‘Would you like me to come?’
‘Yes, I would – very much.’
‘Then I will.’
‘Thank you. We shall have a week together before he goes back to Burma. But I don’t think the war will last very much longer, do you?’
‘Are you happy, Isabella?’ I asked gently.
She nodded.
‘It seems almost frightening – when a thing you’ve thought about for a long time really comes true … Rupert was there in my mind but getting so faint …’
She looked at me.
‘Even though it is all real – it doesn’t seem real yet. I still feel I might – wake up. It’s like a dream …’
She added very softly, ‘To have everything … Rupert … St Loo … all one’s wishes come true …’
Then, with a start, she cried, ‘I oughtn’t to have stayed so long. They gave me twenty minutes off for a cup of tea.’
I gathered that I had been Isabella’s cup of tea.
Milly Burt came over to see me in the afternoon. When she had struggled out of her mackintosh and pixie hood and galoshes, she smoothed her brown hair back and powdered her nose a little self-consciously and came to sit beside me. She was really, I thought, very pretty and also very nice. You couldn’t dislike Milly Burt even if you wanted to, and I, for one, didn’t want to.
‘I hope you don’t feel dreadfully neglected?’ she said. ‘Have you had lunch and everything all right?’
I assured her that my creature comforts had been attended to.
‘Later,’ I said, ‘we’ll have a cup of tea.’
‘That will be very nice.’ She moved restlessly. ‘Oh, Captain Norreys, you do think he’ll get in, don’t you?’
‘Too early to say.’
‘Oh, but I mean what do you think?’
‘I’m sure he stands a very good chance,’ I said soothingly.
‘It would have been a certainty but for me! How could I be so stupid – so wicked. Oh, Captain Norreys, I just think about it all the time. I blame myself dreadfully.’
Here we go, I thought.
‘I should stop thinking about it,’ I advised.
‘But how can I?’ Her large pathetic brown eyes opened wide.
‘By the exercise of self-control and will power,’ I said.
Milly looked highly sceptical and slightly disapproving.
‘I don’t feel I ought to take it lightly. Not when it’s been all my fault.’
‘My dear girl, your brooding over it won’t help Gabriel to get into Parliament.’
‘No-o, of course not … But I shall never forgive myself if I’ve injured his career.’
We argued on familiar lines. I had been through a lot of this with Jennifer. There was the difference that I was now arguing in cold blood, unaffected by the personal equation of romantic susceptibility. It was a big difference. I liked Milly Burt – but I found her quite infuriating.
‘For God’s sake,’ I exclaimed, ‘don’t make such a song and dance about it! For Gabriel’s sake if nobody else’s.’
‘But it’s for his sake I mind.’
‘Don’t you think the poor fellow has enough on his back without your adding a load of tears and remorse?’
‘But if he loses the election –’
‘If he loses the election (which he hasn’t lost yet) and if you’ve contributed to that result (which there is no means of knowing and which mayn’t be so at all) won’t it be disappointing enough for him to have lost the fight without having a remorseful woman piling her remorse on to make things worse?’
She looked bewildered and obstinate.
‘But I want to make up for what I’ve done.’
‘Probably you can’t. If you can, it will only be by managing to convince Gabriel that losing the election is a marvellous break for him, and that it has set him free for a much more interesting attack upon life.’
Milly Burt looked scared.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could possibly do that.’
I didn’t think she could, either. A resourceful and unscrupulous woman could have done it. Teresa, if she had happened to care for John Gabriel, could have done it quite well.
Teresa’s method with life is, I think, ceaseless attack.
Milly Burt’s was, undoubtedly, ceaseless picturesque defeat. But then possibly John Gabriel liked picking up pieces and putting them together again. I had once liked that kind of thing myself.
‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’ I asked.
Tears came into her brown eyes.
‘Oh, I am … I am indeed. He’s – I’ve never met anyone quite like him …’
I hadn’t met anyone like John Gabriel myself, not that it affected me as it did Milly Burt.
