“Oh, Evan, do leave it alone, please. I really don’t care what you think, or what Hester thinks, or what Catherine thinks. I should have cared, once, but I’m past caring now. Just leave it alone.”
He looked at her with a sudden sympathy; it was unlike Evelyn not to care what the family thought.
“I say,” he said, “have things gone wrong, then? I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Evan, but I really -don’t want sympathy. I don’t want the subject ever mentioned again. If you want to do me a good turn, tell Hester and Catherine that whatever might have been true once is true no longer. And now you must go away, and I must go to bed.”
She had only one desire, to get rid of him. It seemed that whatever she did, whichever way she turned, she was fated to be persecuted by reminders of Miles; even Evan, who was not ill-natured but merely a sot, could not leave her in peace. She had let him come, thinking that he would divert her for a quarter of an hour with his usual silly chatter and his latest Stock Exchange stories; partly also to provide herself with an excuse for not looking at her letters; but all she got was Miles again,—Miles! Would it always be like this?
He was reluctant to go; she edged him towards the door, but he lingered and tried to put his arm round her. He was dreadful in this mood, and she hated him.
“No, Evan, please don’t; please. Can’t you see that I’m worn out? I can’t struggle with you this evening; don’t be a cad.”
Pity for her sent a vague message through his fuddled brain, and he let her go. He was swaying slightly.
“All right, I won’t bother you. But can I come down to Newlands?”
“Yes, if you behave.”
“I’m so damned fond of you, Evelyn; thatt’s the trouble. Never cared for anybody else.”
“Rubbish, Evan; you make love to every woman you meet.”
“Not every woman,” said Evan, with a slight return of humour; “only the pretty ones.”
She had been feeling that she should scream if Evan or any other man ever tried to make love to her again, but his reply made her laugh quite naturally.
“Thatt’s honest, anyway. Now go, and come down to Newlands whenever you like.” She pushed him out and shut the door behind him.
He had gone at last and she was alone; alone in the small warm flat with Dan sleeping peacefully next door. She tried to tell herself that here were safety and comfort. But there could be neither safety nor comfort for her anywhere.
An idle rhyme came into her head:
When lovely woman stoops to folly, and
Paces about the room again, alone,
She smooths her hair with automatic hand
And puts a record on the gramophone.
Miles had read that to her, once, at his castle. He and Dan had been caught by the jingle, and had, ridiculously, marched up and down the room declaiming it, taking a line each. She remembered how Miles had taken the first line and had come to a full stop after the deliberately misplaced “and.” It was like the piano stopping suddenly in “musical chairs.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly, and.
He and Dan had laughed like silly children, shouting the lines louder and louder, several times over. She had smiled at them, loving them both. Then she had said that the lines reminded her of something else, though they seemed somehow to have gone wrong. And Miles, who was in his highest spirits, had pointed a finger at Dan, challenging him. “Now, Dan, give your mother the right quotation,” and Dan had said, solemnly:
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charm shall soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her tears away?
Then Miles had snatched a book out of his shelves, and had said, “Now you must listen to this.” Evelyn could not remember what he had read; she remembered only the last line, which had frightened and impressed her. He had read:
Come into the shadow of this red rock,
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
She had remembered thatt last line, though at the time it had held little significance for her, so happy was she, so gay, with nothing but the slight worry of gossiping tongues, whether the Jarrolds’ or the world’s. How petty those worries seemed now! How gladly would she face them now, had they but still occasion to wag ! Now, gossip mattered not at all to her,—had she not told Evan, truthfully, that she did not care what Hester thought, or what Catherine thought, or what anybody thought?—all thatt had receded into its proper place, and nothing but reality remained, the reality of:
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
She could see fear, now, in the handful of dust that was her own flesh. She began to understand what people who liked poetry found in poetry. They found the things that held significance when the terror and the danger of life became imminent. She had never cared for poetry; she had thought it only an unnecessarily complicated way of saying things which could just as well be said in ordinary language. She had liked poetry only when Miles read it to her,—and thatt was because she watched the sunlight on his hair and listened, sensuously, to the tones of his voice rather than to the sense of what he was reading. But certain phrases came back to her now, though she had not consciously registered them at the time:
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.
Miles’ deep voice had made those lines sound like music; she preferred music to poetry; music made appeal to her emotions, which were responsive always; poetry to her intellect, which was weak and reluctant. Now she perceived that the two were closely allied.
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.
It was midnight,—it was after midnight. She tried to turn on the wireless, and the bathos of its silence convinced her that midnight had already struck. She must go to bed,—go to bed in the old, usual, dreary way; undress; wash; brush her teeth; brush her hair. How meaningless! How much better, to cease upon the midnight with no pain.
