Once he had gone I expressed my condolences. Mrs. Quentin acknowledged them with a small inclination of her head, but remained silent, sitting straight and taut. When she at last spoke I realized that she did so only with effort, partly through grief, partly from a difficulty in speaking through her artificial teeth.
“I come at Mr. Ward’s suggestion,” she said—and then stopped. “I lack the courage to say what I wish to. It may be misunderstood.”
“Have no fears, Mrs. Quentin. I have no reason to think anything but well of you.”
“You have always been civil to me, Mr. Fenwick. I will take you at your word.” She paused to compose herself. “You will recall that my husband visited you some few weeks ago. You may have wondered why he did so.”
“I was a little puzzled.”
“There were two reasons. The first was that Mr. Gilbert had asked him to do so. His instruction—his instruction was that my husband should encourage you to talk freely about your life in London and your feelings toward himself. Everything you said was to be passed on to Mr. Gilbert.”
I felt a jolt of disquiet, but was at pains to respond impassively:
“This is surprising to me, Mrs. Quentin.”
“He found the task distasteful—too distasteful to carry out. He planned to tell you all and to warn—to warn you of something dangerous in your godfather’s character.”
She paused as though to give me an opportunity to demur; but I said nothing.
“In the event he found himself unable to do either the one thing or the other. He left this house, as he told me, feeling that he was a fool and a failure.”
There was silence. At last I ventured, in a dispassionate voice: “What am I to understand by ‘something dangerous’?”
“I must beware of presumption.” Her lisp made the word difficult for her, and that difficulty increased her embarrassment. “You must know more of Mr. Gilbert than we could know. But we have been acquainted with him for many years . . .”
She seemed suddenly exhausted, sinking back on her chair.
“Might I have a little water?”
I sent for some, and for brandy to mix with it. Mrs. Quentin sipped, rested, then sipped again. I watched with pity. Of the people I had met through my godfather, she was the frailest, a sad creature drained of life.
Once she was a little recovered, I addressed her with a smile, trying to offer her a fresh start.
“When did you yourself first meet Mr. Gilbert?”
“Many years ago, when my family moved to Fork Hill.” She was more fluent as she took up a familiar narrative. “My father became the organist at the church, and was sometimes invited to play at Fork Hill House. I would go with him. As I grew older I was also invited to perform, and—and Mr. Gilbert seemed to take an interest in me . . .”
She broke off, and I saw that her face was positively twisted with some new distress. Clearing her throat, she spoke out plainly:
“It is mortifying to say so—it sounds absurd—but I was led to think that he might propose marriage. I had no experience in such matters—none at all; but that was my impression. There were looks, hints, small touches . . . My parents were quite persuaded that he would ask for my hand. Of course I was flattered—flattered but terrified.”
“And then . . . ?”
“And then he introduced me to Mr. Quentin, whom he had taken up. I cannot well describe what happened, for I was altogether confused . . . There was a change in Mr. Gilbert’s manner. He almost ceased to speak to me. It gradually appeared that John and I were to be gently impelled into marriage under his patronage.”
Here was embarrassment at every turn. I tried to continue diplomatic:
“Did neither party object?”
“That was not how we saw the matter. Mr. Quentin and I had neither prospects nor money. We did not know the world. We were assured that it was a sensible match, and we felt ourselves to be sufficiently—sufficiently fond. I would be provided for and could look after my husband as he wrote his verses. At first we were contented enough.”
She had recovered her self-possession. Sitting forward, she said earnestly:
“Until you asked your question I had no thought of telling you this history. Your godfather arranged our marriage as he arranged so much else in the parish. Since he seemed to do so in a benevolent spirit, who could complain? Certainly my husband and I did not: it was Mr. Gilbert who provided our house and our income.”
“But you have seemed to imply that something went wrong?”
There was a longer hesitation. “Mr. Fenwick, I cannot forget that you are Mr. Gilbert’s godson. I must choose my words with care.”
“I say to you again, be as frank as you please. Trust my goodwill.”
“Very well. But I must condense into a few words the impressions of many years. I was young and ingenuous. It was a shock to me when my husband suggested that our marriage was but one of many experiments Mr. Gilbert was conducting. But I saw that he was right. Everywhere Mr. Gilbert sought to—to assume control. Many of his schemes were successful, particularly in agriculture. My husband was subject to a very different experiment. He was to produce poetry—translations of Homer, dedicated to the patron whose generosity had made them possible.”
Here she checked herself:
“I must be fair: Mr. Quentin had been heartily grateful for this opportunity. Yet under the pressure of expectation, he found that his inspiration faltered. It was not for want of endeavor: he would sit at his desk day after day with paper and quill, but to little purpose. What he did write he would often destroy in disgust. The harder he tried, the less satisfied he felt. Gradually he ceased to try.”
“Did he never think of seeking a different way of life?”
“Very often. But the prospect was daunting: we would have had to begin afresh, without patronage. Our situation was alleviated, in that Mr. Gilbert’s expectations lapsed. Rather than expecting my husband to produce poetry, he asked him to draft letters or copy documents. By degrees Mr. Quentin was reduced to a clerical drudge.”
