Between Two Worlds

by Sinclair, Upton;

  XII

  Lanny reported to Mrs. Emily, and thanked her for her great kindness. He had already shown her the cablegram from his father, so he had a valid excuse for hastening away. Impatience possessed him; “O that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.” He might have taken a plane, but he would need his car in England, so he faced a stiff crossing of the Channel and lost his appetite for a few hours. The last time when he had gone to meet Rosemary the submarines had been hunting him in those waters, so now he counted seasickness as a small matter.

  November is a raw and rainy month in this exposed island, and the landscape is depressing; before Lanny’s car the leaves dead were driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. But his thoughts were on the problem of himself and his lady who awaited him. Ethical problems, social problems, practical problems! Rosemary at the age of eighteen had explained to him the marital customs of the British ruling class. To oblige her family she would marry a man whom she would possibly not love and who would possibly not love her; she would bear this man two or three children, and when that duty was done, she would be free. That was what “feminism” meant to her; body, mind, and soul, she would belong to herself, and her husband would belong to himself, and neither would ask questions of the other.

  This code had been presented to Lanny as something which the banded “wild women” of the suffrage movement had created and were willing to die for—and some of them did. Take it or leave us, they said, and Lanny took it, and so apparently had the young grandson and heir of the old Earl of Sandhaven. How had the program worked out? Rosemary’s brief notes hadn’t told Lanny, and he hadn’t felt free to ask. But now he was going to learn!

  Driving along the winding roads of England, he was saying to himself: “Take it easy, and don’t lose your head. Maybe she just wants to talk to you. Maybe it’s a business matter, as she says. Maybe she’s getting along with her husband, and do you want to break them up?” That surely was not according to his code; he had never intentionally made unhappiness for any human soul.

  But he would surely be making it for poor Beauty if he resumed this affair! After getting providentially free from one married woman, to go and tie himself to another! As he drove he had imaginary arguments with his mother. What was it that made it impossible for him to fall in love with some pure and innocent girl? Couldn’t he manage to have his love and his conversation separate? Couldn’t he be satisfied to talk with men? If he required a woman to know as much as himself, no wonder he had to choose old ones! Replying, Lanny pointed out that Rosemary was only a year older than himself, and really that didn’t count at their age. “But I want you to have children!” cried the mother. “Not to go about adopting other men’s children!”

  Also he carried on one of his imaginary conversations with Marie. During her life he had told her all about Rosemary, and had said that he preferred not to see her again. But now that Marie was absent, it was all right. Rosemary was the sort of woman who would neither do him harm nor let him do harm to her. Receiving these assurances, Marie promised not to worry about it in the realm of the shades.

  Thus Lanny Budd, completely surrounded by women; they traveled with him, talked to him, helped to decide his fate. It had always been that way, he had been a lady’s man from childhood. Perhaps it was because he had had no father, except sporadically. Perhaps if he had been sent off to a boarding-school, English fashion, he might have learned to be a grand superior male, to shake the women off and go his lordly contemptuous way. But he had sat in his mother’s boudoir and listened to the ladies discussing their clothes and parties and love affairs, using esoteric words which they imagined a little boy wouldn’t understand—but he had worked it out after a fashion.

  So here he was, no great shakes from the masculine point of view; he had never knocked anybody down with his fist, never fired a gun at anybody, didn’t especially enjoy killing anything warmer than a fish. But he liked to be with women; he liked to listen to them and to tell them about himself; he set store by their opinions, and lived a good part of his life in and through them. Now he was on his way to one of the loveliest; and while his car sped past this chilly and very wet landscape, keeping carefully on the wrong side of the road, there raced through his head the glowing words of English poets and the tripping steps of Purcell’s melodies, having so many notes to one syllable. A jewel is my lady fair, a queen of grace and beauty; and where she treads, each blossom rare bows down in humble duty!

  XIII

  Sandhaven Manor is a Georgian house of red brick, ample but not too much so; it has had bathrooms put in, but still requires maids to carry coalscuttles all day. When Lanny had visited it in the spring of 1919, Rosemary had been living in the “Lodge,” but now she was the mistress of all she surveyed. He caught his breath when she came to greet him, for she was everything pleasant that he had remembered. She was the mother of three children, and had gained a little in weight, but that was becoming to her role of Minerva, goddess of wisdom. Feminist and rebel though she was, she still had her heavy straw-colored hair, and had made no attempt to “wave” it. She held out welcoming hands to him, and there was friendship in her hazel eyes and her serene, gentle smile—never anything to excess, everything exactly right for Lanny. Mother Nature had armored her against malaise of body, mind, and soul. Neurasthenia, restlessness, discontent—such modern ills were banished from her person and her presence.

  “Oh, Lanny, this is the duckiest thing that has happened to me in a long time!” She took him into the library, where there was a great log fire, very welcome after a cold ride. She seated him in a massive ancestral chair, ordered him a whisky and soda, turned the beam of her smile upon him, and said: “Now, tell me about yourself!”