‘I’d do anything for him, Captain Norreys – I would indeed.’
‘If you care very much for him, that is something in itself. Just leave it at that.’
Who had said ‘Love ’em and leave ’em alone’? Some psychologist writing advice to mothers? But there was a lot of wisdom in it applied to others beside children. But can we, really, leave anybody alone? Our enemies, perhaps, by an effort. But those we love?
I desisted from what has been termed unprofitable speculation and rang the bell and ordered tea.
Over tea I talked determinedly of films I remembered from last year. Milly liked going to the pictures. She brought me up-to-date with descriptions of the latest masterpieces. It was all quite pleasant and I enjoyed it, and I was quite sorry when Milly left me.
The far-flung battle line returned at varying hours. They were weary and in differing moods of optimism and despair. Robert alone returned in normal and cheerful mood. He had found a fallen beech tree in a disused quarry and it had been exactly what his soul had been longing for. He had also had an unusually good lunch at a small pub. Subjects to paint and food are Robert’s main topics of conversation. And not at all bad topics, either.
Chapter Twenty-two
It was late the following evening when Teresa came abruptly into the room, pushed back her dark hair from her tired face and said, ‘Well, he’s in!’
‘What majority?’ I asked.
‘Two hundred and fourteen.’
I gave a whistle.
‘A near thing, then.’
‘Yes, Carslake thinks that if it hadn’t been for the Milly Burt business, he’d have had at least a thousand.’
‘Carslake doesn’t know what he’s talking about more than anybody else.’
‘It’s a terrific sweep to the left all over the country. Labour’s in everywhere. Ours will be one of the few Conservative gains.’
‘Gabriel was right,’ I said. ‘He prophesied that, you remember.’
‘I know. His judgment’s uncanny.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘little Milly Burt will go to bed happy tonight. She hasn’t gummed up the works after all. What a relief that will be to her.’
‘Will it?’
‘What a cat you are, Teresa,’ I said. ‘The little thing’s devoted to Gabriel.’
‘I know she is.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘They suit each other, too. I think he might be reasonably happy with her – that is, if he wants to be happy. Some people don’t.’
‘I’ve never noticed anything unduly ascetic about John Gabriel,’ I said. ‘I should say he thought of very little beyond doing himself well and grabbing as much as he can out of life. Anyway, he’s going to marry money. He told me so. I expect he will, too. He’s clearly marked for success – the grosser forms of success. As for Milly, she seems obviously cast for the role of victim. Now, I suppose, you’ll tell me she enjoys it, Teresa.’
‘No, of course not. But it takes a really strong character, Hugh, to say “I’ve made a complete ass of myself,” and laugh about it, and go on to the next thing. The weak have to have something to take hold of. They have to see their mistakes, not simply as a failure to cope, but as a definite fault, a tragic sin.’
She added abruptly, ‘I d
on’t believe in evil. All the harm in the world is caused by the weak – usually meaning well – and managing to appear in a wonderfully romantic light. I’m afraid of them. They’re dangerous. They are like derelict ships that drift in the darkness and wreck the sound seaworthy craft.’
I did not see Gabriel till the following day. He looked deflated and almost devoid of vitality. I hardly recognized him for the man I knew.
‘Election hangover?’ I suggested.
He groaned.
‘You’ve said it. What a nauseating thing success is. Where’s the best sherry?’
I told him and he helped himself.
‘I don’t suppose Wilbraham feels particularly elated by failure,’ I remarked.
Gabriel gave a pale grin.
‘No, poor devil. Besides, he takes himself and politics quite seriously, I believe. Not too seriously, but seriously enough. Pity he’s so wet.’
‘I suppose you said all the proper things to each other about a fair fight and good sportsmanship and all that?’
Gabriel grinned again.
‘Oh, we went through the right drill. Carslake saw to that. What an ass that man is! Knows his job by heart – word perfect – and absolutely no intelligence behind it.’
