Information Received

by E. R. Punshon

  ‘“I suppose this attempt to bribe a little child’s love is a proof of some essential weakness in my father’s character. I imagine it was this weakness in him that cost him his wife’s love. It was a weakness that would, I think, have made some women love him more. I think it would have me. I think if I had found a man leaning on me, depending on me, that would have called out all the best I had to give. But my mother did not feel like that, because she was weak, too, weaker than he was, very weak and yielding and gentle, and ready to take the impress of any near her. If she had found strength in him, then perhaps she would have been strong, too. And if he had found strength in her, then in his turn he would have been stronger. But their two weaknesses clashed, reacted, each on the other, and I think there was unconscious anger and distrust between them, because each knew what the other might have given, but could not.

  ‘“Yet there was so much in them both that was sweet and gentle and very tender. I think it would have been all right in the end, only that one day my father brought home a business friend, Mr Clarke, he was not Sir Christopher then.

  ‘“That happened before the doll episode, but it was not till some time after it that I began to associate Mr Clarke with the trouble in the house, with mother’s occasional tears and father’s fits of gloomy silence. I remember once he had me in his arms in the hall, and was laughing and kissing me, and I tried to pull mother towards him, and he put me down suddenly and went into the drawing-room, and mother went back upstairs, and I was left alone in that cold passage.

  ‘“Mr Clarke was altogether different from father. He was loud-voiced, vigorous, competent. He knew what he wanted and what he wanted he took; and if it was something that happened to belong to you, why, so much the worse for you. Oh, he was strong, strong as brute, elemental things are strong. It was like a struggle between the fine flower of sheltered city life and some raw force of nature, it was like a sudden storm of wind and rain breaking into a carefully guarded conservatory, it was like the matching of a vase of beaten gold against one of wrought iron. With all that, there was a certain rough good nature about the man; he was not malicious, no more malicious than the wind and rain bringing ruin on the delicate, hot-house plants. If you were in a difficulty, and he had time, he would often help you, even if very often chiefly in order to show his greater strength and skill. If you bent before him, he did you no harm; if you ran for shelter, he passed you by.

  ‘“So much justice it is right and fitting I should do him, now that I have killed him.

  ‘“But it was my father’s great misfortune that he possessed something Mr Clarke wanted with all the force of his strong, narrow, seeking self.

  ‘“I suppose he fascinated mother from the first. She felt the contrast with my father, who was always so hesitating and uncertain, and who would have turned aside from picking up a fortune rather than hurt the feelings of a blind beggar standing near. Mr Clarke – Sir Christopher – my stepfather – he wouldn’t even have seen the blind beggar, no, not even if everyone near had combined to point him out. He would have seen nothing but the fortune and he would have taken it and kept it.

  ‘“Why is it that the fine things of the world must break when they come against the coarser?

  ‘“Or must they?

  ‘“My father broke at any rate, as is shown, I suppose, by his pathetic attempt to bribe my love. But it was not for the doll I loved him but because I knew he had great need that I should. But I loved my mother, too. She was very gentle and very, very lovely, and so fragile you thought a breath would be enough to blow her right away.

  ‘“Two things happened. Mr Clarke went away on business that took him to New York. That didn’t make things any easier. He was gone in the body, but his memory was with us, like a living thing, always there.

  ‘“The other thing that happened was that father fell ill. His health was always weak, and it had grown worse. Mr Clarke came back from America and came to see us and then had to go back there again. My father grew worse. Mother nursed him. The doctor wanted a professional nurse but mother would not hear of it. She would hardly let anyone else into the room, she wanted to do everything, though she was so very far from strong. She tried to keep me away, but I used to slip in every opportunity that I got, and sit by him. We never spoke, father and I. But I knew he wanted me there. Perhaps it was then I first learnt to be silent as people say I am. The maids used to talk about how devoted mother was. So did the doctor. And he told us there was no real danger; with care and good nursing there was every reason to think father would get well again.

