‘The staying power of——?’ he repeated.
‘I’m sure of it. And you must be wise, you must positively have the wisdom to take care of your own happiness——’
‘Oh good God, you preaching woman!’ he burst out. ‘How dare you stand there in my own house talking to me of Vera?’
‘Hush,’ said Miss Entwhistle, her eyes shining brighter and brighter in her white face. ‘Listen to me. It’s atrocious that I should have to, but nobody ever seems to have told you a single thing in your life. You don’t seem to know anything at all about women, anything at all about human beings. How could you bring a girl like Lucy—any young wife—to this house? But here she is, and it still may be all right because she loves you so, if you take care, if you are tender and kind. I assure you it is nothing to me how angry you are with me, or how completely you separate me from Lucy, if only you are kind to her. Don’t you realise, Everard, that she may soon begin to have a baby, and that then she——’
‘You indelicate woman! You incredibly indecent, improper——’
‘I don’t in the least mind what you say to me, but I tell you that unless you take care, unless you’re kinder than you’re being at this moment, it won’t be anything like fifteen years this time.’
He repeated, staring, ‘Fifteen years this time?’
‘Yes. Good-bye.’
And she was gone, and had shut the door behind her before her monstrous meaning dawned on him.
Then, when it did, he strode out of the room after her.
She was going up the stairs very slowly.
‘Come down,’ he said.
She went on as if she hadn’t heard him.
‘Come down. If you don’t come down at once I’ll fetch you.’
This, through all her wretchedness, through all her horror, for beating in her ears were two words over and over again, Lucy, Vera—Lucy, Vera—struck her as so absurd, the vision of herself, more naturally nimble, going on up the stairs just out of Wemyss’s reach, with him heavily pursuing her, till among the attics at the top he couldn’t but run her to earth in a cistern, that she had great difficulty in not spilling over into a ridiculous, hysterical laugh.
‘Very well then,’ she said, stopping and speaking in a low voice so that Lucy shouldn’t be disturbed by unusual sounds, ‘I’ll come down.’ And shining, quivering with indomitableness, she did.
She arrived at the bottom of the stairs where he was standing and faced him. What was he going to do? Take her by the shoulders and turn her out? Not a sign, not the smallest sign of distress or fear should he get out of her. Fear of him in relation to herself was the last thing she would condescend to feel, but fear for Lucy—for Lucy …. She could very easily have cried out because of Lucy, entreated to be allowed to see her sometimes, humbled herself, if she hadn’t gripped hold of the conviction of his delight if she broke down, of his delight at having broken her down, at refusing. The thought froze her serene.
‘You will now leave my house,’ said Wemyss through his teeth.
‘Without my hat, Everard?’ she inquired mildly.
He didn’t answer. He would gladly at that moment have killed her, for he thought he saw she was laughing at him. Not openly. Her face was serious and her voice polite; but he thought he saw she was laughing at him, and beyond anything that could happen to him he hated being defied.
He walked to the front door, reached up and undid the top bolt, stooped down and undid the bottom bolt, turned the key, took the chain off, pulled the door open, and said, ‘There now. Go. And let this be a lesson to you.’
‘I am glad to see,’ said Miss Entwhistle, going out on to the steps with dignity, and surveying the stars with detachment, ‘that it is a fine night.’
He shut and bolted and locked and chained her out, and as soon as he had done, and she heard his footsteps going away, and her eyes were a little accustomed to the darkness, she went round to the back entrance, rang the bell, and asked the astonished tweeny, who presently appeared, to send Lizzie to her; and when Lizzie came, also astonished, she asked her to be so kind as to go up to her room and put her things in her bag and bring her her hat and cloak and purse.
‘I’ll wait here in the garden,’ said Miss Entwhistle, ‘and it would be most kind, Lizzie, if you were rather quick.’
Then, when she had got her belongings, and Lizzie had put her cloak round her shoulders and tried to express, by smoothings and brushings of it, her understanding and sympathy, for it was clear to Lizzie and to all the servants that Miss Entwhistle was being turned out, she went away; she went away past the silent house, through the white gate, up through the darkness of the sunken oozy lane, out on to the road where the stars gave light, across the bridge, into the village, along the road to the station, to wait for whatever train should come.
She walked slower and slower.
She was extraordinarily tired.
XXXII
Wemyss went back into the library, and seeing his coffee still on the chimney-piece he drank it, and then sat down in the chair Miss Entwhistle had just left, and smoked.
He wouldn’t go up to Lucy yet; not till he was sure the woman wasn’t going to try any tricks of knocking at the front door or ringing bells. He actually, so inaccurate was his perception of Miss Entwhistle’s character and methods, he actually thought she might perhaps throw stones at the windows, and he decided to remain downstairs guarding his premises till this possibility became, with the lapse of time, more remote.