I raised my glass of sherry.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘here’s success to your future career. You’re started now.’
‘Yes,’ said Gabriel without enthusiasm, ‘I’m started.’
‘You don’t seem very cheerful about it.’
‘Oh, it’s just what you called it – election hangover. Life’s always dull when you’ve licked the other fellow. But there will be plenty more battles to fight. You watch out for the way I’m going to force myself into the public eye.’
‘Labour’s got a pretty hefty majority.’
‘I know. It’s splendid.’
‘Really, Gabriel. Strange words for our new Tory MP.’
‘Tory MP be hanged! I’ve got my chance now. Who have we got to put the Tory Party on its feet again? Winston’s a grand old fighter of wars, especially when you’re up against it. But he’s too old to tackle a peace. Peace is tricky. Eden’s a nice, mealy-mouthed English gentleman –’
He proceeded, working through various well-known names of the Conservative Party.
‘Not a constructive idea among them. They’ll bleat against nationalization, and fall with glee upon the Socialists’ mistakes. (And boy, will they make mistakes! They’re a fat-headed crowd. Old diehards of Trades Unionists – and irresponsible theorists from Oxford.) Our side will do all the old Parliamentary tricks – like pathetic old dogs at a fair. Yap yap yap first, then stand on their hind legs and revolve in a slow waltz.’
‘And where does John Gabriel come, in this attractive picture of the Opposition?’
‘You can’t have D Day until you’ve got it thoroughly worked out to the last detail. Then – let it rip. I shall get hold of the young fellows – the people with new ideas who are normally “agin the Government”. Sell ’em an idea, and go all out for that idea.’
‘What idea?’
Gabriel threw me an exasperated glance.
‘You always get things the wrong way round. It doesn’t matter a tuppeny ha’penny damn what idea! I could think up half a dozen any time I like. There are only two things that ever stir people politically. One is put something in their pockets. The other is the sort of idea that sounds as though it would make everything come right and which is extremely easy to grasp, noble but woolly – and which gives you a nice inner glow. Man likes to feel a noble animal as well as being a well-paid one. You don’t want too practical an idea, you know – just something humane and that isn’t directed towards anyone you’ll have to meet personally. Have you noticed how subscriptions will pour in for earthquake victims in Turkey or Armenia or somewhere? But nobody really wanted to take an evacuated child into their house, did they? That’s human nature.’
‘I shall follow your career with great interest,’ I assured him.
‘In twenty years’ time you’ll find me growing fat and living soft and probably regarded as a public benefactor,’ Gabriel told me.
‘And then?’
‘What do you mean by “And then”?’
‘I just wondered if you might be bored.’
‘Oh, I shall always find some racket or other – just for the fun of it.’
I was always fascinated by the complete assurance with which Gabriel sketched out his life. I had come to have faith in the fulfilment of his prognostications. He had a knack, I thought, of being right. He had foreseen that the country would vote Labour. He had been sure of his own victory. His life would follow the course he now predicted, not deviating by a hair’s breadth.
I said rather tritely, ‘So all’s for the best in the best of possible worlds.’
He frowned quickly and irritably, and said:
‘What a way you’ve got of putting your finger on a sore spot, Norreys.’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong … nothing, really.’ He was silent a moment, then went on, ‘Ever gone about with a thorn in your finger? Know how maddening it can be – nothing really bad – but always reminding you – pricking you – hampering you …’
‘What’s the thorn?’ I asked. ‘Milly Burt?’
He stared at me in astonishment. I saw it wasn’t Milly Burt.
‘She’s all right,’ he said. ‘No harm done there, luckily. I like her. I hope I’ll see something of her in London. None of this beastly local gossip in London.’
Then, a flush coming over his face, he tugged a package out of his pocket.
‘I wonder if you’d have a look at this. Is it all right, do you think? Wedding present. For Isabella Charteris. Suppose I have to give her something. When is it? Next Thursday? Or do you think it’s a damn fool kind of present?’