  ‘“One day I was in the room, sitting by the side of the bed. We had been silent as usual. He had his eyes closed. He opened them. Mother had just gone out of the room. He looked at me for a little and then he said:

  ‘“‘Brenda, had your mother a letter to-day?’

  ‘“I knew there had been letters that morning but I did not know anything about them.

  ‘“He said:

  ‘“‘I should not ask you that.’

  ‘“Mother came back into the room and I said to her:

  ‘“‘Mummy, daddy wants to know if you had a letter this morning.’

  ‘“I saw them look at each other. They looked at each other for a long time. They did not say anything. I was very frightened. I did not understand, but I was horribly afraid. I do not think anyone can understand how afraid I was.

  ‘“I began to cry and mother took me out of the room and called one of the maids. The maid thought it was because of father I was crying. So it was, but not as she thought.

  ‘“That night the same maid came and woke me up.

  ‘“‘Your father wants you,’ she said.

  ‘“She carried me down into his room. The doctor was there and my mother. Father put out his hand and held mine. The doctor was standing quite close. My mother was standing at the foot of the bed. Her face was in shadow and I could not see it. I heard the doctor say:

  ‘“‘I can’t make it out. I can’t understand what’s happened.’

  ‘“Then he said again:

  ‘“‘He’s no right to be like this, not when he was going on so well.’

  ‘“Suddenly father pulled me close to him.

  ‘“‘Brenda, remember,’ he said very loudly, ‘remember, Brenda.’

  ‘“He never spoke or moved again though he lived some hours.

  ‘“But I think I knew very well, even then, what it was he had told me I was to remember.”’

  CHAPTER 34

  INFORMATION RECEIVED (CONTINUED)

  ‘“Within six months mother had married again. I do not think anyone was very much surprised. Mr Clarke cabled as soon as he heard of father’s death and returned at once, though he still had business in New York that needed his attention. But he left all that to his associates and took the next steamer home. Father’s affairs were in great confusion. There were debts and nothing to pay them with.

  ‘“Mr Clarke took all that in hand. I remember very well the difference there was after his return, how tradespeople became civil and attentive again, and a horrible man who had been about the house a lot suddenly disappeared. Mr Clarke cleared up everything, settled with the creditors, arranged everything, did everything. I suppose but for him we should have had to go to the workhouse. When mother told me we were going to live with him always, it hardly seemed a change. He had been so constantly with us ever since he came back.

  ‘“He was always quite kind to me. He didn’t take much notice of me, but mother had everything she wanted for me quite naturally. He took it for granted that mother would see I had all it was right and necessary a child should have, whether in the way of necessity or pleasure. He would pat me on the head or cheek when we met and give me sixpences and shillings, and at Christmas and on my birthday there were always generous treats and presents.

  ‘“But I do not think all that ever gave me any pleasure, ever gave me any of that joy which there should be in a little child’s existence.

&nbs
p; ‘“It was from him I first learnt I was silent. I heard him say one day:

  ‘“‘She’s a silent little thing.’

  ‘“Afterwards I asked mother:

  ‘“‘Mummy, why am I a silent little thing?’

  ‘“She did not answer me but I remember still how pale she became and later on I heard him ask her why she had been crying.

  ‘“He was always very good to her. He was really fond of her; somehow his hard, aggressive, thrusting self seemed to find delight in her gentle, yielding personality, so strangely receptive as it was to stronger characters. He was really fond of her in his possessive kind of way, he took possession of her as he did of everything; she was a part of him and everything that belonged to him became at once important and valuable – and valued. I believe he would have grown fond of me if I had let him, if I had surrendered, too. But I never did, and he hardly noticed it or minded. My conquest did not seem to him of any importance, he no more bothered about me or conquering my personality, or knowing if I had one to conquer, than he did about his office clerks.

