At the far side of the Broad the water narrowed into the channel known as Mallingham Dyke, and we had to unlock the padlock of the chain which lay across the water as a warning to trespassers.
“But we have few trespassers,” explained Dinah, slipping the key back into her pocket, “because you can only reach Mallingham from Horsey Mere, and Horsey too is a private broad.”
We drifted on into the dike. I got out the oars when we were becalmed, but soon a breeze helped us into a second dike, the New Cut, and, picking up the sea wind again, we scudded swiftly south into Horsey Mere.
“That windmill!” I cried above the wind as we tacked back and forth.
“Isn’t it grand?”
It took me a moment to realize she was taking me straight to it, and so intrigued was I by the whirling sails that I was nearly decapitated by the swinging boom. By the time I had recovered we were gliding up the little dike and the millman was waiting for us on the staithe.
Heights have always made me uneasy. I declined the millman’s offer to show me all the stories of the mill, but I went up the first ladder to peer out at the wild green remoteness of the flats. The clanking sails were making such a noise that it was a relief to return outside and accept Dinah’s suggestion that we walk to the sea.
Along the lane I had to stop to see Horsey Church, which was hidden in the woods, and later I stopped again to talk to a yokel gardening in front of one of the flint-walled cottages I so admired. It was he who told me that Horsey and Waxham had been a center for smuggling in times past, when each shipment of contraband had been hidden in the rector’s barn while the mill sails were set at a certain angle to warn of the approach of the revenue men. When we finally reached the Brograve Level, those sea fields directly below the long line of the sandhills, we had taken over an hour to walk a mile, but I was enjoying myself as I had not enjoyed myself for months, and beside me Dinah had evidently forgotten the crass commercial streak I had displayed earlier.
A cart track ran through the fields straight to the sandhills. These were dunes, huge mounds of dark sand studded with tufts of sea grass, and the grass rippled in the wind. Beneath the hills the wind dropped, but as we hauled ourselves to the top I could hear the wind mingling with the roar of the sea beyond the summit. It was a stiff climb, and although I wanted to pause for breath I climbed on until I was standing on top of the highest mound and gazing in exhilaration at the dark glowing sea.
The horizon was clear. Waves crashed rhythmically on miles of empty sands, and gulls soared effortlessly above our heads.
I was still gazing across the sea to Holland when Dinah scampered down to the beach and shouted something over her shoulder, but the wind whipped away her words long before I could hear them. My exhilaration overcame me. Kicking off my sand-stuffed shoes, I tore off my socks and cascaded down the dunes to join her. On the beach the sand was hard beneath my toes, and I began to run, the sense of freedom enveloping me until the blood was rushing through my veins.
Dinah was flirting with the waves at the water’s edge. “Come on!” she shouted, waggling a naked toe at me.
I sallied boldly into the waves, gasped with shock and backed out. No summer current fresh from Labrador could have been colder than that North Sea in early June, and when I heard Dinah laugh I saw she had kept her feet dry.
“Wretched child!” I hared after her, but she skipped out of reach and raced back into the sandhills.
By the time I caught up with her we were both too breathless to do more than flop down in a small hollow, but the relief of escaping from the wind quickly revived us. My ears stopped tingling. After basking in the unexpected warmth of the sun I sat up, smoothed my front strand of hair and watched the gulls wheeling across the sky.
“I’m trying to think of a suitable quotation from Tennyson,” I remarked, “but my poetical memory has apparently been blown away by the wind.”
“How fortunate! I always try to avoid Tennyson—so hopelessly sentimental and Victorian!”
“I shall give you a volume of his poems at the earliest opportunity.” I began to kiss her. We were both warm from our exertions on the beach, so it seemed perfectly natural to start taking off our clothes.
“I suppose in the circumstances I shall have to be careful,” I murmured. “The only disadvantage of spontaneity is that one can’t make advance preparations.”
“My dear Paul, do you think I didn’t have this exact hollow in mind when we left the house this morning?”
I gave a shout of delighted laughter, rolled over onto my naked back and pulled her down on top of me.
It grew hotter. The grit clung to our sweating limbs and seeped between our shifting bodies. My throat was dry, and all I could see was the sand, the sea grass and the vast sky blurring into a pattern of reflected light. The sweat blinded me and in one last purposeful gesture I drew together the threads linking the rhythm of our movements and knotted them in an elegant shimmer of power.
Dinah cried out. I held on to her, then rolled away and let the pale northern sun beat feebly on my eyelids. When my mind began to function again a number of thoughts occurred to me, none of them welcome but all shining with common sense. With a grimace I sat up. The wind, dipping into the hollow, made me shiver, and I had to make a great effort to embark on my traditional maneuvers to ensure that this new liaison of mine stayed both civilized and harmless.
“Well, I must confess I find you most attractive both in bed and out of it,” I said pleasantly to Dinah as I reached for my shirt. “In fact, I can’t recall when I was last so consistently entertained. But you won’t make any false assumptions about me, will you? So many women—less intelligent than you, of course—seem to think I indulge in the pastime of falling in love, but in fact I regard that as a time-consuming occupation which I leave with relief to the younger generation. And some women—of course this is a trap you’d never fall into— think I can’t wait to leave my wife, but in fact my wife suits me admirably and I have no intention of ever terminating my marriage. In other words, to cut a long warning short, I don’t play the role of lovesick swain, I don’t run off with mistresses, and I don’t dabble with divorce.”
