‘Please, don’t say any more!’
‘I’m sorry. I feel I’ve spoiled your evening. Have I made you unhappy?’
‘Yes, in a way.’
‘Why would you be unhappy if you didn’t care anything for me?’
‘You make me feel I don’t know what I’m saying!’
He stopped. ‘ Well, you must forgive me. I know I’m the one to blame. I’m an impulsive sort of person and always say what’s in my mind. I know I should never have spoken. Say you’ll forgive me?’
‘Yes …’
‘And forget I ever uttered a word of it?’
‘… I’ll try.’
‘It would make my life more endurable while I was away if I felt your door wasn’t closed tight against me.’
‘Of course.’ They were nearly home.
‘Let’s talk of other things,’ he said. ‘ It was a very pleasant concert tonight. A beautiful concert. I heard nothing of it.’
‘You applauded with the rest.’
‘It was not that hairy old man I was applauding, it was you.’
‘I thought we were talking of something else.’
‘The weather’s turning cold again. I expect we shall be having the fogs. Will you think of me sometimes, Cordelia?’
‘… Yes.’
‘My coachman’s name is Marcus Heather. He was born in Newcastle and has twelve brothers and sisters. Where were you born, Cordelia? I don’t even know that yet.’
‘Quite near here.’
‘Have you any brothers and sisters?’
‘One brother and eight sisters.’
‘Do you think if I went to your father and said, Mr– What would his name be?’
‘Blake.’
‘Blake. Cordelia Blake. I like that. I like it very much. If I went to your father and said, ‘‘Mr Blake, I am in love with Cordelia, but she has no thought for me; have you one, only one daughter in the other eight who has a quarter of her beauty and a tenth of her charm and can smile a little bit the same and bite her lip when she’s puzzled and frown with one eyebrow and might look on me favourably’’ – do you think he would help me?’
‘I think he would recommend Virginia.’
‘H’m. It’s a pretty name.’
‘She’s a pretty girl.’
‘Is she younger than you?’
‘Yes. About nineteen years.’
For the first time he touched her. He put his hand on her gloved hand.
‘I can’t wait,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait nineteen years till she grows like you.’
They turned in at the gates of Grove Hall. He bent and lifted her band and pulled back the edge of her glove. He kissed her wrist.
‘You don’t like me, do you?’ he said. ‘No, no, don’t dare to deny it. You think I’m theatrical and overpressing, and’ve got a fickle Irish way with me. Well, you’re right. All the bad things you can say about me are right. I don’t deserve your kindness. But believe one thing. I loved you. I did indeed. Throw the rest away if it pleases you, but keep that. Good night, my very dear, and good-bye.’
Chapter Seven
Stephen Crossley was a young man to whom fortune had given money, good looks, and an uncommonly liberal education. He had been in love a good many times since he was sixteen, and this had begun not very differently from numerous other such affairs. But already it was taking a character quite its own.
His absence from the city could not be prolonged beyond a week, but his tongue had run away with him again. When he returned, therefore, he was careful to be inconspicuous about the town, to avoid his club, and to keep away from the Variety Theatre when Mr Slaney-Smith was likely to be there.
The right thing was to keep away from Grove Hall for two or three months. But all this fretted his impetuous temperament. It was a constant provocation to know she was living only a couple of miles away and was alone nearly every afternoon, to feel that only his own restraint kept them apart.
At times he was moody and morose, very rare for him, and he had spurts of energy, driving everyone before him and making life a misery. Then he would lose interest and not go to the music hall or the pleasure gardens for several days. He stayed at home for long periods and read too much and drank too much and could settle to nothing else. In the end he forced himself to go away again for a few days. He went to London and made a round of the lesser music halls spotting talent, but there was no zest in the enterprise.
Cordelia had spent the first week in an uncomfortable daze. She did not know if she was in love with Stephen Crossley, but she knew she had not often before been so unhappy and never before so discontented. For almost the first time in her life she found herself quite unable to take pleasure in small things. Unconsciously she looked at her surroundings with a new and critical eye.
Mr Ferguson came back from Oldham with a cut on his cheek which no one dared to ask about but which might have been caused by a flying stone. He did not inquire about the concert but was very agreeable all week, and on the Saturday morning survey of accounts, when Cordelia’s weekly expense sheet was scrutinized, he again congratulated her on her work. He thought she must have talent for business affairs.
The image of Stephen somehow came between her and her gratitude and made it short-lived.
Towards the end of March, Brook said at Saturday dinner:
‘By the way, I met Stephen Crossley this morning. He’s back again and was asking how we all were.’
Cordelia’s heart made a curious acrobatic movement.
‘I didn’t know he’d been away,’ said Frederick Ferguson.
‘Yes, he’s been in London. He says he usually stays at Verney’s Hotel. I thought I might try it when I go in October.’
‘I’m not sure that the sort of hotel Crossley would favour would necessarily be the ideal one for you, Brook.’
‘We could inquire. But Crossley isn’t at all the ordinary theatrical. One feels he’s very much the gentleman.’
‘Of course. I ascertained that from Mr Slaney-Smith before he was invited here. But I feel that anyone who has a connection with the music halls … I should accept his recommendations with a certain caution – especially in the matter of hotels.’