  ‘“Presently Jennie was born. He was very pleased, very proud, here was another witness to his power, to his success, another possession, and he measured all things by possession. Anything that was his had, so to say, from that mere fact, a kind of halo about it.

  ‘“He wanted a boy, too. So mother did her best, but she died instead because she was never very strong.

  ‘“She knew she was dying. So did I. I knew it from the first. It was when she knew it herself and knew I knew it, too, that she said to me:

  ‘“‘Brenda, what did your father mean when he told you to remember?’

  ‘“It angered me that she should ask that, ask me what we both knew so well. I said:

  ‘“‘I don’t know.’

  ‘“Of course that was not true and she was not deceived. She said:

  ‘“‘I daren’t pray... I daren’t pray.’

  ‘“I didn’t speak. I knew she wanted me to, but I kept silent. After a long time she said:

  ‘“‘It’s all true about hell because I’ve been there ever since.’

  ‘“I did not ask her ever since what. Presently the nurse who had been out of the room on some errand or another came back, and then Sir Christopher – he was that by now – came tip-toeing in. I don’t know why exactly, but that he should come in on tip-toe like that made me mad, I think. I remember the feeling that came over me. I spoke to the nurse. I think perhaps what I did then was the most dreadful thing any woman has ever done since the world began. I don’t think I would have done it had he not come in like that on tip-toe. I said:

  ‘“‘You won’t mistake the medicine, nurse, will you?’

  ‘“I don’t think Sir Christopher understood then. Perhaps he did later. But mother heard. Mother understood. I saw how she shrank and trembled and was still again, and, ah – how she looked at me, how terribly she looked at me. The nurse began to laugh. I daresay she would have been vexed if she had not laughed. But she stopped laughing. She felt laughter was not right and I expect she explained that by reminding herself that it was a sick-room. But it was not that that made laughter wrong. She stopped laughing and said:

  ‘“‘Good gracious, no, indeed I won’t.’

  ‘“I remember that scene so well. By now the nurse was staring at the three of us, her eyes, her mouth wide open. She looked so bewildered I could have burst out laughing in my turn. Sir Christopher was staring at me. He was puzzled, just puzzled. That was all, vaguely puzzled, vaguely annoyed that he was puzzled. I knew he thought I was not behaving nicely and I suppose I wasn’t. He was a man with a great gift for not understanding – especially when he did not want to understand. Mother lay quite still, one does lie still when one has suddenly been stabbed right through the heart. I think she hardly moved or spoke again, though it was nearly two days before – before her second death.

  ‘“I think Sir Christopher soon put the scene out of his mind. He decided not to think of it any more. He was so strong he had the power to do that – to put the things he did not wish to remember clean out of his mind. I had not.

  ‘“I know her death was a great sorrow to him and he missed her, but I think he was almost as much puzzled and annoyed as he was grieved. It was astonishing to him that events he had always been so well able to control should thus escape his grasp; he had a sense of having been unfairly treated, he was angry as though a rightful possession of his had been suddenly snatched away behind his back.

  ‘“It was, I am quite sure, for my mother’s sake that he showed he wished to do all he could for me. He told somebody who had spoken about me:

  ‘“‘I look upon Brenda’s future as my responsibility.’

  ‘“Even a responsibility he thought of as ‘his’, and my future, too, he thought should belong to him as well.

  ‘“Not that he took much notice of me. He was a busy man and work helped him to forget, both his real grief for my mother’s loss and the insult that had been offered to his sense of property. He made up for that by accumulating still more, very successfully, but he never forgot mother, and for her sake he still continued to do what he thought his duty by me. Also I think he knew I was fond of Jennie and that Jennie was fond of me; and then quite naturally the house management fell into my hands and I know I did it well. I have a kind of gift for organizing and managing, at any rate it was never any trouble to me, and everything in the house ran smoothly, as he liked it to.

