Ladies of Lyndon

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I do and I don’t. I can see how harassed he’d have been with a wife who had any pretensions to taste; who went in for peasant pottery and Russian linen and expected him to react. But still, I get puzzled. I haven’t looked properly at those frescoes in the hall yet, because Lois would keep talking about El Greco, and I had to attend to her. But when I think of them, and then think of James sitting in his parlour with such visions in his head, I just gasp! He must be so absolutely independent of externals. Accidental surroundings, I mean, like wall-papers. But I suppose that his upbringing partially explains it. Lyndon was so uncongenial to him that the whole of his essential character was developed in spite of his education and not because of it. His abnormal contra-suggestibility is the result of his attempts to protect himself.’

  Mrs Cocks recognized an exotic word and knew at once where it had come from. She looked at her daughter long and critically. In that lovely person and countenance she perceived sufficient cause for uneasiness. A shade less beautiful than formerly did Agatha appear. There was a certain sharpening of feature: the eyes were shadowed. Something of the bloom had gone. Agatha had never, at any time, advertised happiness in her carriage. But she had been serene and now was untranquil. Sombre sometimes, and then feverishly animated, she had lost her poise. And she was growing thin. To her mother’s anxious heart these portents boded the premature decay of a youth which had bloomed too early.

  ‘Malt and cod-liver oil,’ she muttered from the depths of her reflection.

  Agatha laughed, divining the chain of thought which led to such a remark.

  ‘What! In the middle of the summer? And at my age?’

  ‘Your age! It’s nothing. You’re a baby still. However, I don’t think this is a very healthy place, although it stands so high. It must be enervating or something, for nobody here looks well. John especially.’

  Agatha’s face hardened.

  ‘John is quite well, I think,’ she observed.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you think so, for he doesn’t look it. But they all seem to be out of sorts. Cynthia blooms, of course, but poor old Sir Thomas is dreadfully melancholy at times. He struck me as being in very low spirits indeed at lunch today. Did you notice those enormous sighs he kept heaving? I was quite sorry for him. And as for Lois, she looks terribly pinched and haggard.’

  ‘I don’t think she has been very well just lately,’ observed Agatha with a sigh.

  ‘Hasn’t she? Well, and isn’t that very unusual with her? And Marian is the worst of the lot! What on earth is the matter with her? Why does she persist in looking as if she were bearing up only for our sakes?’

  ‘I don’t know at all. I think she’s annoyed about Gerald coming.’

  ‘Gerald? Gerald Blair? He’s not coming here, surely?’

  ‘Yes. He’s coming this evening in time for dinner, I believe.’

  Mrs Cocks could not conceal her dismay.

  ‘What for?’ she said.

  ‘You’d better ask Sir Thomas. He asked him. To see the frescoes, I suppose. How long is it till tea? I think I’ll explore these woods a little. I feel stifled in this house….’

  A few minutes later Mrs Cocks watched her running down the terraces into the valley. She crossed the stream by a wooden footbridge and paused long upon it, regarding the slow, innocent flowing of the water. Then she wandered on and was lost among the trees, walking with the listless impatience of a mind in conflict.

  Mrs Cocks turned from the window and paced the room, possessed by many perfectly reasonable fears. Her anxiety was no longer to be stifled. She was convinced that she had already ignored these symptoms of nervous upheaval longer than was safe. She could not continue to tell herself that all this was merely the result of the war, of four years’ protracted strain. It might be true, but it was not to the point. As she watched that restless figure walking among the trees, she had realized fully that the issue now lay, not with causes, but with possible consequences.

  Two days at Braxhall had been sufficient to show her that the young Clewers were at odds with one another and with life. It was obvious, moreover, that the trouble had been going on for some time and was working to a cumulative crisis. Agatha could scarcely speak to or of her husband save with a kind of suppressed exasperation, while John was uniformly morose. Under these conditions the advent of Gerald Blair must be regarded as an appalling catastrophe. Nothing could have been more unlucky.