‘He was talking about his music halls,’ said Brook. ‘He’s trying to raise the standard of the places under their control so that in the end ladies can be invited and it can be more like an ordinary theatre, with refined entertainment suitable for all.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘In fact he’s asked me so often to spend an evening at the Variety that I hardly like to go on refusing. I don’t see very much harm would come of one visit.’
‘My dear boy, harm seldom comes of a first visit anywhere, except that the first visit usually becomes the first of many. I don’t want to restrict your movements – go and see for yourself and be satisfied. Personally I should not want you to go – and if I were Cordelia I should not want you to go – to a place where women of the unfortunate class frequent the bars and lobbies.’
‘Mr Slaney-Smith seems to be all right,’ Brook said sulkily. He was always more restive under his father’s hand when Cordelia was present.
‘Mr Slaney-Smith,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘is a man of mature years who studies deeply on certain scientific subjects. He finds – I am at a loss to understand how – some interest in the music hall. It is a relief from his serious work. But what he does with his time out of this house is not our concern.’
‘He hasn’t been to see us so often recently,’ said Cordelia, trying to turn the conversation.
‘He is preparing a new series of lectures.’
Later, when they were alone together, Brook said:
‘I think Crossley’s a nice fellow. Anyway, I’ve promised to go to his music hall next Wednesday. I was going to tell Father, but I funked it at the end.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Oh, make some excuse. Couldn’t I say your father wanted to see me about something – T
eddy or something?’
‘Why not tell your father the truth? After all, he can’t eat you.’
‘Oh, no; but he’d make things so uncomfortable that I’d go feeling like a worm. And then the fact that I’d gone against his wishes would be hanging in the air at least a week after.’
‘Yes … Yes …’ She took a sudden desperate resolve. ‘ Brook, I don’t think I should ask Mr Crossley back here if I were you.’
Brook stared. ‘What? But I’ve already asked him. Why, don’t you like him?’
‘Oh, yes, I like him. I like him very much. But I just thought your father might not want us to make a friend of him.’
‘I don’t think he minds that. I’ve asked him for Friday week. Father’s got that woman coming. You know, she’s lecturing on Oriental Theosophy or something first and then coming on here to supper after. Crossley seemed very interested so I asked him to join us.’
Friday week was a long way ahead. Counting Sunday as one, it was thirteen days. But thirteen days are not long enough to make a plan of behaviour that cannot be upset. You can’t plan against the unpredictable.
Mrs J. Spenser Crabbe, who was journeying round England lecturing on ‘ The New Theosophy’, was an untidy woman with a big bust and pearl earrings to match. This much Cordelia took in before she saw Stephen. He had just slipped off his cloak and was handing it to Hallows and speaking to Brook, who had been to the meeting. In a minute he came through the door and greeted her.
So it was going to be all right. Not by any sign, even one imperceptible to the others … What else had she expected? At supper she found her glance straying in his direction. He was much quieter than at other visits, no longer, it seemed, drawing her attention but trying to be inconspicuous. His whole manner was subdued and rather sad. Mr Slaney-Smith, his quiff and his nose shining in the gaslight, wrangled gallantly with Mrs Spenser Crabbe, and Mr Ferguson murmured occasionally in the background like summer thunder which might any time move up and occupy the sky.
After supper someone mentioned spiritualism. Mrs Spenser Crabbe had never heard of M. Gustave. Stephen was asked if he could arrange a meeting, but he replied in a quiet, serious tone that M. Gustave had gone back to France.
He stood out among these people. Not only was he younger and better-looking but he seemed to her more normal. ‘We come from different worlds,’ Mr Ferguson had said. Was their world more real and solid or merely more pompous and drab?
Theosophy had many side issues. Eventually Stephen rose to go. He bent over Mrs Spenser Crabbe, who shook her plump pearl earrings at him and smiled. With a politely correct expression he took leave of the other ladies, of Cordelia.
‘Thank you, Mrs Ferguson, for your hospitality. A delightful evening. Good night.’
Something in her hand – she’d nearly dropped it – a crumpled piece of paper, in front of them all as they shook hands it had passed; she tried to keep back the colour. Fortunately they were looking towards the door.
‘An estimable young man,’ said Mrs Spenser Crabbe. ‘I was gratified at the smattering of youth in the audience tonight. Is he a neighbour of yours, Mr Ferguson?’
‘Just a friend. His father is the proprietor of one of our music halls, and young Crossley manages it for him.’
‘Strange. I should have placed him in almost any milieu but that. He has a studious manner.’
‘I was agreeably surprised by his quiet behaviour tonight.’
Brook said: ‘I think – as a matter of fact, there is an explanation. He’s been crossed in love, as they say.’
‘Really? How engaging! Do tell us about it,’ said Mrs Spenser Crabbe, betraying a sudden feminine disregard for the higher things.
‘Well – er –’ said Brook, self-conscious as always at having the attention of everyone. ‘ He said he was in love with some lovely girl who didn’t care for him. Apparently he – er – fell in love with her at first sight but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He was in a desperate state. She only saw him about half a dozen times and then she wouldn’t see him any more.’
