‘This sort of thing has got to stop,’ he said doggedly.
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Your whole behaviour. I tell you I’m tired of it. You treat me like a discarded lover.’
‘Do I? Do I? Well, so you are!’ she cried, her voice rising.
Disgusted at her loss of self-command and the vulgarity of such a scene, she added in a lower voice:
‘You are. You’ve never been anything more. Never a real husband. Not more than Tom is to Cynthia. Our relationship may be legal, but it isn’t marriage. Nothing can make it that.’
‘Really? And what is it then?’
‘It’s been my fault,’ she conceded earnestly. ‘I ought never to have married you. We have no ideals in common. I’ve never been a real wife to you. Nothing more than a mistress; nothing more….’
‘It’s a pity you feel like that,’ he said bitterly. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it.’
Then he burst out again:
‘Oh, hell, Agatha! Can’t you speak the truth? Can’t you think straight? You married me and you’ve got tired of me. And you’ve invented all this humbug about common ideals to justify your infidelity. That’s the long and short of it.’
At the word infidelity she swung round, her conscious innocence flaming in her face.
‘Never for a moment …’ she began, and then broke off. ‘But it’s horrible to have to make denials—to exculpate oneself! If you can believe …’
Tears, the first he had ever seen her shed, choked her speech. Smarting under a sense of undeserved insult, she stood before him weeping silently. He beheld her beauty and her grief with a fierce throb of satisfaction. To make her suffer was at least a reassertion of power. He became dominant and calm.
‘We go tomorrow,’ he repeated.
She answered, very low:
‘We needn’t … for the reason you mention…. He is going away immediately after lunch.’
A spasm of anguish shook her and he heard himself saying coldly:
‘Oh, I see. Is that why you are crying?’
His heart had begun to do strange things and it occurred to him that this interview, if prolonged, might prove fatal to him. He had no wish to die at Braxhall. Glancing at her from the door, before he left her, he saw that she had not moved. She was still standing on the dais step, both hands pressed to her bosom, while the fresco panel flamed above her stricken head.
Gerald, upon reaching his room, had, in a thunderclap of energy, sat down and written the opening pages of a paper upon ‘The Experiments at Nancy’ which had been simmering in his brain for some time. He was wonderfully relieved by his sudden decision to quit Braxhall upon the morrow, and to see his cousin no more. Anguish it might be, but it was at least a termination of the conflict. He was able, for the first time in many weeks, to lose himself in his work. He wrote, absorbed, for nearly an hour, and then, pausing for an instant’s relaxation, recalled idly the mysterious utterances of James about the fresco. He remembered that he had meant to visit the hall immediately upon his return, and accordingly he set off, descending by a small staircase, close to his room, which gave him access to a door opening immediately on to the dais. He was, therefore, precipitated within a few feet of Agatha before either was aware of the other.
She was seated upon one of the chairs set round the dais. Her elbows were on the table and her face in her hands. Her whole attitude bespoke an abandonment of grief. She had evidently failed to hear his approach over the thick dais carpet.
He stood poised for flight. Prudence inwardly counselled a prompt withdrawal; passion impelled him forward. Lingering, he was lost, for she raised her head and saw him. She betrayed no surprise, but fixed upon him a regard of infinite sadness, and sat motionless in her chair, the slow tears still rolling down her cheeks.
He was inured to women’s tears; he had seen too many of them. But all his experience had never shown him a creature who could weep so beautifully. No sobs shook her; she was composed, mistress of herself, save for these silent, persistent signals of woe. He had, among his patients, a reputation for complete immunity; no nervous collapse could soften or alarm him in Harley Street. Had she brought her tears there it is possible that he might have checked the flood with a few bracing words and a glass of water. But affection had undone him, as it has betrayed better men, and, instead of resorting to professional advice, he was moved, he hardly knew how, to fling himself at her feet, to call her by every endearing name which occurred to him, and finally, with a sense of foundering rectitude, to clasp her to his heart and entreat her to tell him her trouble.
