Susan came downstairs. She had washed and changed, but she still looked pale and exhausted.
“I oughtn’t to have let you go, darling,” said Caroline solicitously. “I always feel a rag myself after a day in London. It’s the atmosphere, I suppose. Come along in to dinner. You’ve had some tea, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Susan guiltily. She’d have to lie now if Caroline asked where she’d had it. It would seem so strange not to have mentioned it at first. But all Caroline said was, “Oh, those tea-shop teas aren’t meals at all. You must be starving,” and, slipping her arm through hers, led her gently into the dining-room. During the meal Caroline gave her a cheerful account of her day’s doings, and Susan made mechanical comments and rejoinders, her eyes fixed on her plate, her heart aching with misery. If only she hadn’t been to Philippa’s! If only Philippa hadn’t talked about the little house! She’d been trying so hard to forget it—the sun streaming in through the brightly coloured cretonne curtains . . . the crinkly paper in the little hall . . . Ken turning from the hat-stand to take her in his arms . . . Ken putting on her apron to wash up . . . doing a skirt dance in it while she held her sides with laughter . . . Ken waking her with kisses in the morning. Ken . . . Ken . . . Ken . . . She couldn’t bear it. There was nothing left to live for. Perhaps she’d die when the child was born. She hoped she would.
“And I saw Aunt Maggie in the town,” Caroline was saying brightly. “She looked really terrible. Her very worst.”
“How ghastly!” said Susan, but she wasn’t thinking of Aunt Maggie. She was thinking of the little house, thinking of it as Eve might have thought of her lost paradise. She wondered what had happened to it. She had heard that Ken was now living in rooms at the other end of the town. Perhaps he had sold it. She hadn’t been near the neighbourhood since she left it.
“Let’s go and have coffee,” said Caroline, rising.
They went into the drawing-room.
“I told you I’d done your corrections, didn’t I?” went on Caroline cheerfully. “You’ve not much else to do tonight, have you? What about the test paper?”
“I don’t get that in till tomorrow.”
Caroline put down her coffee cup and, going to her bureau, took from a drawer a small parcel, wrapped in tissue-paper.
“Look, darling. I got it this afternoon.”
Susan unwrapped it.
It was a tiny white woollen matinee-jacket. “How sweet of you!” she said in a choking voice.
Then she rose abruptly.
“Caroline . . . I’ve got such a headache. I think I’ll go for a little walk. I won’t be long.”
Caroline looked at her in tender surprise, but Susan went quickly from the room. A few minutes later she set off down the darkening street. In her bag was the key of the little house, which she had had with her ever since she left it. The longing just to see it, just to stand outside and look at it, had become uncontrollable. It was Philippa who had made her feel like that, of course, Philippa who with careless cruelty had brought agonisingly to life the memories she had been trying so hard to kill. She knew that her abrupt departure had hurt Caroline, that Caroline was longing to talk to her of the child, to plan its upbringing, as she loved to do—but she didn’t care. She had to go back to the little house, had just to stand outside and look at it once more. Her heart beats quickened as she entered the rough uneven road that led to the “estate.” It was like finding again in real life the scene of some far-off glamorous dream. There it was—silent, empty, forlorn, its dark windows conspicuous among its brightly lit neighbours, its silence emphasised by the sounds of laughter that came from the next house. Its air of desolation sent a sharp pang through her heart. The gay cretonne curtains seemed to hang in weary folds behind the dusty panes. A handful of dead flowers drooped disconsolately in a vase on the window-sill.
She went up the little path through the front garden. Like the house, it wore a forsaken, dejected air. Both house and garden, she thought bitterly, were symbolic of the love that had flourished there—once glowingly alive, now cold and dead.
She took the key from her bag, opened the front door, and stood on the threshold, looking about her. Dust everywhere. An old raincoat of Ken’s still hanging on the hat-stand. A large cobweb over the electric light shade. . . . She went into the drawing-room and dining-room, switching on the lights. Over everything that thick film of dust, that damp airless atmosphere. On an impulse she fetched an apron and some dusters from the kitchen and set to work to dust and polish. She couldn’t bear to see the rooms where she had once been so happy sunk into dinginess and neglect. She worked till the downstairs rooms wore a semblance of cleanliness, then went slowly upstairs. Outside the bedroom door she stood for some moments, her lips tightly set, her heart beating tumultuously before she entered . . . then, glancing almost fearfully about the room, began to dust the table by the bed with quick unsteady movements. Suddenly she stopped, the duster fell from her hand, and, dropping upon the bed, she lay there sobbing. . . . The sound of the opening of the front door roused her. She started up and stood motionless, hardly breathing, staring at the door. Footsteps were coming upstairs. The door opened and Kenneth entered.
“Ken!”
“Susie!”
She didn’t know whether she was comforting him or he was comforting her, but, once they were in each other’s arms, all the things that had seemed to matter so terribly didn’t matter at all. Nothing mattered but their love for each other.