I unrolled the package with great interest. What I found gave me a complete surprise. It was the last thing I would have expected John Gabriel to produce as a wedding present.
It was a book of hours – exquisitely and delicately illuminated. It was a thing that should have been in a museum.
‘Don’t know exactly what it is,’ said Gabriel. ‘Some Catholic business. Couple of hundred years old. But I felt – I don’t know – I thought it seemed to go with her. Of course, if you think it’s just silly –’
I hastened to reassure him.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘A thing anyone would be glad to possess. It’s a museum piece.’
‘Don’t suppose it’s the sort of thing she’ll care for particularly but it rather fits with her, if you know what I mean –’ I nodded. I did know. ‘And after all, I’ve got to give her something. Not that I like the girl. I’ve no use for her at all. Stuck-up haughty bit of goods. She’s managed to snaffle his Lordship all right. I wish her joy of that stuffed shirt.’
‘He’s a good deal more than a stuffed shirt.’
‘Yes – as a matter of fact he is. At any rate, I’ve got to remain on good terms with them. As the local MP I shall dine at the castle and go to the annual garden party and all that. I suppose old Lady St Loo will have to move over to the Dower House now – that mouldy ruin near the church. I should say that anyone who lives there will soon die of rheumatism.’
He took back the illuminated missal and wrapped it up again.
‘You really think that it’s all right? That it will do?’
‘A magnificent and most unusual present,’ I assured him.
Teresa came in. Gabriel said he was just going.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ she asked me, when he had gone.
‘Reaction, I suppose.’
Teresa said, ‘It’s more than that.’
‘I can’t help feeling,’ I said, ‘that it’s a pity he won the election. Failure might have had a sobering effect on him. As it is, he’ll be blatant in a couple of years’ time. By and large, he’s a nasty bit of goods. But I rather fancy that he’ll get to
the top of the tree all right.’
I suppose it was the word tree that roused Robert to speech. He had come in with Teresa but in his own inconspicuous way, so that, as usual, we were quite startled when he spoke.
‘Oh no, he won’t,’ he said.
We looked at him inquiringly.
‘He won’t get to the top of the tree,’ said Robert. ‘Not a chance of it, I should say –’
He wandered disconsolately round the room and asked why someone always had to hide his palette knife.
Chapter Twenty-three
The wedding of Lord St Loo to Isabella Charteris was fixed for Thursday. It was very early, about one in the morning, I suppose, when I heard footsteps outside the window on the terrace.
I had not been able to sleep. It was one of my bad nights with a good deal of pain.
I thought to myself that fancy plays queer tricks, for I could have sworn that they were Isabella’s footsteps on the terrace outside.
Then I heard her voice.
‘Can I come in, Hugh?’
The french windows were ajar as they always were unless there was a gale blowing. Isabella came in and I switched on the lamp by my couch. I still had a feeling that I was dreaming.
Isabella looked very tall. She had on a long dark tweed coat and a dark red scarf over her hair. Her face was grave, calm and rather sad.
I could not imagine what she could be doing here at this time of the night – or rather morning. But I felt vaguely alarmed.
I no longer had the impression that I was dreaming. In point of fact I felt exactly the opposite. I felt as though everything that had happened since Rupert St Loo had come home was a dream, and this was the wakening.
I remembered Isabella saying, ‘I still feel I might wake up.’
And I suddenly realized that that was what had happened to her. The girl who was standing by me was no longer in her dream – she had woken up.
And I remembered another thing – Robert saying that there had been no bad fairies at Rupert St Loo’s christening. I had asked him afterwards what he meant and he had replied, ‘Well, if there’s not one bad fairy – where’s your story?’ That, perhaps, was what made Rupert St Loo not quite real, in spite of his good looks, his intelligence, his ‘rightness’.
The Rose and the Yew Tree Page 17