  Mrs Cocks had stoutly refused to listen to those veiled fears which Marian would have imparted to her two years ago, before Gerald removed himself to the Balkans. As Agatha’s mother she was bound to declare that there was nothing in it. But she knew in her heart that there was plenty of cause for alarm. No one could have been more deeply disturbed than she: no one had been more inclined to fear that these two were on the verge of loving each other again. She was forced, for her peace of mind, to look upon the affair as a proof of Agatha’s levity rather than as a symbol of constancy. Ignoring the possible effects of her own strategical error in sending him down to Lyndon in the spring before the war, she told herself that Agatha, in her husband’s absence, was finding entertainment in the revival of an old flame. Agatha was not, evidently, framed by nature to be a grass widow, but she would settle down when John came back.

  John’s demobilization, however, had worked no miracles, And Mrs Cocks was beginning to gauge, for the first time, the strength of Gerald’s ‘upsetting ideas.’ He had really succeeded in imbuing Agatha, to a certain degree, with views which, for want of a better word, she was forced to call socialism. She had traced to his disturbing influence a volcanic notion which had seized Agatha in the spring of 1918. This had been the wish to do some very hard work. Agatha, whose war activities had always been of the lightest, insisted suddenly upon a twelve-hour day in a canteen, a phase which had lasted nearly three weeks and which had only ended with the inevitable physical collapse.

  And now, as the mother paused, uncertain as to her wisest course, but determined that someone must be spoken to and something must be done, Marian Clewer knocked at her door and invaded her with that air of forced cheerfulness which was beginning to exasperate everyone in the house. Mrs Cocks purposely ignored it, a fatal mistake, for a very few sympathetic leads from her would have drawn from Marian the whole tale of her anxiety about John. And, as she herself said afterwards, of course, if she had known that …!

  ‘Well, Marian,’ she began brightly. ‘This is the first time I’ve really seen you since we arrived. What a magnificent place it is!’

  Praise of Braxhall brought a real gleam of pleasure to Marian’s brow, as she seated herself a little heavily by the window. She looked round her with contentment.

  ‘It is a very lovely place, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It makes me very happy, every time I come here, to see Cynthia so comfortably settled. It’s a wonderful thing, Ellen, to feel that one’s daughters are absolutely happy in their marriages. Of course, it’s given to few.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Ellen, scenting an attack. ‘By the way, how is Lois? I don’t think she’s looking quite up to the mark.’

  Marian beamed triumphantly as she acquainted Mrs Cocks with the nature of Lois’s indisposition.

  ‘Of course, nobody knows of it yet,’ she said. ‘Lois and Hubert are quite delighted. And so am I. At our age there is a great satisfaction in being a grandmother, isn’t there?’

  ‘Of course, you don’t count James’s children,’ parried Mrs Cocks at once.

  ‘Well, no. A stepson isn’t quite the same thing. Besides … one’s daughters …’

  ‘If Cynthia ever has a family, there will be plenty of room for them in this house,’ observed Mrs Cocks, who knew very well that Cynthia would have nothing of the kind.

  Marian ignored this thrust and continued:

  ‘I’m so especially glad for Lois because there is no doubt that she and Hubert do have their little differences.’

  ‘No doubt at all,’ said Mr
s Cocks promptly.

  ‘Though, of course, they mean absolutely nothing. An ideally devoted couple! Still you know that sort of thing, trivial things in themselves, of course … in time are apt to become serious. And children smooth them out so. They take a young couple out of themselves. I was very sorry that Lois didn’t begin much sooner. I think it’s the greatest pity … however …’

  ‘When do you expect …?’ interrupted Mrs Cocks.

  ‘Next March.’

  ‘I’m very glad; especially when you are all so pleased.’

  ‘I have, I suppose, a great deal to be thankful for. Though of course I have troubles…. Still it would be terrible to feel that either of my daughters was unhappily married. I can imagine nothing more frightful for any mother. Where is Agatha, did you say?’

  ‘Gone for a walk, I believe.’