There was a pause. She had been listening very solemnly, her arms folded across her breasts, her dark eyes wide and grave. I was just wondering if I had a handkerchief to mop up her inevitable tears when she exclaimed with an admiration which appeared to be genuine, “Oh, I do think that’s sensible! If only my father could have organized his life as well as you’ve obviously organized yours!”
That took the wind out of my sails. I had been ready for her to scream at me that I was a menace to the entire female sex and had been so poised to offer my traditional defense of fair play that I found I now had nothing to say. For one wild moment I wondered if the entire import of my warning had been lost on her, but then she said sunnily, “Well, isn’t it nice that you don’t have to worry about me wanting to marry you? Not even a millionaire could ever tempt me into marriage!” And she started to put on her clothes.
“Quite,” I said dryly. All this sounded a little too good to be true. “But don’t you want children?” I said, watching her.
“Of course! But you don’t have to get married to have children.”
I felt myself becoming a shade paler but otherwise maintained my composure admirably. Wondering if there was anyone more dangerous than an intellectual who was emotionally ignorant, I said with a laugh, “You don’t have to get married to make a fool of yourself either! It’s a free country, Dinah, and you’re entitled to believe what you want, but don’t, I implore you, try to impose your beliefs on innocent children. But that’s your business. So long as you don’t make it mine I have no right to criticize you.”
“You mentioned your daughter who died. Are there no other children?”
“No.”
“Oh. Is that because you don’t like children?”
“It’s not a subject I care to discuss.” I tried not to think of my illness. Stand
ing up, I shoved my fists into my pockets. “But I’ll say this: I don’t want a child, and if some foolish woman were to present me with one I would refuse to acknowledge it. Pregnancy would be the quickest way to terminate an affair with me, and don’t you forget it.”
She went white. I suddenly realized that my composure had slipped, my voice had become harsh and my tone brutal. I turned away in shame.
“Let’s go home.” I reached for her hand and was painfully relieved a second later when I felt it slip into mine. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” I said. “Forgive me.”
“What for? I approve of honesty,” said Dinah. “I like to know where I am with people. I believe in honest truthful relationships.”
“Why, yes, so do I,” I said readily, and then thought with regret of all the truths I would never be able to tell her.
III
O’Reilly arranged for me to see young Geoffrey Hurst’s father, the senior partner of Hurst, Rigby and Ashton, at two o’clock the following afternoon, but unfortunately the meeting was not a pleasant one. I was so used to dealing with the steel-cored corporation lawyers of Wall Street that I found myself ill at ease with a lawyer who was a quiet English country gentleman, and Mr. Hurst evidently considered himself so thoroughly in loco parentis to Dinah that he was unable to regard me without prejudice. I expressed my interest in the house and we discussed the legal effects of Harry Slade’s intestacy, but our conversation was awkward and I decided afterward not to see him again. My lawyer could handle the purchase, O’Reilly could clear up any tiresome detail and Philip Hurst could brood over his disapproval in uninterrupted peace.
There was no other difficulty about the sale, since Dinah’s half brother wanted to dispose of the house, and after I had told her with truth that her worries about Mallingham were for the moment at an end we decided to celebrate by spending the next weekend in Paris. I thought I might buy her some clothes, but I regretted the offer immediately, not because I did not want her to be properly dressed by the best couturier, but because I wanted to spend the next weekend at Mallingham. However, since she had given me my best weekend in years it was only fair to offer her a weekend of my own devising in return.
With an effort I tried to focus on the world which lay waiting for me in London, but I was so absorbed by my memories of the weekend that when I arrived back at Curzon Street I felt totally unprepared to pick up the threads of my normal daily life. My lack of preparation was underlined by the sight of Miss Phelps advancing toward me. I had to resist a strong urge to turn tail and run.
“Good evening, Miss Phelps,” I said politely, and added without interest, “Has there been anything of importance in the mail?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Van Zale!” said Miss Phelps cozily, and as if determined to drag me back to reality she handed me a letter from my wife.
Five
I
PEOPLE THOUGHT I DID not appreciate my wife but they were wrong. My first wife Dolly had made me so unhappy that I had vowed after her death never again to marry for love. My second marriage, which I had fondly told myself was a marriage of convenience, had turned out to be quite the most inconvenient arrangement I could possibly have made. Indeed my five years spent with Marietta had taught me exactly how uncomfortable a man’s life can be when his households are badly run, his social arrangements inefficiently conducted and his monthly bills bizarre in their extravagance. The trouble was, as I realized later, that Marietta had been extraordinarily stupid. I had thought I had made myself clear to her before our marriage, but, as subsequent events had proved, my words had gone in one pretty ear and immediately out of the other,
“Marriage should be a two-way street,” I said to her, trying, as I always did, to be fair and honest in establishing a relationship. “You’ll get my name and a share of my wealth, prospects and social prestige. I expect to get a well-run household and a showpiece of a wife who never puts a foot wrong.” I could see she heard only the word “showpiece” and was imagining it gave her carte blanche to purchase a new wardrobe of clothes every month, so I added to make myself clear, “If you commit adultery I’ll divorce you. Showpiece wives should sleep only with their husbands.”