  She had always been a tireless questioner, childlike in her curiosity about people. Her interest in affairs of the human heart made her sister under the skin to Uncle Jesse’s Red Françoise and the little Suzette. “Tell me about Marie de Bruyne, Lanny! What a dreadful thing to happen to you! Is your poor heart entirely broken?”

  She took him back over the happy years. Where had he met this French lady, and how had she behaved? Had she had to propose to him, as Rosemary had done? “Such a funny, shy little chap you were, Lanny! Do you remember how we sat on the bank of the Thames? Do you know what it was that Rick was playing up at the house? You must play it for me!”

  He assured her that he had summoned his courage and fought hard for his right to Marie de Bruyne. He described their honeymoon trip—even to the too ancient inn with the built-in bed that had been a habitation of Cimex lectularius. He told her about the chateau, and the garden with the apricot trees that grew like vines, and about Denis who had to have virgins, and how well he had behaved. “Oh, the poor fellow!” exclaimed Rosemary. “I have an uncle like that, and nobody can do anything with him.”

  Then she wanted to know about Lanny’s mother and that strange affair with a German. How was it turning out? What on earth did they talk about? These things were not gossip, they were psychology, the study of human nature, and it was the custom of all “advanced” people to tell everything about themselves and their friends, and the more painful the facts, the more credit you got for providing people with scientific data. Robbie Budd had said that the young people nowadays would talk about anything, and they wouldn’t talk about anything else!

  And then that story of Bess and Hansi, so delightfully romantic. Seven years ago Rosemary hadn’t been much interested in Connecticut, she had thought of it as a remote provincial place; but now she wanted to know all about Robbie and Esther, and how they got along together, and every word they had said to their love-stricken daughter. Lanny said he was expecting his father in a couple of days, and Rosemary could ask him herself. She answered that he probably wouldn’t tell her anything—these New England people seemed to be exactly like the English, only a generation or so behind. “I suppose they took everything over in those little ships, Bibles and bad manners and all.”
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  “Even spinning-wheels and children’s cradles,” replied Lanny. “My stepmother has a cradle that was made in England before the Spanish Armada sailed.”

  XIV

  Now Lanny had a right to know all about the life of an English countess. He had to draw it out of her, for she wasn’t naturally prodigal of details. Was she happy? Oh, yes, of course; what was the use of being unhappy? She didn’t mention this great house and the servants and tenants—all that was taken for granted, she being to the manner born. She mentioned her three lovely youngsters: the oldest the future earl, the second what Hollywood called a “stand-in,” a precaution against accidents. Both were sturdy and sound, and then there was a girl, a quiet, gentle little soul; Lanny would see them soon and he would love them, they were darlings.

  And Bertie? Oh, Bertie was in the Foreign Office, getting to be important, or so he thought; he was so-so.

  “And do you get along?”

  “Oh, well, you know how it is; we manage. He has a lot of friends, and I have mine.”

  “You know what I want to find out, Rosemary. Do you live together?”

  “Oh, no. He has a woman in London, and they seem to be quite happy. I don’t think so much of her, but then that’s not necessary.”

  “And you, Rosemary?”

  “Well, I get along. I don’t have everything I want, of course.”

  “Have you a lover?”

  “I did have, but they took him away from me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “A man has to marry. He was a dear fellow, but he was older than I, and his parents kept nagging him. No good telling you his name—it’s rather important, and the family wants it carried on; they found him a wife, and of course I had to be a good sport.”

  “You don’t see him any more?”

  “We have an empire, darling, and it’s rather hard on love. They’ve sent him to Singapore, no less.”

  “How long ago was that, Rosemary?”

  “I’ve been a widow about as long as you’ve been a widower.”

  “And so you wrote me a note! It wasn’t entirely on account of the pictures?”

  “Lanny, don’t be horrid! I wanted to see you after all these years.”

  “I’m not such a shy little chap now, dear. I know what I want, and I ask for it. Do you think you and I could be happy again?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Do you want to try?”

  “Indeed I do—the worst way.”

  “You still think I’m a good sort?”

  “The best in the world!”

  “You always were extravagant in your language, Lanny; but you were sweet and kind, and I don’t suppose anything has spoiled you.”

  “If it had I wouldn’t be the one to know it. But I know I still love you; I knew it the moment I read your note.”

  “You won’t be thinking about Marie all the time? It’s rather horrid, you know, to be making love to one person and thinking about another. That was the way it was with poor Bertie, so you see I didn’t stand much chance as a wife.”

  “If there’d been anything like that, Rosemary, it would have been the other way around. You came first, you know.”

  “I suppose Marie didn’t do you any harm.”

  “She taught me a lot, and it will all be of use to you.”

  “Probably that’s the sensible way to look at it. I really think we might make a go of it, Lanny. Let’s try.”

  Never had her smile seemed more lovely. He started to rise from the massive ancestral chair, but she stopped him with a little gesture of the hand. “Not here, darling. There are so many servants, and there’d be such a mess of gossip. You go up to town tonight and I’ll come in the morning. Nobody pays any attention to you there.”