“Ken . . . how did you happen to come here tonight?” she said at last, gently disengaging herself from his arm.
“Philippa rang me up. You’d been there today, hadn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been to see her once or twice lately. I’d told her that I was absolutely sure you hated me so much that it wasn’t any use even asking you to come back . . . and tonight she rang me up and said that I was wrong, that she knew you loved me. She told me to go round to your house and insist on seeing you alone, even if I had to gag Caroline and lock her up in the cellar to do it. So I went round, and you were just coming out of the gate. You didn’t see me, so I followed you.”
“Ken . . . did Philippa tell you . . .?”
“Yes. At least she said she was almost sure. I’m terribly glad, darling.”
“I am, too, now. Ken, I ought to have told you. I feel so ashamed of not doing. Caroline . . .”
“I know, dear. I understand.”
“I’ve been wrong all the time.”
“No, it was all my fault.”
“I was so silly and proud, and Caroline said . . .”
“I know.”
“She said that you’d been going with other women. . . .”
“I haven’t. You know I haven’t.”
“Ken, I can’t bear to think of what a beast I’ve been. But it’ll be all right now. I’ve been so wretched. I shall never leave you again whatever happens.”
“It’s been hell,” he said slowly. “I used to lie awake at night, longing for you and hating Caroline. . . .”
“Don’t hate her, Ken.”
“No, I won’t—now. She’ll never come between us again—not now we both know what it’s like.”
He held her tightly in his arms. Her head was on his shoulder, her eyes gazed dreamily into the distance.
“Poor Caroline!” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
“AND when are you coming back?” said Robert, trying to keep the question on the casual note that Effie had so determinedly set for the whole conversation.
He had passed through several stages of feeling with regard to Effie since she left home. At first he had felt merely uneasy without her. Then his uneasiness had gradually changed to resentment. She was perfectly well. She must be perfectly well. She seemed to be going to concerts and theatres and dances continually, accompanied by Philippa and her innumerable friends. It wasn’t right, he told himself indignantly. She’d no business to be gadding about like that.
At her age, too. The mother of a family. She should be at home, ordering the house and looking after the children. He even found it slightly exasperating that the house and children were as well looked after as when she had been at home. He wanted to feel neglected and pathetic—he did feel neglected and pathetic—and it was annoying that his surroundings should not look as neglected and pathetic as he felt. Carrie was still fretting for her, and the others kept asking about her, and he’d been tempted more than once to tell her that in his letters, but hers never mentioned the children, and his pride prevented his doing so.
Then, as time went on, his resentment had faded, and he had been conscious only of a longing for Effie’s warm familiar presence, for the unquestioning devotion that had once formed the background of his life. Evelyn, of course, was a wonderful companion. She was much cleverer and more amusing than Effie, but she was the least bit of a strain. She took so much living up to. One had to try always to be clever and amusing, too, which, when one was tired after a day’s work, was difficult. Funny that he’d never felt that when Effie was there. It was as if the tired part of him had then taken comfort and refreshment from her presence without knowing that it was doing so. Now he missed it poignantly. He had begun to look on Philippa as the villainess of the piece. Effie and he had been perfectly happy together till she came along and lured Effie away from him. He’d been a fool to let her go so meekly, but he’d been taken by surprise and she’d gone before he realised what was happening. Caroline’s tacit warnings should have put him on his guard against her. She was a dangerous woman. She’d made a mess of her own life, and she took a malicious pleasure in making a mess of other people’s. She couldn’t bear to see him and Effie happy together, and she’d known no peace till she’d managed to unsettle Effie and take her away. He had made up his mind quite suddenly this morning to come down to see Effie today.
His tenderness had flowed out to her as the train brought him nearer, and beneath the tenderness stirred again that faint feeling of self-reproach. Effie was weak. He should have looked after her better, not have left her exposed to such an influence as Philippa’s. He was to blame almost as much as Philippa herself. He felt a glow of generosity as he made this admission. He sat forward in the seat of the taxi that took him from the station to Philippa’s flat, as if to propel the vehicle more swiftly by his own efforts. Soon Effie would be in his arms, clinging to him, sobbing out her contrition for having left him, protesting her love and devotion. And he’d take her back with him tonight. As for Philippa, he’d just ignore her. She’d soon find out that her influence weighed for nothing against his love.
Effie was alone in the flat when he reached it. She explained that Philippa had gone out to tea with some friends. He gathered that Effie had been going, too, and had only stayed in because of his telephone message. He was glad, on the whole, that Philippa was out. It cleared the stage for the scene of reconciliation. He stepped forward to take Effie in his arms, and then, to his amazement, the embrace he’d been looking forward to so eagerly was over. Or rather it hadn’t taken place at all. Effie had offered him her cheek,a cool smooth cheek, and then had quickly disengaged herself. She certainly wasn’t sobbing out her love and contrition on his shoulder as he’d meant her to. Far from it. She was considering him with a faint smile from the opposite side of the fireplace.
