The Expensive Halo: A Fable Without Moral

by Josephine Tey

  “Poor Clive!”

  “If I didn’t think your ‘Poor Clive!’ was more contempt than pity, I should be angry with you. Clive is getting a very good bargain.”

  “As long, as you keep him in that belief all will be well.”

  “Oh, I’ll make it worth his while.”

  “If you feel like that why didn’t you accept him on the spot?”

  “Darling, would you accept anyone on the spot? Besides, at that moment, Jane’s bill didn’t look nearly as bad as Clive’s stupidity. I’m going to have a frightful time restraining myself from slapping Clive.

  “Never mind. Jane makes such delicious sleeves that they’ll keep your arms in the proper place, I expect.”

  Daphne made a face at her. “At any rate, I shall be safe from one wrecker of marriages—disillusion. I know the worst about Clive.”

  “But is it mutual?”

  “Oh, I expect so. Since people stopped having inhibitions everyone knows everything about everyone. I don’t suppose Clive imagines I’m a plaster saint. And he was there the day Freddy Owen pulled me out of the river, so he knows what I look like in the mornings.”

  “Well, my dear, if you’ve made up your mind, good luck to you!”

  “And God help Clive, I suppose you mean!”

  “Oh, God will do that in any case. He likes stupid people. It should he: whom the gods love are born stupid. Never to see round a corner, or two sides to a question. The comfort of it! The peace of it!”

  “If it’s comfort you’re pining for, you must be ageing.”

  “I’m not so much getting aged as educated.”

  “Mr. Ellis is here, my lady,” Florence’s voice said behind her. “Shall I send him up?”

  There was an instant’s silence which seemed to Ursula minute-long. It was as if a catastrophe which would ordinarily happen in a few seconds postponed its climax so that she could realise the imminence of disaster without any hope of preventing it. She felt as if she were standing below a cliff, and was watching it turn over, and knew that in a moment that slowly curving wall would obliterate her for ever.

  “Oh, no. I can’t!” she heard herself say. “Tell him that I can’t see him till this evening.”

  She knew that it was a strange, abrupt message to send to Gareth, but she could not think properly. All she knew was that she must avoid a meeting with Gareth until she had grown a little used to the situation, until she had conned her part.

  “Gareth’s charms wearing thin already? Daphne asked, amused.

  “A little, perhaps,” Ursula said, her voice hard with effort.

  She saw Daphne’s eyes widen at the door, and wheeled round. In the doorway stood Gareth; and Florence, unequal to the occasion when she found that he had followed her up, was disappearing, backwards into the passage with an appealing apologetic glance at her mistress.

  After a pause Ursula said expressionlessly: “I didn’t know you had come up.”

  “No,” he said, equally without expression.

  There was a silence. Ursula felt stupid and inadequate, for once in her life unequal to a situation, She had a feeling of helplessness; a certainty that the fates were fighting against her. “Well, if you two are going to squabble, I’m going,” Daphne said. “I have enough squabbles of my own. Don’t congratulate Clive till you hear from me, darling. I’m going to keep him wondering for a day or two. Au revoir, Gareth, darling. Don’t make it too protracted. Ursula’s going out to luncheon, aren’t you, my dear?”

  The door closed behind her with a little click. It sounded like the safety catch of a revolver being pressed back; an ominous sound. Ursula knew a moment’s rebellion at the sheer wantonness of things. Why had Gareth to appear this very morning of all mornings? Why had he to come in that moment out of all the possible millions of moments?

  “I didn’t expect you this morning,” she said.

  “Evidently.”

  “You said this evening.”

  “Yes. I couldn’t come this evening. That’s what I came to tell you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I heard what you said. Did you mean it?”

  “No, of course I didn’t!” Meaning and emotion began to come hack to their even voices.

  “Then why did you say it?”

  “Oh, one of those silly things one is always saying.”

  “Is one?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Gareth dear. Of course one often says things one doesn’t mean in the least.”

  “You told her you were tired of me. Why couldn’t you see me just now? You were going to turn me away like a beggar. Ursula, what does it mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything except that you’re making a mountain out of a mole-hill.”

  “A mole-hill! When you turn me away as casually as you would a canvasser! That’s what you really think of me, isn’t it? I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”

  “Gareth, don’t. I couldn’t see you just now because—well, for a perfectly good and sufficient reason, and you’re being childish to think it of such importance.”

  “Did you have a perfectly good reason for telling her that you were tired of me? And do you think that of no importance?”

  “I tell you I didn’t mean it!”

