The quiet evening lay about them. They wandered in the garden till the sun went down upon the plans they were making, and then they went back into the house. Each carrying a flat silver candlestick, they walked through all the rooms, loving everything they saw, and steeping themselves in the atmosphere of the place. It enveloped them, isolating them, while the world receded into forgetfulness, and they were alone. No one else could know this sense of Brokeyates which was common to them. They wanted no words to express it to one another. It was like a shared fragrance coming on a sudden breeze; or like the meeting of the eyes of two sufferers, who have endured tortures of thirst, and who at last drink together from a cool and brimming cup.
Alethea went to sleep feeling so happy, that when she woke up a few hours later, and heard the quiet breathing of Nicholas beside her in the dark, she was suddenly repentant. During those hours, she had forgotten Hans.
‘And perhaps to-morrow, we shall not feel so near to each other,’ she thought. ‘I ought to have spoken this evening. He would not have said no.’
The thought disquieted her, and she threw herself restlessly about on her pillows. Nicholas woke up.
‘Can’t you sleep, my darling?’ he said, his arm round her.
‘I have been asleep,’ she answered, uncertain whether to say more.
‘How perfect to wake—at Brokeyates—and to find you here. Oh, my darling, I ask no more of life.’
And when he said this, she could not spoil his happiness by speaking of something which she knew must hurt him. She said nothing.
The next morning she knew she must speak. It was an effort, for she feared that Nicholas would not understand why it was impossible for her to acquiesce in the old arrangement, and leave Hans, unquestioned, with Miss Nash at Cairn Gorm.
She knew she could not do so. In the old days, she had taught herself to accept life at Brokeyates as a somewhat commonplace middle-aged affair, its outward occupations shared with her husband, and its innermost depths undisturbed. Hans had then been the holiday in that work-a-day world. Her visits to him had been joyous interludes when she had laughed and was gaily happy.
But now, both her husband and her son meant more to her; and the new complication of her life arose from the fact that they were each of them more necessary to her. Nicholas back from the war was again her lover. Romance had come to her again from France, its birthplace. She shrank from breaking the perfect relationship which now linked them. But, on the other hand, Hans had become her daily necessity. Never again could she agree to be nothing but a rare visitor in the house where he lived.
They walked in the garden; and all the time, with one part of herself, she was exulting in the knowledge that she and Nicholas were once more happy with the happiness which they had shared when first they married. But the other half of her heart was tugging at her, calling her back to Cornwall. Again and again she tried to speak of Hans, and each time she shrank from spoiling the enjoyment of this marvellous homecoming. She was not restrained by any fear for herself. It was that she could not bear to break in upon her husband’s complete content. She saw that he was quite unaware of the struggle in her divided heart. And with every hour that she was silent, she felt herself disloyal to Hans.
After luncheon, they sat in the library, and began to talk about the future. They agreed that Portia should stay on at school, as she wished; and then Alethea spoke of Hans.
‘I wondered if it would be possible to get a tutor for Hans, and let him go on with his lessons in this house. It seems unnecessary that he should have a separate household; and I don’t like the thought of being away from him altogether.’
She was looking down, examining her finger nails, as if they suddenly had become extremely interesting. Nicholas was as nervous as she was. The air felt tense, as if thunder were suddenly near.
It was the last thing he expected her to say. He had grown so accustomed to Hans being away from home, that it seemed to him an unquestionable arrangement. The child was conveniently banished from his father’s sight, and it had not occurred to Nicholas that for Alethea the situation might not be so satisfactory. He had never allowed himself to dwell on that aspect of the case. But, unprepared as he was, there was no doubt in his mind as to what was the only possible answer he could make. Hans must not come home. His presence would re-open the old wound, and would completely spoil the life which seemed beginning for himself and Alethea. And for what purpose? Nicholas assured himself that he had the child’s welfare in his mind. Hans was in a place which suited his health, where he had excellent teachers, and where everyone around him was accustomed to his appearance. To bring him home would not only take him from the sea air and interrupt his lessons, but would expose him to the remarks of strangers who might not be kind to him. Nicholas himself recoiled at the thought of Hans being seen by people in the neighbourhood, and he made himself think that he was saving the child from this, when really his own feelings were his concern.
He hesitated before replying, not because he didn’t know what he meant to say, but because he didn’t know how to say it. He hated to refuse Alethea anything, however unreasonable, on their first day at home together. And too, he felt that usual sense of embarrassment which was always roused by the mention of Hans.
Alethea waited. Her breath came uncertainly.
Nicholas crossed the room to where she was sitting, and put his arm round her.
‘Dear Alethea,’ he said, ‘I know you want to do what is best for the poor little chap; but he is far better off where he is. Physically, the sea is his only chance. That air may possibly even now develop his body. And we shall never anywhere else find such teachers for him. He has a unique chance with Mr. Crosby. It would be a disaster for Hans to give up those drawing lessons. I know we ought not to think of moving the child. It’s a mistake for all children to have their lessons interrupted, but it is trebly so with Hans. I hate to make you unhappy, but we must not think of it. It is for his sake that I know it is impossible.’