‘Well, I think she showed very poor taste,’ said Mrs Spenser Crabbe. ‘Don’t you agree, Mrs Ferguson?’
‘… Yes,’ said Cordelia.
‘When did he tell you all this?’ Mr Ferguson asked suspiciously.
Brook said: ‘Oh – a fortnight ago, when we met. You remember I told you.’
‘Young girls of today are very silly,’ said Mrs Spenser Crabbe. ‘They think it fashionable not to know their own minds and often ruin young men’s lives.’
The piece of paper was in her hand for nearly an hour before she had a chance of opening it. It got hot and sticky from being held so tight. It was there like some fearful admission of guilt. She could have put it away, but she was afraid of someone going directly as in a nightmare, to the place where she’d hidden it. At length the party broke up. She went upstairs ahead of Brook and lit the gas in their bedroom and smoothed out the paper hurriedly under the light.
He had torn an old envelope and written it hastily sometime after supper. His writing scrawled across the page.
Can you imagine the agony I’ve been in tonight sitting here watching you and adoring you and knowing that you care nothing for me? I can never come to your house again.
S TEPHEN
Pain and alarm and compassion as she screwed the envelope up into a ball again. It hurt to feel that one was hurting someone one liked.
‘What are you burning?’ Brook asked, coming into the room.
‘Oh – I – have just been lighting the gas with it.’
‘Why strike a match to light a paper to light the gas?’ he asked, amused.
‘Well – I don’t like the pop so close to my fingers. The matches are too short.’
He moved across the room. ‘It was interesting over supper, but, Lord, it got tedious before the end. I don’t see what good it does, all this talking. I nearly let out about going to the music hall, didn’t I?’
‘No one noticed,’ Brook, Stephen, Stephen, Brook. No, it wasn’t fair – it wasn’t fair to make comparisons. Brook was her husband. Stephen an interloper. He had no right to thrust passionate messages into her hand, to presume upon a few casual meetings.
‘Brook,’ she said, ‘you do love me, don’t you?’
He turned and stared a little blankly. ‘ What? … Oh … Yes, of course I do.’ He picked up a book then to avoid her eyes because he was embarrassed by the question. ‘What a funny thing to ask.’ Their relationship over long periods was very matter-of-fact.
She put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face, claiming his reluctant attention. ‘And am I a good wife to you?’
‘Of course, dear. Don’t you think you are?’
‘I don’t know. Not always, perhaps. But I like to be told. Am I as good a wife to you as Margaret was?’
He flushed. ‘Have I ever said you’re not?’
‘No, Brook. But don’t answer my questions with other questions: just say yes or no.’
‘Yes, then. You are as good, and better.’
‘Better.’ She kissed him. ‘I’m glad. In what ways am I better?’
‘Oh, why bring Margaret into it now? You’ve hardly mentioned her for months. Let her rest in peace.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘that her letter-case was never found?’
‘What letter-case?’
‘The one Dan Massington inquired for. Don’t you remember?’
‘Well, the thing was thrown out, I expect. But it was nothing important: a few household accounts.’
‘You know,’ she said, ‘somehow I don’t often think of you as having been married before.’
‘I’m glad. Why should you?’ He patted her cheek, tending to move away, impatient because he had not sought the intimacy. ‘After all, you never knew her.’
‘I never knew her … Brook, it must be – strange to have been in love with two people.’
He looked into her grey eyes a litt
le furtively, as if trying to read her thoughts. ‘There’s nothing very strange about it. Plenty of people marry twice.’
‘Do you ever think of her, Brook – of the happiness you had together? When you put your arms round me, do you ever think that – perhaps it is Margaret? Do you ever forget, I mean?’
‘Good Heavens, of course not! What an idea! Come along, let’s go to bed. It’s late and we have to be up as usual.’
‘But when you’ve loved two people, don’t you ever compare them? I’m not trying to catch you, or anything, but mustn’t it be so? Don’t you ever – don’t you put your hand on my hand and think: Margaret’s was thinner – or plumper – or softer or harder? Wasn’t my hand ever strange under yours?’ He didn’t answer, waiting, petulant now, for her to finish. ‘I’m sure I should feel that way,’ she said lamely.
‘One thing I like about you better than Margaret is that when she was ill she used to get all sorts of miserable and morbid notions. I don’t see any reason for you to start, I don’t really. It’s just silly to talk like that. I’m going to bed, my dear.’
There was silence for a long time. Cordelia thought: That diary’s still lying upstairs. Is Brook right: am I being prying and inquisitive, asking so many questions, being so curious about Margaret’s life here? But have I? Have I? It’s only tonight. And why tonight? Because a handsome and nice man … And is my curiosity really about Margaret? I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t know. Brook is right. I must go to bed, go to sleep.
She said quietly: ‘Brook.’
‘Yes?’
‘Am I inquisitive?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s natural to wonder, I suppose.’
‘Brook, after your mother died, did your father never think of marrying again?’
He stirred restlessly. ‘ How can I tell? I don’t know all his thoughts. He never seemed interested in anyone. He was fifty-six, you know.’
Cordelia Page 13
