It was a dull day, but there were no sharp gusts of wind to ruffle them. Susan stared, frowning, at the chestnut blossom and young beech leaves in the distance, then nearer and lower, at the wallflowers and early roses by her. She picked a stem of port-coloured wallflower, which was very tough.
It was the day she would choose for a proposal of marriage: the scene, though pretty, was not overdone, not like a moonlit balcony. This was the sort of picture of home that people would hold in their minds if they were obliged to live in the colonies. Stooping slightly over the herbaceous border, fiddling, she said privately: ‘You are just my life, that’s all, my destiny, I suppose.’ Octavius brushed against her wicker basket. ‘This is all so natural,’ she thought, ‘right and natural, like a good novel, Octavius.’ She straightened up, and was going to say something cheerful to him.
‘Will you marry me, Susan?’
She stared at him. ‘I – I …’ It amazed her to see him look faintly amused, and she flushed violently.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he suggested, looking away, because it had occurred to him that she would turn him down. There was a bench in a green alcove some yards away, and they walked briskly towards it.
‘Well, Octavius, I don’t know – it’s so unexpected.’
He took her hand. ‘You cannot have been unaware …’
‘Oh, no, but I always imagined …’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I meant to ask you weeks ago,’ said Octavius.
‘You did?’
‘Yes, but I find it difficult to bring myself to the point. I always have done.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Then she smiled.
‘Will you, Susan?’
‘Let me think.’ She added: ‘I find it difficult too, you know.’
Octavius sat there, not yet with his arm around her. He had never kissed her. He wondered whether Susan, so competent and tender a woman, would continue to fret about her family problems as she had surprised him by doing just now, when she was married to him. Then he remembered, as he had at the moment of proposing, that if she accepted him, he would be removing her from her family problems.
‘Are you fond of me, Octavius?’ said Susan coldly.
He jumped. ‘Fond of you? Susan, of course I am. You’re the dearest girl in the world,’ he added. ‘To be trite.’
‘Well, as I’m very fond of you too, and we have a great deal in common – yes, I will.’
‘Susan, you were made for marriage.’
‘Yes, I rather think I was.’ Her smile was amused, as well as very sweet. He folded his arms round her, squeezed her, found her mouth and pressed his lips against hers. Susan had never been kissed before, and she was unused to the roughness of the male chin. She turned her head away and dug it into his shoulder, cross with herself because she had not expected that beard. His coat had the disturbing smell of men’s clothes which she had noticed before: a body smell, but scented. She could not turn away again. ‘Shall we be married in the spring?’ she said.
‘Not sooner? – say, this autumn?’
‘No – a full year’s engagement would be best. We don’t want to – to rush into matrimony.’
They paused. ‘Shall we go and tell Father?’ said Susan.
‘No – no, Susan – the thing is – I must tell Sophie myself. I really feel I must.’ He noticed then that there were tears on her face. ‘What is this silliness, darling? What is it?’ he stuttered.
‘Why, Octavius – nothing at all – it is silliness.’
‘Yes, very silly.’ He kissed her.
‘We’ll be married in the church, I suppose?’ she said as soon as he had finished.
‘Of course, darling. Aren’t you “spinster of this Parish”? I never expected to be married in my own church.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, not until three weeks ago, anyway,’ he laughed.
‘Octavius,’ said Susan, ‘Sophie can’t be unaware – I don’t think she’ll need to have the news broken gently, you know. We’ve been courting – in a way – for ages, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, but – it would be cowardly for me not to tell her in person, Susan.’ He rose from her side. ‘I cannot write, either.’
‘I see. Well in that case, we must certainly not be married before next spring.’ She got to her feet.
Her practicality now worried him, but she knew perfectly well that he no longer loved Sophie.
‘Please leave it to me, darling,’ he said.
‘Yes, I will, my dear,’ she comforted him.
He looked down at her with pleasure. He said: ‘Susan, you must never worry that I love Sophie more than you. Do you believe me?’