  He swallowed hard, and said: “All right.”

  “Before you go, do look at our horrid old paintings and see what you can do with them. I’m serious about that, too.”

  28

  Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

  I

  Robbie Budd arrived in London to find his son and the Countess of Sandhaven installed in adjoining suites in a second-class hotel where no questions were asked. Robbie was not disturbed by the information; he had thought that Rosemary was the right sort ten years ago and he found her even better now. He was not among those who were trying to get Lanny married in a hurry; let him have his fling, and he’d know better the sort of woman who suited him. It was the first time that father and son hadn’t stayed together, but Robbie was very busy and had no time to miss him. He had lunch with the young couple, and, accepting Rosemary as a member of the family, he recounted news from home, including his observations of the Hansi-and-Bess adventure.

  He spoke only in general terms about his many business affairs. When he was alone with his son he cautioned him that the less women knew about one’s business the better for both sides; their heads were easily turned by the proximity of money, and they had as a rule no judgment where large affairs were concerned. Lanny replied that Rosemary had little interest in the subject, even where it concerned herself. In the manor they had some fine paintings which she disregarded just because they needed cleaning, and because she was tired of the sight of them. Lanny thought he could get at least fifty thousand pounds for them, and she would accept that as manna from the skies.

  Robbie’s purpose was to get information about the international situation. The domestic market for armaments had fallen off to almost nothing, owing to the spread of pacifist sentiment; even Robbie’s ideal President, the strong silent statesman, was being influenced by it, and the State Department behind the scenes was mixing itself up with Geneva and taking part in silly schemes for disarmament. “All that is a snare for our feet,” repeated the father—it was his theme-song. “The nations over here won’t keep their promises, but we will, and get ourselves in a hell of a mess.”

  Lanny was pleased to serve as informant for this solid and vigorous father, reporting on the various capitals which he visited. What did Denis de Bruyne think about the prospects in France? Lanny reported that Denis was greatly distressed over the situation. Poincaré had been brought back, in an effort to save the franc, but Denis said that the prestige of the country was greatly impaired. Here too the ideas of disarmament had made inroads; they took the form of a line of defensive works all the way from the Swiss to the Belgian borders, in the hope of keeping the Germans out. That would be cheaper than a first-class army; but it wouldn’t get France any coking coal for the Lorraine iron ore!

  Then Robbie asked what Kurt’s friends were saying. He didn’t want Kurt using Bienvenu as a center of espionage, but he didn’t mind if Lanny used it as a center of counterespionage! Robbie reported that the Nazis were smuggling in more and more small arms to be used in their street-fighting against the Communists. The significant fact was that these fellows had so much money. Cash on the barrelhead! Bub Smith was directly in touch with their agents in Holland and had made several deals, which helped to keep up the courage of Budd’s at home.

  II

  This gave the watchful father an opportunity for a little sermon, likely to be of use to a young man playing about with Reds and Pinks. Obviously, these National Socialists were taking somebody’s money; and what did it mean? The situation was the same with each and every one of the demagogues and agitators: no matter what fancy labels they gave themselves, no matter how freely their hearts bled for the poor, the time arrived when they couldn’t pay the rent for their headquarters, and they came cap in hand to some great industrialist, banker, or politician having access to the public till, and said: “I have some power; what’s it worth to you?” They made a deal, and from that time on the movement became a trap for the millions of poor boobs who came to meetings, shouted and sang, put on uniforms and marched, and let themselves be used to bring a new set of rascals into power.

  A discouraging view of modern society; but Lanny didn’t want to get into any argument with his father. He had regretfully decided that Robbie
was just another phonograph; or perhaps the same phonograph with a different record. The one labeled Jesse Blackless produced Red formulas, and the one labeled Robbie Budd produced anti-Red formulas; once you knew them, you wanted to leave them both on the shelf—or on different shelves, so they wouldn’t scratch each other!

  Robbie was to fly from London all the way to Aden below the Red Sea. He was going to have a look at that oil property which had been doing so well, but now wasn’t. He and his associates suspected that some of his rivals might be interfering with production; no end to the tricks in this highly competitive game! He wanted to meet some of the desert sheiks who were the neighbors of his property, and make up his mind how best to deal with them; their prices for “protection” were going rather high. Robbie said it was like Chicago, where a fellow named Al Capone had to be seen if you wanted to do any sort of business.

  All this promised to be interesting, and Lanny was invited to go along. Ten years ago he would have jumped at the chance; now he was tied up with Rosemary, and had engagements in Berlin and other places. He wasn’t a playboy any more, but a man with affairs of his own, and Robbie was glad for that to be so, and didn’t urge him. Lanny said he’d go if his father really needed him—but Robbie answered no, Bub Smith was going and he would be well protected. Lanny eased his conscience by promising to ask questions while in Germany, and report all he could learn about the Nazis.

  Robbie said: “What I’d like to know is whose money they are spending for Budd automatics and daggers.”

  “Daggers?” echoed Lanny, much surprised.

  “Yes,” replied the other. “They tell us they are most useful in street-fighting.”