by Henry Green
“I hadn’t worried about that side of it,” he protested.
“Very likely not,” she agreed. “All the same I did.”
“In what way?”
“In no way at all Philip,” his mother told him sharply. “Call it knowledge of the wicked world, call everything what you will, instinct might be the best name, but something whispered to me this would be wrong.”
“You really have all along?”
“Oh I never interfere,” she cried. “You can’t say I’ve once come between you and something you’ve really wished. My dearest hope darling is to see you happy. Of course Mary’s young. She’ll soon get over things when the disappointment’s gone. But what will John say?”
“Does this make it awkward for you?”
“I wouldn’t say so quite,” she replied. “I’ve known him now a great number of years. Still everything has to be done in a civilized way, I hope you realize Philip. Have you spoken to anyone yet?”
“Not a soul.”
“That’s so much gained then” she said. She paused, got a mirror out of her handbag and began to remake her face. Those great eyes were limpid with what seemed to be innocence.
“I mustn’t be rushed,” she announced at last.
“I know Mamma. I only came for advice.”
“A little late for that?” she said tartly. “Now are you certain sure you’ve made up your own mind?”
“Well I’m not.”
“Philip how can you say so when the girl’s very sweet I know but a simpleton without a penny and not even really pretty.”
Mr. Weatherby became very dignified.
“Say what you like,” he protested in sulky tones “I shall respect her all my life whatever happens.”
“Which means that for two twos you’d wed her now?”
“I didn’t say did I?”
“All right my dear,” she said. “But you seem very touchy about this. She’s a nice girl I agree yet I also know she’s not nearly good enough for you. What are we to do about it, that is the question?”
“To be or not to be Mamma.”
“Philip don’t dramatise yourself for heaven’s sake. This is no time for Richard II. You just can’t go into marriage in such a frame of mind. Let me simply think!”
“What did you feel when you were getting married?”
“Is none of your damned business! Now leave me be, please my dear. I’ve got to use what wits I have left.”
There was a silence while she covered her eyes with fat ringed fingers and he watched like a small boy.
“I shall have to ask John here to a meal,” she decided at last.
“I don’t somehow feel I could face him Mamma.”
“Alone with me,” she explained still from behind her hands. “Oh dear,” she moaned “it’s horribly like.”
“What is?” he asked.
“Something years ago,” she answered.
At this moment the door opened without a sound and her daughter crept through, a forefinger to the lips, obviously in the middle of a game.
“Hi-ya Pen” Mr. Weatherby gravely said.
Mrs. Weatherby screamed. Her hands went to her ears. “You sweet darling,” she cried “what time is it? You mustn’t come down now! So important. Philip and I are talking.”
The child considered them out of her enormous eyes. Then she as softly withdrew still signalling silence.
“Mummy’ll come up and read to you when you’re in bed,” the mother called after her. “God forgive me,” she said in a lower voice “the little saint coming down like that has driven every idea right out of my poor mind.”
“But Mamma you can’t truthfully blame Mary for having no money of her own. Who is there has these days?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked from the midst of an obvious abstraction.
“Just a moment ago you said against Mary she didn’t have a penny to her name.”
“Philip,” she cried “don’t clutter me up with detail. Besides I always imagined you must keep some rags and tatters of family feeling left, of keeping up the name. No you’ll please let me think.”
He bit his nails.
“John has his awkward moments you know,” Jane murmured at last.
“Always seemed fairly straightforward when I’ve seen the man,” her son wearily protested.
“Which is all you know about people Philip. Oh dear for the matter of that what do we all of us know about anyone?”
“Well Mamma you’re able to read me like the palm of your own hand.”
“I’m not sure I can now Philip.”
There was another pause.
“Then do you truly think I should go to a fortune teller?” his mother asked.
“If you feel it might help,” the son replied.
“They sometimes give such bad advice and it’s cruel hard to go against what they’ve said,” she muttered. She removed the hand she held to her forehead, shading her eyes. He anxiously examined her face. But it could not be said there was any change in the expression. Sweetness and light still reigned supreme with perhaps a trace of mischief at the corners of a generous mouth.
“You’ll have to tell Mary first,” Mrs. Weatherby announced. “Then and only then can I ask John to dinner. But what if he won’t come?”
“Oh I know I shall have to see him Mamma!”
“You’re to do nothing of the kind dearest until I’ve got my little oar in. I’ll manage John I should hope after all these years, or I very much hope so. No I shall have to be ill. Not that I won’t be really ill by that time, sick to death in my poor mind.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“Nonsense,” she cried gaily. “Come over to me,” she ordered. When he sheepishly rose she kissed him on his forehead then made him sit by her side. “What am I here for after all? Oh dear but isn’t it going to be rather exciting and dreadful!”
Then she must have had a return to an earlier fear.
“My poor boy you’re sure you haven’t interfered with the girl in any way?” she asked with averted head, laying a hand on his arm.