  ‘She does not look well. I was quite shocked when I saw her; really, I hardly like to say it, but she is losing her looks rather, poor girl.’

  ‘Oh, she needs a change. London gets stuffy. Scotland will set her up.’

  ‘Yes, yes! It will be a good thing to get her right away up to Scotland. Ellen, I’m most distressed that Mr Blair is coming here. Believe me, I knew nothing about the invitation until it was too late. I would certainly have stopped it if I could. But Tom, ignorant of the particular reasons against it, invited him without telling us.’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about that. I don’t think I know of any particular reasons against it,’ replied Mrs Cocks stiffly.

  ‘Don’t you really?’ asked Marian. ‘Personally—of course I’m given to plain speaking—personally I think it’s the greatest pity Agatha should see much of him while she is in this unsettled state.’

  ‘I don’t think you need trouble about Agatha. It is quite natural that she should be very much attached to Gerald, though I know I have never succeeded in explaining this to you. They are cousins and were brought up together. Practically brother and sister.’

  ‘But there was never anything more? No engagement of any kind?’

  ‘There was certainly no serious engagement. There was the usual kind of boy and girl flirtation, perhaps. But you must know, with daughters of your own, how ephemeral such things are.’

  ‘I’m glad to say that I’ve had nothing of the kind to deal with in the case of my own daughters.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Cocks. ‘Oh, well perhaps not. No!’

  Her smile infuriated Marian, who added: ‘But then, they both have great natural discretion.’

  ‘So has Agatha,’ returned Mrs Cocks hotly. ‘But with anyone so attractive there are bound to be these little episodes. One gets to take them for granted. After all, Marian, even if he is still rather obviously épris, he isn’t the only one, is he?’

  ‘Perhaps not. But still I think it’s a pity he should be coming here just when poor John …’

  She checked herself, but Mrs Cocks took her up:

  ‘Poor John! I don’t understand this “poor John” attitude which you have all adopted. You seem determined to make a martyr of him: to suggest that Agatha doesn’t treat him properly.’

  ‘Agatha makes no secret of the fact that she doesn’t care a rap for him.’

  ‘Has she said so to you?’

  ‘No! Of course not. But her manner to him …’

  ‘She has never been demonstrative in public. I should be sorry if she was.’

  ‘But it isn’t only in public.’

  ‘How do you know? Don’t you think that you are drawing upon your imagination?’

  ‘No, I’m not. She has been quite changed towards him ever since he was demobilized. She can hardly be called a wife at all.’

  And Marian supplied details which, if true, left little doubt as to the gravity of the young couple’s estrangement.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ demanded Mrs Cocks. ‘You only can know from one source. John has obviously been complaining to you. If he does that, instead of managing his matrimonial affairs for himself, I can quite understand Agatha’s feelings.’

  Marian began to be aware of her own rashness, for her statements had no positive foundation. They were based upon assumption only—inferences drawn from a few bitter remarks made by John when he was arranging with her for the disposition of his affairs. She began to think that she ought to go and see Cynthia about the table decorations for Thursday.

  ‘Then Agatha has said nothing to you?’ she parried feebly, as she got to her feet.

  ‘Agatha is too loyal,’ said Mrs Cocks grimly. ‘She would never complain of her husband.’

  Marian, having eased her bosom of some of her furniture, departed. She left a sadly discomposed mother. Mrs Cocks was aghast, furious, and convinced that instant action was imperative. All her vague anxiety had been turned into indignation: she felt that John was unpardonable. Previously she had been inclined to pity him, though not very much. So great was her estimation of Agatha’s attractions that she could not really think of him but as an uncommonly lucky man—nearly as lucky as her own husband had been. Still it must have been a little trying to return from the Front to a lady in so irritable a temper. But this whining to his stepmother put him out of court. No high-handedness on Agatha’s part could justify it. He must be made to feel that wives are not kept thus.

  Resolved to lose no time she set off at once in search of him and had the good fortune to locate him alone in the billiard-room. Closing the door firmly behind her and seating herself with decision, she opened fire:

  ‘Now, John! What’s all this trouble between you and Agatha?’