Never since Hans was born had Nicholas spoken of him to his mother with such kindness and feeling. But only his manner was changed. Alethea knew that her husband was as inexorable as ever. She burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
NICHOLAS gained his point as usual, and, as usual, Alethea gave in. This was because Nicholas was never in any doubt as to what he wanted, although he may have deceived himself as to his motives; while Alethea, all the time, had an enemy in the gate. She loved two people, and those two loves of hers were mutually exclusive. Her problem was to include them both in her life.
But this time, she did succeed in reaching a compromise. It was agreed that Hans should come home for the holidays, and this made him at once like any other schoolboy. It was really a revolution in the lives of them all. Hans was no longer ignored—his existence barely recognized. He was treated in the same way as the boys in all the neighbouring houses were treated.
And as time passed, Alethea realized that they had indeed found the best solution of their difficulties. If Hans had always been at home, the strain on them all would have been too great. Even now, when he only came to Brokeyates for a few weeks at a time, she knew that he was on his father’s nerves, although the two did not often meet—Alethea saw to that. But when they were in the same room, Nicholas was at his worst—silent, sulky, morose; and Hans, who knew his father in no other mood, therefore became restrained and unnatural.
But now Alethea made it a practice that, when Hans was at Cairn Gorm, she should spend every week-end with him there; and thus she divided her life between her husband and her son.
Portia, after all, left Penzance before she was eighteen. In the last two years, she had grown up, and she found that the world of school was becoming too small for her. When she came back to Brokeyates for the holidays, she liked the position of daughter of the house, for she felt that it was a very important place, and that she, when there, was a very important person. Her University ambitions lost their attraction for
her. She was tired of being educated; and she was quite sure that she already knew so much more than other people, there could be no need for her to learn more. She was also convinced that it is only in schools and colleges that wisdom and knowledge are acquired; and therefore it was plain that the world, and especially those people in the world who had not been at her school, could have nothing further to teach her.
Portia had at one time been Miss Gough’s favourite pupil; but now she seemed to have outgrown the school, and the authorities unhesitatingly advised her parents that it was better for her to leave.
Portia was now a handsome athletic-looking creature, only an inch under six feet in height, and with a superb carriage. She held her head high, and moved with a swift easy balance. Her eyes were dark and deep-set like her father’s, and her skin was clear and glowing. When she spoke she always gave her hearer something of a shock, for her voice was like a man’s, startling in its depth and gruffness, and curiously unmodulated. It had in it so little inflection, that, whatever she said, she always seemed to be shouting across a wide space.
The Roxerbys were now far better off than they had been, for, after the war, Nicholas sold several of his outlying farms, and they went for high prices. They could therefore now live at Brokeyates in far greater comfort than they had known there, since he renounced his Australian fortune.
Owing to his prejudice against the master of the hounds, Nicholas had given up hunting ever since his marriage, but now Portia wanted to hunt, and her father was quite willing that she should. The girl knew nothing at all about horses; but she looked upon riding as the natural pastime of young ladies who live in large country houses, and she considered the hunting field as their rightful playground. Moreover, she wanted to possess a horse of her own, before she invited any of her school friends to stay at Brokeyates. This was not because she looked forward to the pleasure of giving them a mount now and again. Far from it. She would invite no riders to stay with her. She wanted her guests to see her glory when she rode away, leaving them behind.
Portia was surprised to hear her father consult Alethea as to the choice of a horse. She had never seen her mother on horseback, and she had made up her mind that she was far too old-fashioned to know anything about sport.
‘Don’t ask mummy,’ she said. ‘Her idea of a horse will be a nice safe pony like the one the children rode on the sands at Penzance.’
‘Your mother knows a good deal more about horses than you do,’ said Nicholas.
‘In theory of course,’ Portia answered, with an indulgent smile. ‘Parents are always supposed to know more about everything than their children do, because they have been in the world so much longer. But horses can only be understood by riding them.’
‘And so you think that your mother was never a horsewoman?’
‘Well, was she?’ asked Portia, a little disconcerted by her father’s enigmatic smile.
‘I fell in love with her in the hunting field.’
‘Did you, my dear?’ Alethea interposed. ‘I thought you always told me that it was in the Spanish arm-chair in the library.’
‘Your seat in both was equally perfect,’ said Nicholas.
Portia chafed at the time wasted by these middle-aged and sentimental reminiscences.
‘Anyhow I want a horse,’ she said. ‘And here I am with only an arm-chair to sit upon. Mummy seems to have had both when she was my age.’
‘Of course you shall have a horse,’ Nicholas said. ‘Though you won’t find it quite so safe a seat as that arm-chair. But it will do you good to have something which will give you a tumble now and then. You are so alarmingly grand.’
Portia thought that her father’s jokes were distinctly clumsy; but she was ready to smile at them if they were accompanied by the gift of a horse, and she saw that he was quite prepared to give her one. And when it came, she found that it had been trained for polo. It was bigger than most polo ponies, as its last master had been a heavy man. Portia at once decided that she would adopt this dashing sport as her own particular game.
‘You must have a good deal more practice in riding before you attempt polo,’ said her father.