“Interfered? What d’you mean? She was the keenest on the whole idea as a matter of fact.”
“Knowing you oh so well as I do I’m almost certain you’ve misunderstood me Philip. No I meant you haven’t made love to her in that way have you?”
“Me? God no. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“I thought so,” and she sighed. She turned her eyes back on him with a sorrowing look. “Yes,” she said “you make some of it ever so much easier. I wonder if any of this would have happened if I’d married again and there’d been a man about the house.”
“What difference could he have made? It’s my life surely?”
“For you to live if you want to live,” she answered.
“Of course I wish to. I’m not ill am I?”
“Now dearest you’re not to turn sour and desperate just because you’ve got yourself into rather a silly little mess and have to come to me to get you out of things. How would everything have looked if we’d had it announced in the Press, tell me that?”
“Oh don’t!”
“Quite Philip dear and I think you’ve been very wise, almost clever when all’s said and done. But you’ve not breathed a word even to Liz are you sure?”
“Me? Why should I?”
“Or Maud Winder’s girl? What’s her name?”
“Certainly not.”
“That’s something certainly then!”
“You know I always tell you first Mamma.”
“Bless you and so you should.”
“But how does Miss Jennings come into this?”
“Dearest you’d never understand,” she said. “Not in your present mood.”
“Oh if you want to make mysteries,” he objected.
“Now Philip I simply won’t have it,” she protested in a bright voice. “You get yourself into a desperate tangle without a single word to me, you come out with th
ings in public as though you were the only one concerned and at last you come to your mother and who wouldn’t, oh I don’t blame you there, to extricate yourself from whatever it may be; then you ask what’s what, who’s who and details of everything passing through my poor head,—have some consideration dearest for the poor person you’re speaking to,” she said happily “or I’m very much afraid you won’t be able to do much with your life.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“After all I shan’t be here forever,” she added with a quick shadow of distaste passing across her lovely features.
“Don’t,” he groaned.
She patted the arm she had been holding.
“You mustn’t take all this too seriously Philip,” she comforted. “Not since you’ve promised me no actual harm’s been done.”
“But I’ve been so worried over little Pen,” he wailed.
“God bless the little soul,” Mrs. Weatherby replied. “What about her, the saint?”
“When she was dead keen on being bridesmaid!”
“Bridesmaid? Who to?”
“Why Mary and me of course. You know how Penelope was!”
“Now really Philip,” his mother protested and showed the first true signs of impatience she had displayed, “if I can’t manage my own daughter who can, what use am I? We’ll soon snap her out of that,” she said stoutly. “You’ll see if we don’t.”
•
The next Sunday John Pomfret and Miss Jennings were seated at their usual table. There was as yet no sign of Jane Weatherby or Mr. Abbot. Thick fog curtained from without the windows that looked over the Park.
“But my dear,” Liz was saying “what d’you propose?”
“In which way?” he asked.
“I mean how are you going to live?”
“Just the same as ever I imagine. We’re all slaves to this endless work work work nowadays aren’t we?”
“Then who will look after you?”
“Oh I expect I shall get by Liz. After all at my age it’s the children’s happiness is the thing.”
“What nonsense you do talk John! It’s even disgraceful from a man who’s in the prime of life, and the more so when as I believe you realize yourself there’s not a word of truth in all this you’re saying.”
He laughed. “Well,” he reasoned “the children have to marry some time haven’t they, sooner rather than never—I mean later,” he corrected himself and gave Miss Jennings a short cool stare which she returned. “And when they do or while they’re doing it we have to take a back seat with the best grace in the world.”
“I don’t think Jane is, John.”
“Now you know how fond old Jane still keeps of the limelight.”
“That’s hardly what I meant dear. No she’s telling almost everyone she’ll stop this marriage by any means fair or foul.”
He laughed louder. “Now darling whoever even suggested that?”
“It’s all over London John.”
“Be damned for a yarn,” he said and a certain grimness underscored his voice. “I’ve seen this happen before. When the tongues start clacking then’s the time for all good men and true to look to their powder and see it’s dry.”
“And make sure it isn’t blank shooting or whatever that’s called,” Miss Jennings sweetly said.
He frowned. “Which sounds ominous. Did Jane speak to you Liz?”
“Oh no I’d be the last person, surely you realize dear! But she did get hold of that beastly Maud Winder which is why I was so careful just now to say Jane was telling almost everyone.”
“But the whole thing is totally absurd Liz darling. I only had dinner with Jane last Tuesday and we discussed arrangements for literally hours on end.”
“Did you go into detail?”
“Well no not exactly.”
“Then there you are you see!”
“But you can’t rush these matters Liz. There’s every sort and kind of point to settle. And after all the children have really got to think their own problems out for themselves. Our or rather my function is to assist where I can, God help me.”
“What did Jane actually say John?”