‘Oh, Octavius, I never thought you’d …’ Susan jumped up and flung her arms round his neck, and laughed while he held her, so the morning ended happily.
In the afternoon Susan read aloud to Nicholas, who had discovered some months before that he liked to be read aloud to, even when he was not ill. They were in the middle of Our Mutual Friend and Nicholas was smiling and shaking his head as Susan read Mr Boffin’s descriptions of the misers who starved themselves and their families, not to death, but for years on end. She watched him through her eyelashes as though she were flirting, as she imagined telling him about her betrothal. He would be rather pleased: and his health would improve when she was not there to cosset his illnesses, when he had only Augusta and Sophie to live with him. He had not begun to be an old man until after the Lynmore house party three years before, and he was never continuously unwell when his wife was with him. Teasing, Susan was going to tell him all this when she told him of her coming marriage. She had not, she thought now, been unhappy in her unmarried adult life.
Susan reviewed the past year or two. She arranged pictures and events as though she had come to the end of her life and was quietly reminiscing to a granddaughter.
She thought that it was round about the autumn of 1881 that Octavius had first realised that Sophie, still his beloved, would make him a very bad wife. At first he had lacked the courage to make a proposal which would doubtless be rejected, but by then it was a different matter. He had first begun to chat easily with Susan at that time. Then there had been her letters from London, his replies from Cheshire; then the summer of 1882, Sophie’s bold flirtation with a neighbour’s handsome son returned from India, autumn and a hard winter, exchange of confidences about Sophie, hands squeezed, sympathy given; and then Sophie and Augusta had gone away. It had all taken so long; that was why she had cried when he proposed to her, she believed now. Had they all been savages, Octavius could have worked Sophie out of his blood by taking her to bed three years ago. Susan wondered whether he could ever be a seducer, and whether she could put this view to him. Ever consistent, she realised that if they had been savages, he would not have married her, Susan.
It was a quarter to five, and tea was brought in. Nicholas smiled and waved at Susan to put aside the novel; they watched the food being laid out. A folding table was erected and covered with Nottingham lace, hot water was set over a little blue flame, the silver teapot was put within Susan’s reach, the Dundee cake within Nicholas’s. It was just cool enough for such a meal to be enjoyed. Susan poured her father’s tea, then sampled the bread and butter, and said to herself: this is domestic life, this is home, this is comfort, and she wanted Octavius to be present, making slightly nervous, serious conversation with her father. As his bride, she could sit beside him, or, as his wife of several years, opposite him.
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself, my dear. I must say you do read nicely. And if you made this cake, it’s very good indeed, upon my word it is,’ said Nicholas.
‘I like making cakes,’ said Susan.
*
It was October, and the betrothal had still not been announced, for Octavius had not yet told Sophie. Since the end of the London season, she had not been continuously at home, but in spurts, and each of her long visits had passed without Octavius’s
telling Sophie that he was going to marry Susan. As they had agreed long before and many times over, Susan had said nothing, nor had she threatened Octavius that she would. They had not had any quarrels over the question, because Octavius admitted that he must break silence as soon as possible, and did not make cross excuses, but only looked flustered.
Age was improving Sophie as gradually she grew too old for her occasional, careless, puppet-like awkwardness, which had had its charm. She was twenty-one and no longer angular, though she would never have Susan’s rounded figure. Her face too seemed prettier than ever. When she was well and happy she had quite a good colour in her sometimes pale cheeks, and she seemed happy and gay now. She hardly ever coquetted with Octavius, because, as she told Susan, he seemed rather out of sorts and worried, which she found disturbing; but she talked with him as a friend successfully enough. Susan began to believe that Sophie and Augusta intended her, Sophie, to marry Octavius one day, but to make him. wait while Sophie was still young. If she had married Octavius, Sophie would have been always at Lynmore with her stepmother, but she would not have had to live with Nicholas and look after him; and she would have been able to handle Octavius, would no doubt have been unfaithful to him, and if he noticed it, his pain would have meant little to her. She and Augusta would have called his attitude middle-class.