‘You seem to have forgotten’, Portia answered, ‘ that I used to ride when I was a little girl. Don’t you remember that black pony we had? He really was a difficult little beast to ride. And one never forgets what one learns as a child.’
This last was the kind of platitude which always sounded original in Portia’s ears.
‘That old black pony?’ said Nicholas. ‘Of course I remember him, and I remember holding you on to his back. He was about thirty, wasn’t he? And I believe he was blind and deaf and lame.’
‘You evidently don’t remember him at all,’ said Portia, with ruffled dignity.
‘I wonder who you will find to play with you,’ Alethea remarked. ‘I don’t think that any of the girls about here are polo players.’
‘I expect not,’ said Portia disdainfully. ‘I don’t mean to play with girls. Too slow for me.’
‘I expect the young men will find you a bit too slow for them,’ said Nicholas teasingly.
‘You will see,’ Portia answered in tones of serene confidence.
‘I probably shall,’ said her father. ‘And mind you are quick enough to see it too.’
‘What a beast daddy is,’ Portia said, turning pettishly to Alethea.
‘Never mind. You will be able to laugh at him when you can play polo,’ Alethea replied.
‘I can now.’
And in spite of her father’s derision, Portia did succeed in founding a Polo Club, and she appointed herself to be captain of the Brokeyates team. She collected quite a number of young men, who wanted some exercise when the hunting was over, and between them they made a very passable polo ground in the Park. It must be confessed that most of the club were somewhat disconcerted when they found that Portia meant to play herself. They had imagined that her interest in the game was purely altruistic; or, at any rate, that her sole share in it would be to collect audiences to applaud.
Nothing was further from her mind. Portia had never cared for any game in which she was not the chief player, and at school, her superior physique had given her an advantage over the other girls. She had never even seen a game of polo, though she had seen pictures of it in Country Life. She realized, of course, that the young men who played would know more than she did about the rules of the game; but as for the actual play, as soon as she saw how it was done, she had no doubt that she would be able to do it quite as well as any of them. And in any case, a woman alone, playing in a game with men, must find herself in an unrivalled position.
So the Polo Club was formed; and although the young men, by dint of a certain amount of strategy, did succeed in playing a good number of matches without her, yet, whenever Portia played, she was allowed to call herself the captain of the team; and the local spectators—many of whom were seeing polo for the first time—agreed that she was a wonderful player. She delighted in the compliments paid her by the members of the club, who wanted to use the polo ground, and who thought that a few pretty speeches to Sir Nicholas’s daughter, were no very high price to pay for the privilege.
In Portia’s eyes, the audience was the really important part of these games. She was aware of it all the time. It was mostly feminine—a few school friends whom she invited to stay in the house, and some chosen girls from the neighborhood. They were herded together on benches behind a cord, and were barely introduced to the players. When the game was over, they were expected to find their entertainment in listening to Portia’s conversation with the young men; and this generally consisted of uproarious chaff about things which were quite meaningless except to the speakers themselves. Thus she gave her friends the opportunity of learning how the great amuse themselves.
Alethea did not often come to the polo ground, but when she was there, she did her best to give all the guests the feeling of being included equally in the party. This, however, really made the girls feel
even more ‘out of it’, for they saw that Portia’s mother found it necessary to try to bring them in. No. Portia’s parties were not popular with the girls of her own age, and yet she would never let them off coming. She knew how to make it very difficult to refuse an invitation given personally on the telephone.
Alethea was surprised, and rather amused, to find that Arthur Fanshawe had joined Portia’s Polo Club. He had grown into a chubby childlike man of about forty-five; and somewhat unaccountably, he had become General Fanshawe, in virtue of some mysterious prowess shown by him in the Remount Department. He had served in this throughout the war, and this fact made him, in Portia’s eyes, undoubtedly an authority on polo. She considered him a most distinguished man, and very young to be a General. She was impressed by his weight, and of course she did not know that he had ever wanted to marry her mother.
Time had healed that wound; and Arthur, who was flattered by being looked upon as one of the smart young polo players of the neighbourhood, now felt no embarrassment about going to Brokeyates. He had occasionally met Nicholas and Alethea during the last year or two. They had not become intimate again, but the past was forgotten between them.
Nicholas sent a secret smile towards his wife when Portia announced her new recruit; and Alethea remarked that she thought that General Fanshawe would be a great success at ladies’ polo. Portia looked uncertainly at her mother. She suspected irony—a manner of speaking which, like the voice of a bat, can only be detected by a sensitive ear. Portia sometimes suspected that her mother’s words had a double meaning, but she never could see what it was. Now, she looked superior, and said nothing.
When Hans came home for the holidays, Portia was very insistent in her invitations to him to come and watch the polo. Her attitude towards her brother was at first sight contradictory. She had very little affection for him, and yet she wanted him to be at home. This was a survival of her childish pleasure in comparing her own height with his. She had enjoyed this when they were eleven and twelve years old, and she enjoyed it still. But it was not only in inches that Portia liked to measure herself against someone whom she knew she could outstrip. It gave her immense delight in other ways. She liked the society of people who did things less well than she did.
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