“Darling, why should I ever want to sleep with anyone but you?” cooed Marietta, neglecting to tell me that she had long since developed a penchant for fornication.
“I shall divorce you,” I said with relief after evidence of her wandering attention had finally been placed in my hands. I would have divorced her long before for extravagance and general uselessness, but unfortunately these were not grounds for divorce in the state of New York.
“If you sleep with other people why shouldn’t I?” she screamed.
“Because it wasn’t part of our premarital agreement. I said that marriage should be a two-way street—”
“Yes, and for me it was a dead-end alley! What did I get out of it? A husband who works late nearly every night, a grubby little house off Madison and a stingy dress allowance!”
“I’ve kept you for five excruciatingly expensive years in a style far superior to the one to which you were previously accustomed. I’ve lived up to every one of my promises—I’ve shared my wealth with you, my prestige, my name—and what have you given me? Nothing but trouble, aggravation and nonstop vulgarity!”
“Vulgarity!” shrieked Marietta, who always fancied herself a lady.
“Vulgarity!” I shouted back at her. “Even a common whore uses better language than you do!”
“You,” hissed Marietta, “should know.”
Altogether it was not an experience which made me want to rush into matrimony a third time, and after our disastrous divorce had thrilled every gossipmonger in town I led a bachelor life for a while.
Unfortunately this too had its disadvantages. By this time my success was increasing rapidly, and such were the pressures of my work that I found it impossible to concentrate on domestic matters. I hired people to do the job a wife would have done but it was never satisfactory, and so desperate did I become that I even considered inviting my mother to take command of my household. My mother lived in a house near Madison Square with my daughter Vicky, and for the past ten years she had claimed that my household was quite unsuitable for an innocent young girl.
Much as I had wanted Vicky to live with me, I had had to concede that my mother was right. Obviously while I was a bachelor or married to a woman who not only disliked children but was incapable of setting a stepdaughter a good example, it was best for Vicky to be with my mother, but I continued to dream of a time when Vicky could live with me, and as the years passed after my divorce and my bachelor life became more difficult to manage I reluctantly faced the fact that I had to marry again. To console myself I observed that I could hardly do worse than my first two marriages and that just possibly, if I were sensible, I might do better. By this time I didn’t have to marry for my career and I didn’t even have to marry anyone beautiful. If I could find a woman who could add up the columns of my household accounts, manage the servants and be kind to my daughter, I resolved I would marry her even if she were fresh from an orphanage and looked like a freak in a circus show.
I cast around among my vast circle of acquaintances and saw only the rich society women with their empty heads and emptier lives, the fortune hunters who wanted only to help me spend my money, and the social climbers who fancied the notion of being the third Mrs. Paul Van Zale. I went to parties and dinners, soirees and balls, and my suitors were continually lying in wait to suffocate me with their eagerness. How do women always know when a man is looking for a wife? I had been a bachelor for four years, yet never was I as oppressed by willing women as I was during that summer of 1911.
I had just given up all hope of finding anyone suitable when the miracle happened. I went to a garden party out on the Island, and while I was talking to three eager females I glanced beyond them across the lawn and saw a woman standing alone, watching me. As soon as my glance met hers she blushed and turned away.
Only a woman of the most sterling virtue ever turned her back on Paul Van Zale. I ran after her, but she had disappeared. I began to question people wildly. At last someone said, “Oh, you must mean Mrs. Woodard. I think I saw her going into the rose garden.”
“She has a husband?” It seemed like the last straw.
“I believe she’s a widow.”
Not even winged Mercury could have sped faster to the rose garden.
She was perfect. I kept thinking there must be some flaw, but there was none. She thought there was, because a doctor had told her she would probably never carry a child longer than three months; after three miscarriages she had been advised not to have another child, and she was sure, she confided to me painfully, that I would want children.
“Definitely not.”
“But I should feel I was failing you in some way.”
“Never.”
We were married. My family adored her. All my friends told me how lucky I was. Vicky promised to live with us after she had returned from her visit to Europe. I was so happy I could hardly believe my good fortune.
It was four years later, when I discovered that the destructive force of my ambition was rebounding on me, that everything had begun to go wrong.
“There must be something I can do for you, Paul!” Sylvia said in despair after Vicky died.
“You can come with me to Europe.” I was suffering from a compulsion to escape from New York. “I’ve decided to be the resident partner in London for a couple of years and pull the London office together.”
But Sylvia hated Europe. I could not share my pleasure with her and she could communicate only her misery to me. When we came home in 1919 the shining surface of our marriage had tarnished, and although we settled down harmoniously again in New York we were never as close as we had been earlier.
Three years later when I knew I once more had to escape to Europe to preserve my sanity, I did not invite Sylvia to come with me.
The Rich Are Different Page 7