  ‘“He was not a subtle man. A thing had to be very obvious before it impressed itself on him. I remember once when something was said about my silence, he laughed, and pulled my ear, and said:

  ‘“‘Anyhow, I am glad my little girl is not a chatterbox.’

  ‘“Always that ‘my’, you see.

  ‘“But I wasn’t a little girl any more and it was some time after this that I began to see him watching me. I never said anything. I never referred to either my father or my mother. I was, I am sure, no more silent than I had always been, than I had been when he laughed about it.

  ‘“But now I could see he was watching me, and, when I was there, he began to change a little from his usual boisterous, confident self. I wonder if it was the intensity of my thoughts that he became aware of? Perhaps it is because thought can be felt that after a time I began to be aware that he was afraid. I knew that before he did, I think at first he was only conscious of a vague unease, but it was not very long before he knew that it was fear he felt. When I came into a room when he was there, I could see it from the way he looked up. When he went out of a room where I was sitting, I could see it in the way he walked. When we remained together in a room, then I knew it still more certainly. But yet it often seemed to me that he did not know what it was he feared or what he was afraid of. Only every day that passed he knew just a little tiny bit more clearly. Once or twice he even tried to make me talk.

  ‘“The next thing was that he began to encourage young men to come to the house. But what had I to do with young men when there was no room in my mind save for the one thought that never left it?

  ‘“All the time his fear was growing and all the time he never knew whether there was any reason for it. Perhaps if he had been more certain he could have faced it better, known better what to do. But there was nothing that he could do, because, if he sent me away, then that would have been to acknowledge his fear, and he would not.

  ‘“I wonder if there are other houses like ours, houses that look so calmly prosperous, so placidly content, proud houses where nothing seems to be but wealth and ease, and yet where doubt and fear and guilt brood day and night?

  ‘“Then Mark Lester appeared. I think really he had been there a long time only I had never noticed him much. I hardly realized that he was constant in the changing crowd of young men who came and went. It never occurred to me that his great ill-fortune had been to fall in love with me. How should I have known? Love and hate do not go well together.

  ‘“Sir Christopher n
oticed Mark, became aware of his assiduity, saw he was in earnest. In his direct, determined way he spoke to Mark himself. Then he spoke to me. He made himself quite clear. I think the chance of escape offered him made him desperate it should be taken. Mark wanted to marry me. I was to accept him. Of course, any other young man would have done as well, but Mark was there, he wanted me, he was eligible. If I refused – but a refusal was not contemplated. In his relief at the thought of getting rid of me, Sir Christopher was his old masterful, certain self once more.

  ‘“He told me he would settle forty thousand pounds on me, absolutely.

  ‘“An enormous sum! An incredibly generous sum for a man to settle on a stepdaughter who had so little real claim on him.

  ‘“But I understood, very well I understood.

  ‘“I knew that forty thousand pounds, that huge fortune, was just a bribe. Just as my father had tried to bribe my love, so now my stepfather tried to bribe my hate!

  ‘“It is strange how sometimes things seem to return upon themselves and happen all over again and yet so differently.

  ‘“Mark loved me. I knew that now. I saw the choice quite clearly. I could have a fortune, love, happiness, content – all that was offered me.

  ‘“A bribe!

  ‘“I do not think it ever occurred to me to accept.

  ‘“I do not think it ever occurred to my stepfather that I would refuse.”’

  CHAPTER 35

  INFORMATION RECEIVED (CONTINUED)

  ‘“But this offer of a bribe did one thing. It made me certain. It took all my doubts away.

  ‘“Now I knew.

  ‘“Already I had all my preparations complete. For long and long I had had every detail worked out in my mind – and variations of every detail to meet every conceivable chance and change.

  ‘“No wonder that when I had so much to think of, I got the name for being silent. How could I talk and chatter when in my mind I was rehearsing step by step the task that lay before me, that I had been called upon so dreadfully to accomplish, when always there was present to me my father’s ghost: ‘Remember’?