All these things passed through my mind confusedly in the second or two that elapsed before Isabella said:
‘I came to say goodbye to you, Hugh.’
I stared at her stupidly.
‘Goodbye?’
‘Yes. You see, I’m going away …’
‘Going away? With Rupert, you mean?’
‘No. With John Gabriel …’
I was conscious then of the strange duality of the human mind. Half of my brain was thunderstruck, unbelieving. What Isabella was saying seemed quite incredible – a thing so fantastic that it simply couldn’t happen.
But somewhere, another part of me was not surprised. It was like an inner voice saying mockingly, ‘But surely, you’ve known this all along …’ I remembered how, without turning her head, Isabella had known John Gabriel’s step on the terrace. I remembered the look on her face when she had come up from the lower garden on the night of the whist drive, and the way she had acted so swiftly in the crisis of Milly Burt. I remembered her saying, ‘Rupert must come soon …’ with a strange urgency in her voice. She had been afraid then, afraid of what was happening to her.
I understood, very imperfectly, the dark urge that was driving her to Gabriel. For some reason or other the man had a strange quality of attraction for women. Teresa had told me so long ago …
Did Isabella love him? I doubted it. And I could see no happiness for her with a man like Gabriel – a man who desired her but did not love her.
On his part it was sheer madness. It would mean abandoning his political career. It would be the ruin of all his ambitions. I couldn’t see why he was taking this crazy step.
Did he love her? I didn’t think so. I thought that in a way he hated her. She was part of the things (the castle, old Lady St Loo) that had humiliated him ever since he came here. Was that the obscure reason for this act of insanity? Was he avenging that humiliation? Was he willing to smash up his own life if he could smash up the thing that had humiliated him? Was this the ‘common little boy’ taking his revenge?
I loved Isabella. I knew that now. I loved her so much that I had been happy in her happiness – and she had been happy with Rupert in her dream come true – of life at St Loo … She had only feared that it might not be real –
What, then, was real? John Gabriel? No, what she was doing was madness. She must be stopped – pleaded with, persuaded.
The words rushed to my lips … but they remained unspoken. To this day I don’t know why …
The only reason I can think of is that Isabella – was Isabella.
I said nothing.
She stooped and kissed me. It was not a child’s kiss. Her mouth was a woman’s mouth. Her lips were cool and fresh, they pressed mine with a sweetness and intensity I shall never forget. It was like being kissed by a flower.
She said goodbye and she went away, out of the window, out of my life, to where John Gabriel was waiting for her.
And I did not try to stop her …
Chapter Twenty-four
With the departure of John Gabriel and Isabella from St Loo the first part of my story ends. I realize how much it is their story and not mine, because once they had gone I can remember little or nothing that happened. It is all vague and confused.
I had never been interested in the political side of our life in St Loo. For me, it was only a backcloth against which the protagonists in the drama moved. But the political repercussions must have been – indeed, I know they were – quite far-reaching.
If John Gabriel had had any political conscience he would not, of course, have done what he did do. He would have been appalled at the prospect of letting his side down. For it did let it down. The local feeling aroused was so tremendous that pressure would have been brought to bear on him to make him resign his newly-won seat if he had not resigned it without being asked. The affair brought great discredit on the Conservative Party. A man with traditions and a more delicate sense of honour would have been acutely sensitive to that. I don’t think John Gabriel cared in the slightest. What he had been out for was his own career – by his crazy conduct he had wrecked this career. That was how he looked at it. He had spoken truly enough when he had prophesied that only a woman would be able to spoil his life. He had not in the least foreseen who that woman would be.
He was not fitted by temperament or upbringing to understand the shock and horror felt by people like Lady Tressilian and Mrs Bigham Charteris. Lady Tressilian had been brought up to believe that to stand for election to Parliament was a duty owed by a man to his country. That was how her father had envisaged it.
Gabriel could not even have begun to appreciate such an attitude. The way he looked at it was that the Conservative Party had picked a dud when they picked him. It was a gamble – and they had lost. If things had taken a normal course they would have done very well for themselves. But there was always the hundredth chance – and the hundredth chance had happened.
Curiously enough the person who took exactly the same point of view as Gabriel was the dowager Lady St Loo.
She spoke of it once and once only, in the drawing room at Polnorth House when she was alone with Teresa and myself.
‘We cannot,’ she said, ‘avoid our share of blame. We knew what the man was like. We nominated a man who was an outsider, who had no real beliefs, no traditions, no true integrity. We knew perfectly well that the man was an adventurer, nothing else. Because he had qualities that appeal to the masses, a good war record, a specious appeal, we accepted him. We were prepared to let him use us, because we were prepared to use him. We excused ourselves by saying that we were going with the times. But if there is any reality, any meaning, in the Conservative tradition, it must live up to its tradition. We must be represented by men who, if not brilliant, are sincere, who have a stake in the country, who are prepared to take responsibility for those under them, who are not ashamed or uneasy at calling themselves the upper classes, because they accept not only the privileges but the duties of an upper class.’
