get through it all right and not make a fuss or be a bother to anybody. It had all come with a curious suddenness. He had gone to Travers one day because when Polly pulled he had an odd pain in his chest. He had had a toss the week before, and it had occurred to him that a rib might be broken; but Travers said it wasn’t that.

  Travers had tapped him all over and looked grave, uncommonly grave, and said some very uncomfortable things. He had insisted on dragging Winn up to town to see a big man, and the big man had said, “Davos, and don’t lose any time about it.” He hadn’t said much else, only when Winn had remarked, “But, damn it all, you know I’m as strong as a horse,” he had answered, “You’ll need every bit of strength you’ve got,” and all the way home Travers had talked to him like a Dutch uncle.

  It was really funny when you came to think of it, because there wasn’t anything to see or even feel – except a little cough – and getting rather hot in the evenings, but after Travers had finished pitching into him Winn had written to Lionel and made his will and had rather wondered what Estelle would feel about it. He hadn’t wanted to upset her. He hadn’t upset her. She stared at him for a moment; then she said:

  “How odd! You look perfectly all right. I never have believed in Travers.”

  Winn mentioned the name of the big man.

  “It does sound rather rot,” he added apologetically. He still waited. Estelle moved restlessly on the sofa.

  “Well,” she said, “what on earth am I to do? It’s really horribly inconvenient. I suppose I shall have to go back to my people for the winter unless you can afford to let me take a flat in London.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t afford that,” said Winn. “I think it would be best for you to go to your people for the winter, unless, of course, you’d rather go to mine. I’m going down there to-morrow; I’ve written to tell them. I must get my father to let me have some money as it is. It’s really an infernal nuisance from the expense point of view.”

  “I couldn’t go to your people,” said Estelle, stiffly. “They have never been nice to me; besides, they would be sure to teach baby how to swear.” Then she added, “I suppose this puts an end to your going to India.”

  Winn dropped his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, “this puts an end to my going back to India for the present. I’ve been up before the board; they’re quite agreeable. In fact, they’ve been rather decent to me.”

  Estelle gave a long sigh of relief and gratitude. It was really extraordinary how she had been helped to avoid India. She couldn’t think what made Winn go on sitting there, just playing with the paper-knife.

  He sat there for a long time, but he didn’t say any more. At last he got up and went to the door.

  “Well,” he said, “I think I’ll just run up and have a look at the kid.”

  “Poor dear,” said Estelle, “I’m frightfully sorry for you, of course, though I don’t believe it’s at all painful – and by the way, Winn, don’t forget that consumption is infectious.”

  He stopped short as if someone had struck him. After all, he didn’t go to the nursery; she heard him go down the passage to the smoking-room instead.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Sir Peter was having his annual attack of gout. Staines Court appeared at these times like a ship battened down and running before a storm.

  Figures of pale and frightened maids flickered through the long passage-ways. The portly butler violently ejected from the dining-room had been seen passing swiftly through the hall, with the ungainly movement of a prehistoric animal startled from its lair.

  The room in which Sir Peter sat burned with his language. Eddies of blasphemous sound rushed out and buffeted the landings like a rising gale.

  Sir Peter sat in a big arm chair in the center of the room. His figure gave the impression of a fortressed island in the middle of an empty sea. His foot was rolled in bandages and placed on a low stool before him; within reach of his hand was a knobbed blackthorn stick, a bell and a copy of the “Times” newspaper.

  Fortunately Lady Staines was impervious to sound and acclimatized to fury. When Sir Peter was well she frequently raised storms, but when he had gout she let him raise them for himself. He was raising one now on the subject of Winn’s letter.

  “What’s that he says? What’s that he says?” roared Sir Peter. “Something the matter with his lungs! That’s the first time a Staines has ever spoken of his lungs. The boy’s mad. I don’t admit it! I don’t believe it for a moment, all a damned piece of doctors’ rubbish, the chap’s a fool to listen to ’em! When has he ever seen me catering to hearse-conducting, pocket-filling asses!”