The pile of her letters caught her eye. She must face them sometime,—or should she take them down, unopened, to Newlands? No, thatt was cowardly. She sat down before the dying fire and turned them over, five weeks’ accumulation. One, two, three, four, five, six,— nothing from Miles. But the seventh was his. How often had she seen thatt writing, and had set it aside to open the envelope last! Now she trembled as she held it in her hand. Then she got up quickly and locked it away unopened with his other unopened letters.
She went down to Newlands early next morning; early, according to her standards; thatt is to say, she ordered the motor to be at the door at ten, and came down to it shortly after eleven, accompanied by Dan and Privett. She regarded Newlands as a place of escape, much as she had regarded Spain. She was frightened of being in London, since Miles might arrive at any moment. At Newlands she would feel comparatively safe.
She had not telephoned to Viola Anquetil. Viola Anquetil was Miles’ confederate, and any contact with her would mean contact with Miles.
Still Miles pursued her, although he had not telephoned or arrived in person. He pursued her in a way which could not have been intentional, but which was yet extremely painful. His book had been published on the day she returned to England,—the book of which she had always been jealous and whose composition she had always tried to interrupt. She could not open a newspaper without seeing some reference to it. The Economic Situation of the Post-War World. The title could hardly be more severe; yet the book, according to the reviews, might be read by the ignoramus and the professional economist alike. There had been no book like it since J. M. Keynes’ Economic Consequences
of the Peace. It was both intelligible and technical, both practical and imaginative,—an almost impossible combination; but Miles, apparently, had achieved it. He had written a stiff book which was yet a readable book. Serious papers took it seriously. They referred to Miles as “one of our younger politicians who will be heard of.” The yellow press took it as news; the serious press took it as a serious contribution to political and economic literature. The newspapers were suddenly full of Miles’ name. Miles had become important, suddenly, between a Thursday and a Friday; he had become a person to be reckoned with. The Times went so far as to hint that the next Government would not be able to ignore the claims of Mr. Vane-Merrick.
Evelyn remembered that he had wanted to dedicate the book to her, and that she had dissuaded him, saying that it would ‘make people talk.’ She remembered the look he had then given her, and the faint smile of amusement; but he had not argued. He had not even teased her, as he usually did, about her timidity.
She began to dread that he would send her a copy of the book, and that she would unsuspectingly open the parcel with the bookseller’s label. She had looked over his shoulder once while he corrected his typescript, and though the sight of figures had alarmed her, a sudden picturesque phrase had caught her eye and had made her laugh. She had read on, over his shoulder, while he turned the sheets for her. It was good, very good; Evelyn could see thatt, although she was no reader and although statistics were abhorrent to her. Even so, she had not read very far. She had soon said, “Now you’ve spent quite enough time over this; come out and pay a little attention to me.”
No parcel came, and although she had dreaded its arrival she grew disappointed when it failed to arrive. Miles, also, had ceased to write to her. No letters followed her to Newlands. “Thank heaven,” she said; but more inwardly she thought, “He is beginning to forget me.”
Yet she knew thatt could not be true. No one, not even Miles, forgot so quickly. No, it was far more likely that pride was keeping him silent after her consistent refusal to answer him. Was not thatt exactly the consummation she had desired? She had prayed only that he might leave her in peace to bear the burden of suffering which was her own choice and her own decision, but now that her prayer appeared to be granted a new bitterness was added to her sacrifice: Miles had allowed himself, very easily, to be discarded.
Horrible suspicions came into her mind. Had his efforts to get at her been perfunctory? Those letters which she had refused to open, but which she still possessed,—had they been perfunctory too? She unlocked the box in which she kept them, and hesitated, with the point of a paper-cutter ready slipped into the first envelope. She looked at the postmarks; they went right back into July; the first one bore the date of the day after the day she had left him. It came from his castle,—the familiar blue envelope. What had he said when she tried to persuade him to change it because Mason and Privett could recognise the colour of it a mile off? “Yes,” he had said,” the colour of a summer sky.” The next had been written from London,—the almost equally familiar white envelope of his club. (But he had never written to her very often from his club, because when he was in London they saw each other every day, and the notes she had had from him from his club had been written always just after they had parted; at midnight sometimes, to say how lovely she had been to him and how much he loved her, and that she must have a note on her breakfast-tray to tell her so; only the last collection, damn it, was taken at twelve o’clock, and so he supposed that he had missed it. Still, he said, he must write; never mind when the letter arrived.) The third from his castle again,—she could trace his movements by the post marks and the envelopes. Then several from London—so he had been in London in August? why? Was it because he feared to remain alone at his castle? Was it because unhappiness chased him away? This reflection gave her a momentary comfort. It was unlike him to be in London in August. She knew how much he loved his castle, and the country. He must have come to London on her account. She was revengefully glad of thatt.
Still the contents of those envelopes tormented and tantalised her, and still she hesitated, fingering the paper-cutter. She had had the strength of mind not to open a single one. At first, she had refused to open them lest their urgent pleading should weaken her resolve. Now, she feared to open them, lest she should find a less urgent pleading than she desired. If they were really perfunctory, she felt that she would die of it. No, no, she thought: and put the packet away again, and threw the paper-cutter across the room as though it were a dagger.