Sophie called on Octavius at the Rectory one afternoon in October. She had brought a puppy with her because, long ago, Octavius had asked to have one of her spaniel Dora’s puppies, the next time she whelped. When she was announced, and held up the wriggling, liver-and-white, curly dog, he blinked and stammered.
‘Sophie – my dear – what a nice surprise – and what’s this?’
‘Octavius! Dora’s finest offspring! You did want a bitch, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did!’ She handed over the puppy, which squirmed like a fish. ‘And it’s tea-time – you’ll stay?’
‘Certainly. Thank you.’ He had rushed out of the door, still clutching the dog; then he pushed it back into the room.
Octavius never had tea, but he told his puzzled house-parlourmaid that he wanted a pot, and scones or cake or sandwiches, which would have to be taken from her own tea and the cook’s. He went back into the study, where Sophie was explaining to the puppy that this was her new home, and pointing out the view. She had always been a great one for having conversations with dogs. She had still not removed her hat and coat, because he had not invited her to: she wore a dark brown ulster and a flat brown hat with a canary-yellow curling feather. He knew her and the Pagetts so well that although he was a man he could guess that the severe clothes with the touch of brilliant colour had been Augusta’s choice for Sophie.
‘Let me take your coat, Sophie – your bonnet – the tea will be here in a minute.’
‘Splendid,’ said Sophie, sliding her arms from the coat, which he held by the collar, and pulling off her hat. ‘Isn’t she pretty? I did choose you the very best of the litter, Octavius, but you can have one of the others if you prefer.’
‘She’s splendid, Sophie. Exactly what I had in mind, I promise you.’ He wondered how a woman ought to talk about matings and bitches and whelpings and litters, what words Susan would use to discuss the matter it she were interested in dogs. It annoyed him, and if Sophie used a coarse word again, he would point it out to her in such a way that she could not grin.
‘She’s weaned now, but you must give her a little milk with her food for a month or two yet.’
‘Thank you for telling me. I had a dog some years ago, you know.’
‘Oh, what kind? I can’t remember it.’
‘A Skye terrier.’
‘Oh yes, him! He bit me once and you had to put iodine on my ankle.’ Octavius blushed. ‘I enjoyed that,’ said Sophie.
‘The tea,’ said Octavius as it was brought in. Sophie smiled at the chipped teapot and four slices of gingerbread.
‘Shall I pour?’ said Sophie, doing so. She was sitting on the sofa, at one end, so there was plenty of room for him. He sat in the corner, and faced her. ‘What will you call her?’
‘What?’
‘The puppy, Octavius!’
‘I – I haven’t decided. I’m sure you’ve thought of a name for her,’ he said quickly, smiling over the rim of his cup.
‘Oh, I call her Sally, but she doesn’t know it. I took care of that.’
‘I’ll call her Sally.’
They drank. ‘Octavius, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ She held out her hand, and he took and squeezed it. ‘Am I presumptuous?’
‘Sophie – no, it’s just that you really shouldn’t be here, an unmarried girl like you – I wonder at Mrs Pagett …’
‘Mrs Pagett hasn’t a clue, my dear, you must know that.’ He winced. ‘The chaperonage rules are silly, aren’t they? It takes one years and years – if one isn’t brought up by Augusta – to realise that they were invented because old people believe that if young people are alone together at any hour of the day or night, for as much as five minutes, they’ll be busy with fornication.’
He let her hand go, and she was not at all offended.
‘Sophie, I must tell you – should have told you long ago – I’m going to marry Susan.’
She turned white, and put down her cup shakily. ‘Susan? W-why?’
‘Sophie …’
‘The little bitch. She never told me. Bitch.’
‘It was my fault – I insisted on telling you myself.’ He added: ‘But really, it’s not as though we …’
‘Oh, be quiet!’ Swiftly and miserably she was calculating whether she had already so far betrayed herself that it would not really matter if she showed more emotion. ‘I am – very fond of you, Octavius. But I’m sure I wish you very happy.’