  Charles was home on a twenty-four hours’ leave – he stood by the mantelpiece and regarded his parent with undutiful and critical eyes. “I should say you send for ’em,” he observed, “whenever you’ve got a pain; why they’re always hangin’ about. Look at that table chock full of medicines. ’Nuff to kill a horse – where do they come from?”

  “Hold your infernal tongue, Sir!” shouted Sir Peter. “What do I have ’em for? I have ’em here to expose them! That’s why – I just let them try it on, and then hold them up to ridicule! Do you find I ever pay the least attention to ’em, Sarah?” he demanded from his wife.

  “Not as a rule,” Lady Staines admitted, “unless you’re very bad indeed, and then you do as you like directly the pain has stopped.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t I!” said Sir Peter triumphantly. “Once I get rid of the pain I can do as I like. When I’ve got red hot needles eating into my toes, am I likely to like anything? Of course not, you may just as well take medicine then as anything else, but as to taking orders from a pack of ill-bred bumpkins, full of witch magic as a dog of fleas, I see myself! Don’t stand grinning there, Charles, like a dirty, shock-headed barmaid’s dropped hair pin! I won’t stand it! I can’t see why all my sons should have thin legs, neither you nor I, Sarah, ever went about like a couple of spilikin’s. I call it indecent! Why don’t you get something inside ’em, Charles, eh? No stamina, that’s what it is! Everybody going to the dogs in motor cars with manicure girls out of their parents’ pockets – ! Why don’t you answer me, Charles, when I speak to you?”

  “Nobody can answer you when you keep roaring like a deuced megaphone,” said Charles wearily. “Let’s hear what the chap’s got to say for himself, Mater.”

  Lady Staines read Winn’s letter out loud in a dry voice without expression; it might have been an account of a new lawn mower which she held beneath it.

  “I’ve managed to crock one of my lungs somehow, but they say I’ve got a chance if I go straight out to Davos for six months. Ask the guv’nor if he’ll let me have some money. I shall want it badly. My wife and the kid will go to her people. You might run across and
have a look at him sometimes. He’s rather a jolly little chap. I shall come down for the week-end to-morrow unless I hear from you to the contrary.

  “Your affectionate son, “WINN.”

  “I think that’s all,” said his mother.

  “What!” shouted Sir Peter. He had never shouted quite like this before. Charles groaned and buried his head in his hands. Even Lady Staines looked up from the lawn mower’s letter, which she had placed on the top of Winn’s; the medicine bottles sprang from the table and fell back again sufficiently shaken for the next dose.

  “Do you mean to tell me!” cried Sir Peter in a quieter voice, “that that little piece of dandelion fluff – that baggage – that city fellow’s half baked, peeled onion of a minx is going to desert her husband? That’s what I call it – desertion! What does she want to go back to her people for? She must go with him! She must go to Davos! She shall go to Davos! if I have to take her there by the hair! I never heard of anything so outrageous in my life! What becomes of domesticity? where’s family life? That’s what I want to know! and is Winn such a milk and water noodle that he’s going to sit down under it and say ‘Thank you!’ Not that I think he needs to go to Davos for a moment, mind you. Let him come here and have a nice quiet time with me, that’s what he wants.”

  “That’s all very well, Father,” said Charles. “But what you mean is you don’t want to fork out! If the chap’s told to go to Davos, he’s got to go to Davos, and it’s his own look-out whether he takes his wife with him or not. Consumption isn’t a joke, and I tell you plainly that if you don’t help him when he’s got a chance, you needn’t expect me to come to the funeral. No flowers and coffins and beloved sons on tombstones, are going to make me move an inch. It’ll be just the same to me as if you’d shoved him under with your own hand, and that’s all I’ve got to say, and it’s no use blowing the roof off about it!”