  ‘Why should you think that there is trouble between us?’ inquired John.

  He stood stolidly before her, so still and unblinking that she began to wish he would fidget.

  His question disconcerted her. She could not say: ‘Because your stepmother said so,’ without betraying Marian’s confidence. She was too loyal to her own sex to acquaint any man upon earth with the indiscretion of another woman. She replied:

  ‘Well, it’s obvious.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he said slowly. ‘But Agatha has said nothing to you herself?’

  ‘Nothing. I think she would think it disloyal.’

  She hoped this indirect shaft would go home. But John was reflecting deeply with bent brows. At last he said:

  ‘Well, I haven’t an idea what the trouble is. Agatha is the only person who does know, I should think.’

  His eyes were feverish and weary, and it struck her that he was a very bad colour. He certainly looked ill, but an aggrieved note in his voice hardened her heart against him. She saw quite clearly now that his calm assumption of possession must be shaken. He must be made to see that he stood in danger of losing Agatha altogether; and if the idea was unpleasant to him, it was no more than he deserved. Anger blinded her to the perils of the course she had chosen. She had really persuaded herself that a little jealousy would be very good for him—would wake him up to the fact that he had a wife worth fighting for.

  ‘Well of course,’ she began, ‘though she’s said nothing to me, I have formed my own opinions and I think I’d better tell you what they are. I feel that a great deal is at stake for you and Agatha just now; the whole happiness of your after lives perhaps. No! Don’t interrupt me, but listen! You must put up with a little plain speaking, my dear boy. I think you and Agatha have got to the critical phase when—how shall I put it?—the … the honeymoon stage of married life is over. The only strange thing is that it should have lasted so long. Very few couples, I should imagine, preserve their first ardour for eight years. But you’ve been exceptionally lucky.’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you are driving at. I haven’t changed. I love her as much as ever I did.’

  ‘Quite so! And you think that is a sufficiently good reason why she shouldn’t change either. That is so like a man! I believe you all regard a woman’s passion as something like electric light, to be switched on and off as you want it. Don’t you think that you’ve
been taking her a little too much for granted? Because nothing, let me tell you, is more fatal where a woman of her temperament is concerned. I know, because she is very like me. You must never let her feel that you don’t regard her as a prize and a privilege. For goodness’ sake, sit down! It bothers me to see you standing like that.’

  He fetched a chair and carefully sat down opposite her. She continued deliberately:

  ‘I expect you know that you won her from another man.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, hasn’t she told you? Funny girl! It’s quite true. There was a schoolroom attachment which gave me a good deal of uneasiness at one time. Of course, she forgot it all very comfortably when she met you. But I mention it now because I think you should realize, with a girl like Agatha, that these old flames are always just a little dangerous. Especially in a matrimonial cross-roads like that which you are facing now. Unless you can manage to keep your hold on her …’

  ‘I like this! You talk as if marriage has no obligations, Mrs Cocks. I’ve been a perfectly good husband to Agatha, and I’ll thank her …’

  ‘Technically, John, she’ll always be a perfectly good wife to you: you know that quite well. I’m not discussing her principles. But the heart, you see, cannot be bound. No person on earth can undertake to stay in love. If you want her to do that you must rely upon yourself and not upon the obligations of the marriage service. I’m saying all this because, as he is unfortunately coming here …’

  ‘He! Who?’

  John’s face was grey.

  ‘Gerald Blair. That’s the man I’m talking about.’

  ‘Blair! Blair! What has he to do with all this?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that, as I say, you won her from him once. He is, I think, beginning to interest her slightly again. And I want to point out to you that it is probably your fault. You haven’t been taking sufficient pains to interest her yourself. When you marry a woman like Agatha you must live up to her. My dear boy, don’t go that colour! There’s nothing serious in this affair. D’you think I’d have spoken of it if there was? To you, of all people? No! I only regard it as a symptom that she feels you have been taking her too much for granted.’