“A drudge? Did he find this work so humiliating?”
“No, no. It was not the nature of the work. He was humiliated to think that we held our cottage and our income on sufferance.”
“Did my godfather hint as much?”
“Mr. Gilbert became more distant.” She paused. “Both our children had died in infancy. Our lives seemed valueless.”
She raised her hand to hide her teeth as her face crumpled in misery. To give her time to regain composure I took charge of the conversation, speaking reflectively.
“Can the attempt to gain information about me have been part of an experiment?”
She nodded, still through tears, and drank a little more brandy and water.
“My husband told him that he had nothing to report. His position was very delicate. Mr. Gilbert had recently advanced us money to pay for the treatment to my teeth. It was doubly painful to disoblige him. He apparently said little, but his disapproval was plain. My husband came home full of apprehension, and sat brooding all the evening.”
“I speak now with great diffidence, Mrs. Quentin. Do you think there was a link of any sort between this matter and your husband’s unfortunate death?”
She wiped her eyes and replied with unexpected composure:
“I know what you would ask: I have put the question to myself. Did my husband take his own life? It may be so. My opinion is that he looked for a situation in which he could allow himself to die. Perhaps there is little difference between those alternatives.”
“That is a sad conclusion, Mrs. Quentin.”
More concerned upon my own account than she could have guessed, I was by now running short of commiseration. I tried to shift the ground.
“You have talked with Mr. Gilbert since then?”
“Yes. He expressed
regret. Then he encouraged me to come to London to look into the possibility of living with my married sister.”
“Is that a possibility you would welcome?”
“It is not. My sister and I have never been close. I shall speak to her, since I have undertaken to do so, but merely as a matter of form.”
“Then your hope is to remain in your cottage in Fork Hill?”
I was taken aback when she broke out in sudden passion:
“There is little left in my life, Mr. Fenwick—almost nothing. But what I have I would like to keep. People such as myself—humble people—cannot take charge of their lives. Their fate is determined by decisions outside their control. I long for one last decision that would determine my remaining years in an acceptable way.”
I nodded gravely several times, hoping to imply thoughtful sympathy. But I wanted this sad, skinny old woman to take her misery away and leave me to absorb what I had heard about my godfather. Finally I said:
“You have sought to make me suspicious of Mr. Gilbert. Would you nonetheless wish me to try to influence him on your behalf ?”
“I was attempting to do you a favor and hope you may return it. You have been kind in the past. There is one circumstance that works for me. Mr. Gilbert wishes people to think well of him. He would value your good opinion in particular.”
She had gathered strength in the course of our conversation and was by now speaking in plain terms. I tried to respond appropriately, although uncomfortable in adopting an authoritative tone to someone old enough to be my mother.
“Mrs. Quentin, I appreciate what you have told me and the risk you have taken in telling it. I will respect your confidence and will do my best to support your cause.”
I smiled encouragingly by way of suggesting that it was time for her to thank me and go. Thank me she did; and as she rose to her feet I could see that, although still tremulous, she was suffused with relief at having survived her ordeal. It occurred to me that I might have done almost as much for her as I had for Mrs. Hurlock. Perhaps I should make my services professionally available to faded ladies of every disposition.
We went down to the drawing room, where Mr. Ward was taking tea with Mrs. Deacon. For all his impassivity I saw him comprehend, at a glance, that my interview with Mrs. Quentin had gone as he had hoped. I tried to exchange further hints with him.
“Thank you, Mr. Ward, for your assistance in this matter. I have learned much that I did not know, and am sympathetic to Mrs. Quentin’s cause. Perhaps you and I might discuss these matters again sometime—in the strictest confidence, of course.”
He conceded no more than an inch: “Perhaps—if circumstances permit.”
“Does your wife continue well?”
“I am glad to say that she does.”
Mrs. Quentin’s revelations had quite confounded me. The final sentence of my godfather’s latest letter had seemed to hint, or so I had thought, that he was ready to make me his heir. Now it appeared that he did not even trust me. My situation seemed suddenly precarious, and the old man yet more devious than I had believed.
Perhaps my visitor’s most startling suggestion had been that Gilbert had once seen her as a possible wife. She had been convinced, against all probability, and so, it seemed, had her parents. If I mentally repaired her complexion and teeth, I could conceive that she might once have been comely. I was inclined to believe her claim, which, after all, was in keeping with the rest of my godfather’s odd romantic history. He had pursued Arabella Thorpe, but made no declaration, had warmed to the young Mrs. Hurlock, but yielded her to an inferior rival. He had loved and lost, it seemed, my own mother. Yet in each case he had retreated before there could be a question of commitment or possible rejection.
Yet in each case, also, he had maintained some kind of contact or control. I had witnessed his glee at contriving the conquest of Mrs. Hurlock. Now it appeared that he had supplied a partner also for Mrs. Quentin. It seemed that having been intimidated at the animal level he had tried to restore his self-esteem by an exercise of power at second hand. Perhaps, having failed to win my mother, he had assisted me in the same spirit.