  “You did mean it!” Gareth cried, his self-control breaking as conviction grew. “I heard it in your voice. My charms are wearing thin, are they? God, what a fool I’ve been! What a fool! I thought you felt the way I did. I thought you were in earnest. And all the time you were just amusing yourself. And you’re tired already. How long have you been acting? Were you acting yesterday?” He paused, as if faced with a new horror. “Ursula!” he repeated with a despairing urgency, “were you acting yesterday?”

  “I’ve never been acting. You’re quite wrong, I tell you.”

  “I’m not wrong,” he said with renewed conviction. “I’ve been a fool. I’ve heard what you said. I’ve heard the way you talk about me behind my back. You’re just what everyone says you are—heartless and vain. You can’t explain away what you said, what I heard you say, can you?”

  “I can only give you my word that it meant nothing.”

  “Why should I take your word? What is there you could say? What explanation could there be? I know now where I stand. You took me up because you thought I would be a new amusement, didn’t you? A poor little beast of a musician who would dance to your piping for a little. I wasn’t your sort, and you were interested in experiments! Do you remember that? You said that yourself. And I was one of your experiments. You made me love you—no, that’s not true but you made me tell you I loved you, you let me make love to you, you even let me think that—that some day—Oh, God, Ursula, was even that just amusement for you!”

  “I tell you I haven’t been amusing myself!” Why couldn’t she think? Why was she borne down by this sense of futility? She had to lose him, but she need not lose him yet; not like this. Why couldn’t she make something of the situation instead of standing there like a fool?

  “I was never more in earnest over anything in my life. I loved you, Gareth!”

  “Loved me? Then you are tired of me!”

  She realised that her moment was here.

  “Oh, Gareth, how can I!”

  “How can you what?” he said impatiently.

  “You’re tired of me, aren’t you?”

  She turned away so that she mightn’t see his face.

  “Well, nothing lasts for ever, you know,” she said.

  “No, not even for a month, it seems. And you call that love! It makes me sick. I took your fancy and you took me up till you were bored.” Ursula moved. “Yes, I put it crudely, don’t I? I know I haven’t any of the graces. I can’t be flippant about things that matter. My sense of humour doesn’t run to making fun of people who care for me. I haven’t any of the aristocratic qualities. I suppose that is why you tired of me so soon. If I hadn’t come in just then perhaps you would have told the Daphne woman how amusingly crude I was! I could kill you when I
think what you’ve done to me. Do you realise what you’ve done? You’ve made me fall in love with someone who never existed. I was a fool, and you fooled me to the top of my bent. I didn’t fall in love with you because you were beautiful. I loved you because you were lovely—you yourself. And now I know there isn’t any you!” He paused. The courage born of his anger ebbed at the realisation of losing her. “Ursula, that hurts unbearably. It’s much worse than someone dying, to know that you never existed. I just can’t bear it. Do tell me that what you said just now meant something else. If I’ve been hasty I’m sorry. You were just fooling, weren’t you?” A silence. “Ursula!”

  “You forget that I refused to see you, too.” He made an inarticulate sound. “I’m not tired of you, Gareth. But I’m going to the Mediterranean next week for most of the winter. By the time I come back I expect we shall both be interested in other things, shan’t we?”

  “Ursula! What’s wrong? I don’t recognise you.”

  “I hardly recognise myself,” she said in bitter amusement.

  “Why are you going away? You said nothing yesterday about going away. You were planning all sorts of things that we were going to do together.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been invited to join a yachting party in the Mediterranean, and I think I shall go. It sounds attractive.”

  “Why are you trying to make yourself as had as possible?” he said suspiciously.

  “If you’re being disillusioned you might as well undergo the process thoroughly.”

  “You don’t want me hanging round hopefully when you come back, is that it?” he said instantly. “Don’t worry. You won’t see me again. When I think of the fool I’ve been for the last month I could throw myself in the river. And when I think of you as I thought you were, I—I—” His voice died away. “I can’t believe it, Ursula. It just isn’t believable. I never believed in anyone the way I believed in you. For those last weeks life was simply wonderful because you were there. And now there’s nothing.”

  “There’s your hate for me. That will occupy your emotions for a little.”

  “I can’t even hate you properly. You’re just the person everyone said you were. The Ursula Deane whose photographs are so popular. The Ursula Deane who takes her fun where she finds it. If I was fool enough to provide your fun, why should I hate you? It’s myself I hate. I know now what Circe’s swine felt like—unclean.”

  “Well, my Ulysses, you will have the consolation of Penelope’s arms. They will make you feel better.” She had not meant to say that. It was torn out of her.