Then she discovered that Dan had got Miles’ book, for she came into his room one day and found him reading it. The gesture he made to hide it, and his blush, told her instantly what it was. And, seeing that she had guessed, he mumbled something about being sorry, and not having meant her to see it. It was the first reference that either of them had made.
She took the book from him with such naturalness as she could command. There was his name on the title-page,—The Economic Situation of the Post-War World, by M. Vane-Merrick. She pretended to turn over the pages indifferently, but really she was looking to see if he had dedicated it to anyone,—yes, there it was: “To Viola and Leonard Anquetil, in friendship.” Well, thatt was not so bad, and she had only herself to blame if the dedication was not to her.
She gave it back to Dan. He was touched to the heart by the peculiar smile with which she handed it to him.
People came to stay at Newlands; a stray succession of boys of Dan’s own age, Eton friends, for he had made some friends after all, during his last year; relations; and some former friends of Evelyn. She cared little who came, and who went. On the whole she was glad to have people in the house; she was glad enough of any distraction, however futile. Tête-à-tête with Dan was too much of an effort; besides, it was unfair on the boy. She could not ask him to be alone with her, evening after evening, when she knew herself to be no fit company. It had been different in Spain, where everything was unfamiliar; but here, at Newlands, what could they do but sit either side of the fire pretending to read and longing each in their separate way that Miles might be with them? It was much better to fill the house with people, and to dance after dinner or play fives on the billiard-table, and pretend that no such thing as sorrow had ever entered an excellent and careless world. Evelyn’s friends, who naturally discussed her amongst themselves, said that she was a little too excitable; they wondered, even, if she was not drinking a little too much. But they supposed that she would be all right. She had taken a knock, thatt was all; it happened to everybody sooner or later, especially to women who were so irrational as to fall in love with men fifteen years younger than themselves. It amused them to think that Evelyn Jarrold should have done such a thing; she, so circumspect always, so correct, so careful! And, in spite of the concern they expressed to one another,—poor Evelyn, they hoped she had not taken really too hard a knock?—they were maliciously rather pleased that she should have gathered the inevitable fruits of her folly. It was said, too, openly, though not in Evelyn’s hearing, that Miles Vane-Merrick was always about with Lesley Anquetil.
No one knew the secret things Evelyn kept to herself They did not know that she slept badly; woke at four and could not sleep again until seven; slept fitfully then, and half-woke a dozen times to the flooding remembrance of who she was and of what ailed her. They did not know that she rose in the morning with shaking hand and jumping heart, a dizzy head and cold sweats unexpectedly breaking over her body. They did not know that until the afternoon she could not so much as sign a cheque, because the pen between her trembling fingers traced a writing like the writing of an old woman. The first part of the day was in fact intolerable to her. Thatt waking remembrance of everything, thatt physical and uncontrollable weakness, poisoned the daily return to consciousness. Sometimes, when she escaped to her sitting-room and waited in real, physical, involuntary alarm with her hand pressed against her heart until the sweat, the faintness, and the nausea diminished, she wond
ered whether she should not welcome death rather than fear it. “Am I going to die?” she wondered, half-convinced that thatt strange, invisible, and vital organ, her heart, would cease to beat, and that in a few hours’ time she would be found by some searching servant, inert and sunken in her chair. She wondered, with a detached curiosity, what the actual moment of passing would be like. Would there be a struggle for breath? a gasping? a clutching? or would the faintness merely increase, until it became an enveloping night from which, simply, one did not waken?
Ten minutes later she would be downstairs, watching Dan play squash-racquets with one of his friends. Ruth came to stay, self-invited. Ruth, who, having lost Miles herself, had avoided Evelyn during all those months, being unable to endure the sight of her grace and beauty, came now that she believed him to be safely lost to both of them. Her love for Miles,—if love it could be esteemed,—had never gone very deep; certainly no deeper than her love for Evelyn; only, the two in conjunction had upset her and had made her imagine herself, for a brief period, far unhappier than she really was. She had now forgotten Miles and his attraction for her, and was only glad to think that she might have Evelyn to herself again. Ruth was not one of those who are likely to be broken by life. It was not entirely out of malice that she took the first opportunity of mentioning Miles’ name. She had an idea, bred of library fiction, that when people minded about something, they blenched when thatt something was mentioned. She was not quite sure how people set about blenching, but imagined vaguely that it must be some definite and recognisable manifestation. She had no conscious desire to hurt Evelyn; merely a desire to find out whether Evelyn still minded. Evelyn, however, failed to blench when Ruth asked her whether the rumour was true, that Miles Vane-Merrick was engaged to Lesley Anquetil. She did not even look startled; she simply smiled and said she hoped so, for she could imagine nothing more suitable.
Family History Page 23