It was also disturbing that the morbidly discreet Mr. Ward had stepped out of character to bring Mrs. Quentin to see me. Perhaps, like Thorpe, he feared that my godfather was behaving erratically. If they were concerned by his treatment of the Quentins, what would they have made of his complicity in the assault on Mrs. Hurlock? Perhaps he was breaking free of all restraint.
There was reassurance in the fact that I was after all his chosen partner, his proxy pintle. Having bred me for the task over many years, and at great expense, he could not easily replace me. Yet where would my duties lead? Would I have to entertain him into his dotage, rogering the nurse who tended his deathbed? Or might he repent at the last and discard me as a reprobate?
How far was he aware of his own inconsistencies? Plainly his interest in my doings had been far from detached and philosophical. It would be absurd for him to affect contempt for desire which he found exciting even at one remove. Yet obvious as that seemed to me, I would have no way of enforcing the argument if my godfather refused to accept it. The power was all in his hands.
It seemed that all I could do was pursue my existing course, while remaining vigilant. Perhaps also I should try to lure this prudent intriguer into further indiscretion. If I induced more flagrant confessions, I could threaten him with his own correspondence as with a loaded pistol. Here an immediate possibility occurred to me. It seemed the young Gilbert had been intimidated by his male rivals. By dramatizing my distaste—real enough—for Ogden, I might draw him out on a topic potentially humiliating to him.
I rose early next day and devoted the morning to the composition of letters. My strange course of life, comfortable though it was, could sometimes keep me as busily occupied as a bricklayer or drayman. Newly cautious, I made several false starts.
Dear Mr. Thorpe,
My thanks to you for your recent letter. I am flattered that you had sufficient confidence in me to send it. You may rest assured that this confidence will be respected. If I did not reply at once it was because I needed time to digest what you had said and implied. As it happens, that delay has provided me with further clarification, in that I have been visited by Mrs. Quentin herself and have had a very frank conversation with her.
She was naturally distressed: her husband’s death, however interpreted, was a tragic happening. It casts a further shadow over her life in creating the possibility that she might have to leave her cottage in Fork Hill. She spoke emphatically of her unwillingness to move to London.
This is a delicate business. I have written a carefully worded letter to my godfather strongly implying the desirability of her being allowed to remain, as his pensioner, in the village where she has spent most of her life. I use the word implying advisedly. My godfather has shown that he can be a generous man, but he has earned the right to feel confident in his own judgment. He will take heed of suggestions, but is likely to resist importunity. I am optimistic in this particular case. If it becomes clear to him that Mrs. Quentin wishes to stay where she is, and that the parish at large would approve such an outcome, I am confident that he will enable it.
I infer from your letter that you have been troubled not only by this sad affair but by the possibility that certain other local problems may emerge in the near future. I shall be glad to discuss such matters with you when occasion permits, and will in the meantime welcome any further hints of this kind. We both stand to gain by such mutual confidence.
I recently had the pleasure of meeting your aunt again. Both she and the colonel said how much they had appreciated your hospitality during their visit to Fork Hill.
I remain, &c.
* * *
My dear Godfather,
I was shocked to hear of the death of Mr. Quentin. He seemed to me, for all his taciturnity, a man of f
orce and intelligence. His poor widow must be sadly distressed. In these circumstances it is a relief to me—as it must be to Mrs. Quentin herself and to her friends in the village—that she has your benevolence to depend upon.
As chance would have it, I heard the story mentioned at the house of Lord Vincent a few days ago. I was once again in conversation with Mrs. Jennings and her husband, who had learned something of the matter from Mr. Thorpe on their recent visit to Fork Hill. They had much to say concerning their meeting with you, which I understand was the first for many years. Both were impressed by what they described as your youthful vigor, and seemed envious of it. It is difficult to credit that Colonel Jennings can hardly be more than a few years older than yourself.
Lately I have found myself insensibly adopting some of your own habits of thought. In particular I revert to the essential question: what the devil is one to make of the ceaseless reciprocal traffic between the intellectual and the animal self, between what a man tries to think and what stirs into life, unbidden, in his breeches? Your mention of Dr. Swift reminded me of a third factor, that of perception. When Gulliver visits the land of giants, and becomes a plaything of the ladies at court, he is sickened by their smell, and repelled by the sight of a monstrous breast. But these ladies are twelve times his size. Surely it is self-evident that if our bodies were twelve times as large as they are, their imperfections and their odors would be disagreeably magnified? By definition, we are not so situated. I understand Dr. Swift to be saying rather that if a man happened to view his fellow beings with a hyperbolic eye, he would be seriously disabled—and also to be insinuating that he himself has suffered from such an exaggerated sensibility.
I would diffidently infer, from my own limited experience, that we are all, at times, discommoded in this way. King Lear denounces women in his frenzy:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends’; there’s hell, there’s darkness,
There’s the sulphurous pit . . .
Yet Shakespeare the sonneteer can celebrate his lover in very different images:
The Skull and the Nightingale Page 25