It was the voice of a dying régime speaking. I did not agree with it, but I respected it. New ideas; a new way of life was being born, the old was being swept away, but as an example of the best of the old, Lady St Loo stood firm. She had her place and would hold that place until her death.
Of Isabella she did not speak. There the wound had gone deep into the heart. For Isabella, in the old lady’s uncompromising view, had betrayed her own class. For John Gabriel the old martinet could find excuses – he was of the lesser breed without the law – but Isabella had betrayed the citadel from within.
Though Lady St Loo said nothing of Isabella, Lady Tressilian did. She talked to me, I think, because she could talk to no one else – and also because she felt that owing to my invalid state I did not count. She had an incorrigibly motherly feeling towards my helplessness, and I think she felt almost justified in talking to me as though I were indeed her son.
Adelaide, she said, was unapproachable. Maude snapped her head off and immediately went out with the dogs. That vast sentimental heart of Lady Tressilian’s had to unburden itself.
She would have felt disloyal discussing the family with Teresa. She did not feel disloyal in discussing it with me, possibly because she knew I loved Isabella. She loved Isabella, loved her dearly, and she could not stop thinking about her, and being puzzled and bewildered by what she had done.
‘It was so unlike her – so very unlike her, Hugh. I do feel that man must have bewitched her. A very dangerous man, I always thought … And she seemed so happy – so perfectly happy – she and Rupert seemed made for each other. I can’t understand it. They were happy – they really were. Didn’t you think so, too?’
I said, feeling my way, that yes, I thought they had been happy. I wanted to add, but I did not think that Lady Tressilian would understand, that sometimes happiness is not enough …
‘I can’t help feeling that that horrible man must have enticed her away – that somehow or other he hypnotized her. But Addie
says no. She says that Isabella would never do anything unless she fully meant to do it. I don’t know, I’m sure.’
Lady St Loo was, I thought, right there.
Lady Tressilian asked, ‘Do you think they are married? Where do you think they are?’
I asked if they had had no word from her.
‘No. Nothing. Nothing but the letter Isabella left. It was written to Addie. She said that she didn’t expect Addie would ever forgive her and that probably Addie was right. And she said, “It is no good saying I am sorry for all the pain I shall cause. If I were really sorry I wouldn’t do it. I think Rupert may understand, but perhaps not. I shall always love you all, even if I never see you again.”’
Lady Tressilian looked at me, her eyes full of tears.
‘That poor boy – that poor, poor boy. Dear Rupert – and we had all got so fond of him.’
‘I suppose he took it very hard?’
I had not seen Rupert St Loo since Isabella’s flight.
He had left St Loo on the following day. I don’t know where he went or what he did. A week later, he had rejoined his unit in Burma.
Lady Tressilian shook her head tearfully.
‘He was so kind, so gentle to us all. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Nobody wants to talk about it.’ She sighed. ‘But I can’t help wondering where they are and what they are doing. Will they get married? Where will they live?’
Lady Tressilian’s mind was essentially feminine. It was direct, practical, occupied with the events of daily life. I could see that already, nebulously, she was building up a picture of Isabella’s domestic life – marriage, a house, children. She had forgiven easily. She loved Isabella. What Isabella had done was shocking. It was disgraceful. It had let the family down. But it was also romantic. And Lady Tressilian was nothing if not romantic.
As I say my memories of the next two years at St Loo are vague. There was a by-election in which Mr Wilbraham was returned by a large majority. I don’t even remember who was the Conservative candidate – some country gentleman of blameless life and no mass appeal, I fancy. Politics, without John Gabriel, no longer held my attention. My own health began to occupy most of my thoughts. I went to a hospital and started a series of operations which left me no worse, if little better. Teresa and Robert remained on in Polnorth House. The three old ladies of St Loo Castle left the castle and moved into a small Victorian house with an attractive garden. The castle was let for a year to some people from the north of England. Eighteen months later, Rupert St Loo came back to England and married an American girl with money. They had, Teresa wrote me, great plans for the complete restoration of the castle as soon as building regulations permitted. Illogically I hated to think of St Loo Castle restored.
Where Gabriel and Isabella actually were and what Gabriel was doing – nobody knew.
In 1947 Robert had a successful show in London of his Cornish pictures.
At that time, great advances were being made in surgery. On the Continent various foreign surgeons had been doing remarkable things in cases like mine. One of the few advantages that war brings in its train is a leap forward in the alleviation of human suffering. My own surgeon in London was enthusiastic about the work done by a Jewish doctor in Slovakia. Working in the Underground movements during the war, he had made daring experiments and had achieved really spectacular results. In a case like mine, it was possible, so my own man thought, that he could attempt something which no English surgeon would undertake.
That was why in the autumn of 1947 I travelled out to Zagrade to consult Dr Crassvitch.
There is no need to go into details of my own history. Suffice to say that Dr Crassvitch, whom I found a sensitive and clever surgeon, pronounced his belief that by an operation my condition could be immensely improved. It would be possible, he hoped, that I should be able to move about freely on crutches – instead of lying prone, a helpless shattered wreck. It was arranged that I should go into his clinic forthwith.