“Oh I don’t know. She may be a bit confused of course, which is only natural but I know my Jane, she’s fundamentally sound. Nothing wrong with her here,” he said tapping the waistcoat pocket over his heart.
Miss Jennings made a noise between a groan and a snort. He did not seem to listen.
“I’d never mention it darling,” he went on “but as I expect you’ve already heard, Jane and I had quite an affair once years ago and I think I know her as well as any man ever does know a woman.”
“Which is why I asked what you meant to do with yourself.”
“How d’you mean Liz?”
“Well I’ve realized all along you wouldn’t put up with Jane’s plotting so I was sure the marriage would go through you see.”
“Thanks,” he said in a dry tone of voice.
“And now I want to know how you propose to manage?”
“Thanks again,” he repeated.
“No John don’t be beastly,” she protested. “Surely I’ve the right, or haven’t I? Who is going to look after you?”
“When all’s said and done Mary never did the cooking Liz.”
“Oh I realize if anything happens to one of your poor faithful women like happiness or marriage or both, if that should conceivably be possible, then you can go and eat in your club where you’ll get better food than ever we can provide you with, but who’s to send your suits to the cleaners?”
“They have a weekly service.”
She laughed. “No John you’re not to be loutish,” she cried. “You know exactly what I’m driving at.”
“Who’s to put my slippers in front of the fire you mean?”
“Well yes if you like.”
“My dear no one’s ever done that for me in my life and it’s too late now.”
“Which just shows you simply won’t have comfort even at the smallest price,” she said. “You are all the same. You’d rather be miserable alone in a hovel of a room than put up with having a woman about to make it home.”
“How little you know,” he replied and gave what was obviously a mock sigh.
“But you’ll find yourself terribly lonely, you know you will.”
“Be nothing new in that,” he said with a sort of bravado..
“You’d rather stay by your own on a desert island than give in to Jane wouldn’t you? Now tell me.”
“I suppose they must have been held up in the fog,” he replied looking for Richard Abbot and Mrs. Weatherby.
“Heaven pity me,” she sighed. “Oh but you can be maddening sometimes!”
He leant forward, put a hand over hers.
“I’m so sorry darling, you see it’s not my life, I haven’t the right but Jane and I went slap through things when I last saw her and of course she’s simply delighted with Mary. Strictly between you and me she’s been worried about Philip and as a matter of fact I didn’t much care for the boy myself at one period if you remember. Marriage’ll be just the thing for him.”
There was something in his speech which did not carry conviction, nevertheless Miss Jennings said “Go on, do. This is a distinct improvement.”
He laughed. “Don’t all you women get excited over weddings!”
“Well of course. What else d’you expect? Now go on.”
“There’s not a syllable more to tell just this minute. The second I have anything like a date or the name of the church, even where they propose to live I’ll pass it on at once. But you know how jealous Jane can be, how particularly cagey where her own or her children’s affairs are concerned. Why some days I myself hardly dare ask how little Penelope happens to feel. No, the less said at the moment the better.”
“Then what about Maud Winder?”
“Oh this will cook her goose with Jane right enough. You just wait till she hears.”
“But you promise if things
won’t run smoothly you shan’t let Jane ride rough-shod over all your plans.”
“My darling Liz I’ve known her for literally ages. I might even understand Jane better than you.”
“Don’t keep on John throwing that beastly old affair of yours with the woman plumb in my face. I really rather wish you wouldn’t!”
“OK I won’t.”
“Because heaven knows I’m no prude but there are parts of that story which aren’t even, darling, for my tender ears.”
He laughed. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Well you’d better be,” she answered and looked as though she sulked. There was a pause while he drummed on the table with his fingers.
“And have you got a list out, of the presents sweet Mary will want?” she asked.
“Not yet as a matter of fact.”
“Blankets bathtowels and so forth? It makes such a difference because otherwise in spite of two wars she may get nothing but glass.”
“I’ll remember,” he promised.
•
A few days later Mrs. Weatherby had John Pomfret to dinner alone for the third time after Philip had announced the engagement.
“Well Jane,” he asked “have they said anything to you? Because I’m still without news at all.”
“My poor heart goes out to them,” she murmured.
“They seem to be taking their time certainly. But as you said the other day perhaps that’s no bad thing in itself.”
“It’s not the two of them I worry over my dear so much as yourself.” Her manner was unusually restrained, serious even.
He laughed uneasily. “How’s this?” he cried.
“What on earth’s to become of you when your girl goes?”
“But Jane Mary’s not my cook.”
“No John you’re not to make a joke about it,” she said although there was little mirthful in his attitude. “You owe your own self the sacred duty of seeing to yourself,” she argued with a sweet sincerity. “I know children must marry some day bless them, but we do have the right to ask what is to become of our own lives.”
“Yet not the right to ask that question of them Jane.”
“My dear you are so much cleverer that you must bear with me. I never suggested anything of the kind I’m sure, now did I? I simply want to be told what you propose to do with yourself, that’s all.”