“Sit down, Robert,” she was saying. “How nice of you to come up! Philippa’s so sorry not to be here. Would you like tea now?”
“How nice of you to come up!” As if he were the most casual of acquaintances. He looked at her resentfully, critically. Yes, she was—different. She looked absurdly young and smart for one thing. Her hair was arranged in a more fashionable way. Ear-rings dangled from her small white ears. Her dress was different, too. It wasn’t just that it was a dress he hadn’t seen before. It was a different sort of dress. Even her figure seemed to have changed, to have become svelte and elegant. A feeling of desolation swept over him. Where was his Effie, his loving, untidy little Effie, with her soft warm curves and dumpy frilly dresses?
“Don’t you want to know about the children, Effie?” he said reproachfully.
“I know,” she said calmly. “I’ve heard from Janet every day.”
Janet, the quiet little maid whom Evelyn had trained so efficiently.
“Janet?” he said. “You mean Evelyn, don’t you?”
“No, I mean Janet. I asked Janet to write. Oh, Evelyn’s written, too, of course, but I think that Janet’s accounts are more reliable. Well, what’s happening down at Bartenham?”
She lit a cigarette as she spoke. That was another shock. She’d smoked in the old days, but not like this, not with this air of sophistication.
He began to tell her the news of Bartenham, speaking sulkily, warily, as if not quite sure whether she were making fun of him. She, in her turn, told him of her own doings—pleasantly, but still as if he were a stranger. He gathered that Philippa had a large circle of friends—old friends and friends she had made abroad.
“I think I’ve met more people in the last month,” said Effie, “than I’ve ever met in my life before.”
As she talked he began to have an uncomfortable feeling that she was looking at him from a new angle. The old unquestioning love had gone. She’d got away from him and could see him in perspective, as it were, could criticise him, could compare him with Philippa’s friends, whom he saw suddenly as a host of charming, cultured, impeccably dressed, impossibly handsome males. His desolation changed to a seething jealousy.
“Do you and Evelyn still do crossword puzzles in the evenings?” Effie was saying.
She spoke unconcernedly, as one might speak of something so far off that it can have no possible connection with oneself.
Evelyn . . . it was partly because of Evelyn that he’d come up today. It had happened last night. He’d glanced up suddenly from his newspaper and found Evelyn’s eyes fixed on him with a curious look in their depths. She had made some casual remark and returned at once to her needlework, but over Robert had come a strange sensation of panic. He felt as if he were some small animal being pursued by Evelyn, fleeing from her but aware that she was gaining on him . . . gaining . . . gaining. The thing had invaded his dreams—Evelyn, large, sleek, feline, pursuing him through an interminable forest, in which he knew that, despite all his efforts, he had no chance of escape. And, waking from the nightmare in a sweat of terror, he had decided to come down to see Effie today.
“Generally,” he said rather sulkily.
He wanted to tell her that everything—even crossword puzzles, acrostics, and anagrams—had lost its savour since she had gone away, but somehow he couldn’t. He felt that he could have told the old warm loving Effie, but not this assured stranger. Of course, there would have been no need to tell the old Effie. The old Effie would never have gone away. Suddenly he blurted it out.
“When are you coming back, Effie?”
She looked at him for a moment in silence, then answered:
“I told Susan. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No. I haven’t seen her. She and Ken have gone up North, you know.”
“I know. They came here to say goodbye.” She smiled at him with faint malice. “How pleased Caroline must be!”
He didn’t rise indignantly to Caroline’s defence as he would once have done. He didn’t feel that Caroline had been absolutely right in this affair of Susan’s. She couldn’t help Susan’s and Kenneth’s quarrelling, of course, and she couldn’t help Susan’s coming home to her when they had quarrelled, but he didn’t feel satisfied that she had done all she could to reconcile them. He felt rather strongly just now on the subject of wives who leave their husbands. Kenneth wasn’t a bad sort, but Caroline seemed to have a down on him for some reason or other. All he’d been able to get out of her as justifying her disapproval of him was that he’d been drunk once since his marriage and had had a woman before it. She kept saying that Susan was unhappy with him, but Susan had looked a good deal unhapp
ier since she’d left him. No, he still loved Caroline, but his old complete confidence in her judgement was shaken. He felt that she hadn’t acted altogether wisely in the case of Susan and Kenneth. Kenneth, by the way, was lucky to have sold his business to Fox & Glazonby and to have got a job as manager of one of their biggest branches in Liverpool. Melsham’s had been doing very badly lately and he was on his beam-ends when Fox & Glazonby made their offer. Caroline would miss Susan, of course. Poor Caroline! She’d looked dreadfully old and worn the last time he saw her. But—the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Caroline hadn’t acted wisely. He must take care that she never made mischief between him and Effie, as, however unconsciously, she’d made it between Susan and Kenneth.
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