  “Leave Molly out of this! Because I’ve been a fool and a blackguard doesn’t make you free to make fun of Molly. You’re not fit to tie her shoes. You, with your—” He met her eyes squarely, and stopped. The anger fell from him. “Ursula,” he said slowly, in a kind of wonderment. “I’ll never be able to connect that other Ursula with you. She was so lovely. I suppose I should be grateful to you for showing me anything so lovely, even if it was a fake. But wakening out of a dream is always terrible. I would rather not have dreamt.”

  He stood for a moment looking at her, and turned away to the door.

  “No, Gareth, no!” she said suddenly. “I don’t want it to end like that! Not that way.”

  He swung round on her, his anger and frustration and hurt flaming into passionate protest. “What do you want to keep on fooling me for! You’ve had your amusement, haven’t you? You’ve done what you set out to do, haven’t you? Then stop the play-acting, damn you. And I hope to God I never see you again!”

  “Amen, my dear. Let me give you one last word. Don’t take anything seriously. It’s a great mistake. Believe me, I know.”

  His lips parted in the little irresolute movement which she knew so well; but he changed his mind. He turned abruptly on his heel, flung out of the room, and banged the door behind him.

  She stood quite still, listening to the echo of the door in her mind. She was glad that he had behaved like an angry boy. If he had been lost and pathetic in his hurt she could not have done it. He would be going down the stairs now. Out of her life. Funny to think that she should care so terribly what he thought of her. She, Ursula Deane, who had never cared what anyone thought. It was unthinkable enough to let him go out of her life, but to let him go like that, believing that of her! He would be going out of the door now. She had planned to do it gradually—to bring him to the point of admitting that perhaps they had made a mistake. But perhaps a clean cut was best after all. Razors didn’t hurt much, so they said...

  She was still standing in the middle of the floor when Florence came in to say that Captain Grierson was waiting downstairs because she was going to luncheon with him.

  “Tell Captain Grierson I’m very sorry but I can’t—No, wait. All right, Florence, I’m coming. Bring me my things.”

  Chapter XIX

  At ten minutes to seven that evening three things were happening simultaneously within the same square mile of London.

  Chitterne and Sara were arguing as they stepped off a bus at the corner of Sark Street. Chitterne wanted to come home with her and be introduced to her people. It was ridiculous, he said, to make a secret of it any longer. She had a passion for secrets that amounted to a complex.

  “Chit, believe me, it’s more than ever impossible to-night. You’ll have to trust me. You don’t know what my people are like, and you don’t know—oh, lots of things that have a bearing on our being engaged.”

  “Tell me what they are, then. You promised you would never have any secrets from me.”

  “I did! When?”

  “At Rye, looking over the levels, after tea.”

  “I said I would never tell you a lie! And I won’t. I’ve been perfectly frank with you even to telling you that I had secrets. I can’t let you come to-night, but I’ll make you a promise. A month to-day you can come, and we’ll tell them.”

  “Make it three weeks,” Chitterne said automatically. Long acquaintance with bookmakers’ offers and the prices of horses had taught him that everyone offers a price which they are willing to reduce.

  “If you knew father you wouldn’t be so eager,” Sara said with a grimace. “I say a month, and when I say a thing I mean it.”

  “Lord, what a bullied life I’m in for!” he said, and since there was no one in sight, kissed her. “But if I find that it’s possible before that, I’ll let you know,” she added.

  Gareth was in the kitchen of Number Fifteen, where Molly was superintending the dinner while the maid set the table upstairs. The kitchen was full of the steam of cooking, and Molly, flushed and busy, paused in her activities to say: “Oh, Gareth, you would come in and talk about important things at a time like this!” But her face was radiant although her words were impatient.

  She rushed at him with a saucepan which she had lifted off the stove, and as he skipped out of her way he said: “But I’ve told you! I’ve got to go to work, and I couldn’t go to Raoul’s without seeing you. I know I’ve been a beast to you, Molly, and I’m sorry. I went off my head for a little, that was all. It’s all right now, though, isn’t it? And you’ll marry me as soon as Regan lets me off, and come to Germany with me?”

  Molly shoved a kettle at him. “Fill that for me, like an angel. Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” she said, snatching up a wooden spoon and lifting the lid from the soup pot. He kissed the back of her neck where the short hairs curled. “You’re a darling, Moll!” he said, and went away to fill the kettle.

  Ursula, in the process of dressing for dinner, had just ordered Florence to add a whole bottle of perfume to her bath.

  “But, my lady,” Florence protested, standing with the little carved flask in her hand, “it’s the Anguran, and you said we could never have any more.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t argue, Florence,” Ursula said. “I always had expensive tastes.”

  “Even in haloes,” she added.

  The End

  Expensive Halo: A Fable Without Moral