Meanwhile the fury of his indignation at the things she had said was immensely tempered by the real satisfaction he felt in having turned her out. That was the way to show people who was master, and meant to be master, in his own house. She had supposed she could do as she liked with him, use his house, be waited on by his servants, waste his electric light, interfere between him and his wife, say what she chose, lecture him, stand there and insult him, and he had showed her very quickly and clearly that she couldn’t. As to her final monstrous suggestion, it merely proved how completely he had got her, how accurately he had hit on the punishment she felt most, that she should have indulged in such ravings. The ravings of impotence,—that’s what that was. For the rest of his life, he supposed, whenever people couldn’t get their own way with him, were baffled by his steadfastness and consequently became vindictive, they would throw that old story up against him. Let them. It wouldn’t make him budge, not a hair’s breadth, in any direction he didn’t choose. Master in his own house,—that’s what he was.
Curious how women invariably started by thinking they could do as they liked with him. Vera had thought so, and behaved accordingly; and she had been quite surprised, and even injured, when she discovered she couldn’t. No doubt this woman was feeling considerably surprised too now; no doubt she never dreamt he would turn her out. Women never believed he would do the simple, obvious thing. And even when he warned them that he would, as he could remember on several occasions having warned Vera—indeed, it was recorded in his diary—they still didn’t believe it. Daunted themselves by convention and the fear of what people might think, they imagined that he would be daunted too. Then, when he wasn’t, and it happened, they were surprised; and they never seemed to see that they had only themselves to thank.
He sat smoking and thinking a long time, one ear attentive to any sounds which might indicate that Miss Entwhistle was approaching hostilely from outside. Chesterton found him sitting like that when she came in to remove the coffee cup, and she found him still sitting like that when she came in an hour later with his whisky.
It was nearly eleven before he decided that the danger of attack was probably over; but still, before he went upstairs, he thought it prudent to open the window and step over the sill on to the terrace and just look round.
All was as quiet as the grave. It was so quiet that he could hear a little ripple where the water was split by a dead branch as the river slid gently along. There were stars, so that it was not quite dark; and although the Apri
l air was moist it was dry under foot. A pleasant night for a walk. Well, he would not grudge her that.
He went along the terrace, and round the clump of laurustinus bushes which cloaked the servants’ entrance, to the front of the house.
Empty. Nobody still lingering on the steps.
He then proceeded as far as the white gate, holding her capable of having left it open on purpose,—‘In order to aggravate me,’ as he put it to himself.
It was shut.
He stood leaning on it a minute listening, in case she should be lurking in the lane.
Not a sound.
Satisfied that she had really gone, he returned to the terrace and re-entered the library, fastening the window carefully and pulling down the blind.
What a relief, what an extraordinary relief, to have got rid of her; and not just for this once, but for good. Also she was Lucy’s only relation, so there were no more of them to come and try to interfere between man and wife. He was very glad she had behaved so outrageously at the end saying that about Vera, for it justified him completely in what he had done. A little less bad behaviour, and she would have had to be allowed to stay the night; still a little less, and she would have had to come to The Willows again, let alone having a free hand in London to influence Lucy when he was at his club playing bridge and unable to look after her. Yes; it was very satisfactory, and well worth coming down a day earlier for.
He wound up his watch, standing before the last glimmerings of the fire, and felt quite good-humoured again. More than good-humoured,—refreshed and exhilarated, as though he had had a cold bath and a thorough rub down. Now for bed and his little Love. What simple things a man wanted,—only his woman and peace.
Wemyss finished winding his watch, stretched himself, yawned, and then went slowly upstairs, switching off the lights as he went.
In the bedroom there was a night-light burning, and Lucy had fallen asleep, tired of waiting for Aunt Dot to come and say good-night, but she woke when he came in.
‘Is that you, Aunt Dot?’ she murmured, even through her sleepiness sure it must be, for Everard would have turned on the light.
Wemyss, however, didn’t want her to wake up and begin asking questions, so he refrained from turning on the light.
‘No, it’s your Everard,’ he said, moving about on tip-toe. ‘Sh-sh, now. Go to sleep again like a good little girl.’
Through her sleepiness she knew that voice of his, it meant one of his pleased moods. How sweet of him to be taking such care not to disturb her … dear Everard … he and Aunt Dot must have made friends then … how glad she was … wonderful little Aunt Dot … before dinner he was angry, and she had been so afraid … afraid … what a relief … how glad ….
But Lucy was asleep again, and the next thing she knew was Everard’s arm being slid under her shoulders and she being drawn across the bed and gathered to his breast.
‘Who’s my very own baby?’ she heard him saying; and she woke up just enough sleepily to return his kiss.
THE END
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