My hopes and his were realized. At the end of six months I emerged able, as he had promised, to walk with the aid of crutches. I cannot hope to describe how exciting it made life for me. I remained on in Zagrade – since I had to have manipulative treatment several times a week. On a summer evening I swung myself slowly and painfully along the Zagrade main street and came to anchor in a small open-air café where I ordered beer.
It was then, looking across the occupied tables, that I saw John Gabriel.
It was a shock. I had not thought of him for some time. I had no idea that he was in this part of the world. But what was a worse shock was the appearance of the man.
He had gone down in the world. His face had always been slightly coarse but it was coarsened now almost out of recognition. It was bloated and unhealthy, the eyes bloodshot. At this very moment I realized that he was slightly drunk.
He looked across, saw me, and, rising, came unsteadily over to my table.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘look who’s here! Last man in the world I’d have expected to see.’
It would have given me enormous pleasure to have driven my fist into John Gabriel’s face – but apart from the fact that I was not in fighting condition, I wanted to learn news of Isabella. I invited him to sit down and have a drink.
‘Thanks, Norreys, I will. How’s St Loo and the gingerbread castle and all the old tabby cats?’
I told him that it was some time since I had been in St Loo, that the castle was let and that the three old ladies had moved out.
He said hopefully that that must have been a nasty pill for the dowager to swallow. I said I thought that she had been glad to go. I told him that Rupert St Loo was engaged to be married.
‘In fact,’ said Gabriel, ‘everything’s turned out very nicely for everybody.’
I managed not to reply. I saw the old grin curving his mouth upwards.
‘Come on, Norreys,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit there looking as though you’ve swallowed a poker. Ask about her. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’
The trouble with Gabriel was that he always carried the war into the enemy’s camp. I acknowledged defeat.
‘How is Isabella?’ I said.
‘She’s all right. I haven’t done the characteristic seducer’s act and abandoned her in a garret.’
It became still more difficult for me to refrain from hitting Gabriel. He had always had the power of being offensive. He was far more offensive now that he had begun to go downhill.
‘She’s here in Zagrade?’ I asked.
‘Yes, you’d better come and call. Nice for her to see an old friend and hear the St Loo news.’
Would it be nice for her? I wondered. Was there some faint, some far-off echo of sadism in Gabriel’s voice?
I said, my voice slightly embarrassed, ‘Are you – married?’
His grin was positively fiendish.
‘No, Norreys, we’re not married. You can go back and tell that to the old bitch at St Loo.’
(Curious the way Lady St Loo still rankled.)
‘I’m not likely to mention the subject to her,’ I said coldly.
‘It’s like that, is it? Isabella’s disgraced the family.’ He tilted his chair backwards. ‘Lord, I’d like to have seen their faces that morning – the morning when they found we’d gone off together.’
‘My God, you’re a swine, Gabriel,’ I said, my self-control slipping.
He was not at all annoyed.
‘Depends how you look at it,’ he said. ‘Your outlook on life is so very narrow, Norreys.’
‘At any rate I’ve got a few decent instincts,’ I said sharply.
‘You’re so English. I must introduce you to the wide cosmopolitan set in which Isabella and I move.’
‘You don’t look frightfully well, if I may say so,’ I said.
‘That’s because I drink too much,’ said Gabriel promptly. ‘I’m a bit high now. But cheer up,’ he went on, ‘Isabella doesn’t drink. I can’t think why not – but she doesn’t. She’s
still got that schoolgirl complexion. You’ll enjoy seeing her again.’
‘I would like to see her,’ I said slowly, but I wasn’t sure as I said it, if it was true.
Would I like to see her? Wouldn’t it, really, be sheer pain? Did she want to see me? Probably not. If I could know how she felt …
‘No illegitimate brats, you’ll be glad to hear,’ said Gabriel cheerfully.
I looked at him. He said softly:
‘You do hate me, don’t you, Norreys?’
‘I think I’ve good reason to.’
‘I don’t see it that way. You got a lot of entertainment out of me at St Loo. Oh yes, you did. Interest in my doings probably kept you from committing suicide. I should certainly have committed suicide in your place. It’s no good hating me just because you are crazy about Isabella. Oh yes, you are. You were then and you are now. That’s why you’re sitting here pretending to be amicable and really loathing my guts.’
‘Isabella and I were friends,’ I said. ‘A thing I don’t suppose you’re capable of understanding.’
‘I didn’t mean you made passes at her, old boy. I know that isn’t your line of country. Soul affinity, and spiritual uplift. Well, it will be nice for her to see an old friend.’
‘I wonder,’ I said slowly. ‘Do you really think that she would like to see me?’
His demeanour changed. He scowled furiously.
‘Why the devil not? Why shouldn’t she want to see you?’
‘I’m asking you,’ I said.
He said, ‘I’d like her to see you.’
That grated on me. I said, ‘In this case, we’ll go by what she prefers.’
He suddenly beamed into a smile again.
‘Of course she’ll want to see you, old boy. I was just ragging you. I’ll give you the address. Look her up any time you like. She’s usually in.’
‘What are you doing nowadays?’ I asked.
He winked, closing one eye and tilting his head sideways.
The Rose and the Yew Tree Page 18