‘Thank you, Sophie!’
‘I thought – I thought you … Oh, look at the time,’ Sophie said next, ‘Augusta will be wondering where I am.’
‘Yes, she will. Sophie – you’ll soon be all right.’
‘But naturally,’ she said, rising with pride. ‘Well, goodbye, Octavius.’ He waited. ‘I – I …’
‘Goodbye, my dear.’ He dropped a kiss on top of her pale angry head, though he had to stand on tiptoe to do so. When she had walked out, he sat down and stared at the two sets of untouched food and tea. He ought to eat and drink them if the servants were not to wonder.
When Sophie returned to the Hall she went to find Susan. Nicholas saw her walk in, with her eyes glinting and the colour gone from her lips, and thought she had had her will crossed in some way, and took no notice. He went to join Augusta in the library, where they were to go over some accounts together. The library adjoined the morning room, where Susan had her bureau and was now writing a letter.
Sophie opened the morning-room door and put her head round. After a moment she entered, and shut the door properly behind her.
‘I have been informed,’ she said.
Susan looked confused.
‘Your lover,’ said Sophie, ‘has been making a clean breast of it.’
‘Well,’ said Susan. ‘I’m sorry he didn’t do so before, Sophie. I asked him to – it was inconsiderate of him not to face up to it.’ She laid down her pen and Sophie looked into her rosy face.
‘Put the blame on him!’ shouted Sophie. ‘Why the devil didn’t you tell me? Just tell me?’ she blubbered.
Next door Augusta whispered, ‘What the devil …’
‘I’ll go and see what’s the trouble,’ said Nicholas. ‘Really, Sophie must learn to control her temper.’
‘Be quiet and listen.’
They heard sobs, and Susan talking in a low voice. They thought both sounded angry. ‘I’m going to see,’ said Nicholas.
‘Quiet.’
‘I am marrying Octavius because I love him,’ said Susan, drawing herself up. ‘That’s all there is to it and I don’t see why I should apologise to you for it, as though I’d taken him away from you.’
‘But you did. You know
quite well you did,’ said Sophie now calm and clear like her sister. ‘You know he’d have been content to – court me if you hadn’t thrown out your lures.’
‘I must stop her making a fool of herself,’ said Augusta.
‘Let her have her say, my dear,’ said Nicholas.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ said Susan. ‘Oh, Sophie, of course you’re upset.’ She walked over to her, smiling. ‘I understand – life will be so very different for you here, now. I think you should go and lie down, don’t you?’
‘Don’t try to condescend to me, you little whore!’
‘The language she picks up!’ said Nicholas. Augusta took no notice. He sat with his head in his hands.
‘I have been very patient,’ Susan was saying. ‘I won’t tell you now about your selfishness, and your arrogance, and carelessness and blindness and lack of pride, because you’re upset. But you know quite well you never loved him.’
‘But I can’t live here without him,’ said Sophie after a momment, which surprised her parents, for they had expected her to yell. ‘And you could very well, you did so for years and years.’
‘Yes I did, didn’t I?’
‘I hope you do love him, Susan,’ said Sophie. The door closed and Augusta nodded.
‘He’s a lucky man to have both my girls fighting over him,’ muttered Nicholas at last, and Augusta looked at him, and smiled. ‘I can’t imagine what they see in that parson.’ He looked feeble.
‘It’s all quite satisfactory,’ said Augusta, rising to her feet. ‘And Susan will be very well established, really.’
‘Don’t you think you’d better leave Sophie to cool down?’
‘Of course I shall. I shall give her a month or two to be miserable in; it’s only natural she will be. No,’ said Augusta, ‘I shan’t scold her yet, it would not be fair. She ought to be over it in a month.’ She looked at her watch. ‘My poor little Sophie. Goodness, she must detest that girl.’
CHAPTER 10
Gentlemen and Players Page 10