Of the subsequent conversation neither retained any very clear impression. It was an affair of mutual declarations, and in a very short time they arrived at the conclusion that a further separation would be impossible to them. They must defy all the forces which had divided them ten years earlier, and this must be done at once. Agatha’s misery appeared to both of them as something no longer to be borne, and they believed that their immediate union would be almost certain to abate it.
‘We must get married,’ Gerald stated. ‘We ought, of course, to have got married ten years ago. We’ll go abroad somewhere until Clewer divorces you, and then we will be married.’
‘But do you think that will be right?’ demanded Agatha hopefully.
He looked surprised, and a little put out.
‘Right? What do you mean exactly? I think it’s the wisest thing we can do under the circumstances. And anyhow we are going to do it.’
‘I mean, can you do it with an absolutely free conscience?’
‘N—no, not exactly. I couldn’t say that.’
Agatha did not like this at all.
‘You can’t do what you think wrong,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Oh, yes I can,’ he assured her.
‘But it must be right,’ she argued. ‘We were meant for each other. It was my marriage that was wrong.’
He agreed, but said that he would, he thought, condemn behaviour like theirs in anyone else. He reminded her, a little shamefacedly, that he had accepted John’s hospitality and was returning it by stealing his wife. But she insisted that they were justified. He thought it rather tactless of her thus to harp upon the most painful element in their situation. He had overlooked, for a moment, a woman’s capacity for sanctifying her passions by an ideal. She had succeeded in persuading herself that flight from her husband was the only remedy for an enormous wrong, the only means whereby she could release her better self for a life of austere endeavour. Her natural aptitude for symbolism had led her to perceive a deep significance in the events of the afternoon. The impression of the fresco was strong upon her, and she believed that in renouncing her married life, with all its luxuries, she was pledging herself to a very noble path. She could only repeat, rather resentfully:
‘It seems right to me.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ remarked her lover.
He took a short turn down the hall and returned to the dais step, looking up at her.
‘I don’t want you to deceive yourself,’ he said anxiously. ‘I don’t want you to be rushed into any course which you might afterwards regret. I should be a scoundrel if I took advantage of what appears to be a slight confusion in your mind. I wish I knew what to do!’
‘I thought we’d settled what to do.’
‘Yes, but I want you to be quite sure. Think it over! Don’t decide now. Tell me tomorrow. Remember I’m ready to take your word as final. I’ll take you off at any moment if you like, or I’ll go away and never see you again if you’d rather. But it must be either one way or the other. I’m not going on like this: it’s unendurable. Think it over and tell me.’
She realised that the abruptness of his speech was calculated. He was deliberately trying not to appeal to her emotions, but to summon to their aid those rational faculties still left to them. He tried to leave her without further speech, but she called him back.
‘Gerald! Are you quite sure th
at you want me to come? You aren’t being a good Samaritan, are you?’
‘Want you? Of course I want you! I always have. But that isn’t the point. I’ve done without you up till now, and I can doubtless go on doing without you, if I have to. But I won’t stand seeing you unhappy like this. It’s more than anyone could bear, loving you at I do.’
‘But you could get on without me if you had to?’
‘Why … yes … I suppose so….’
‘Then I’ve no business to come. My justification …’
‘Oh, Agatha dearest, can’t you think straight? …’
At this point Mrs Cocks burst in through the door at the end of the hall. She glanced at the cousins, her eyes sparkling with instant displeasure.
‘Agatha!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you know that it is five minutes to eight? Are you never going to dress this evening? I’ve been waiting for you, upstairs, for at least three-quarters of an hour.’
‘Is it really so late, Mother?’
‘Yes! Yes! Hurry, child! Hurry, Gerald!’
She swept them from the hall and carried her daughter upstairs. Dismissing the maid, she declared that she would supervise the hasty toilet herself.
‘Pauline would be much quicker,’ maintained Agatha.
‘Perhaps. But I want to do some plain speaking which can’t be accomplished before Pauline. What were you and Gerald quarrelling about when I came in?’
‘We weren’t quarrelling,’ said Agatha after reflection.
‘Weren’t you. You looked as if you were; you were looking defensive and he reproachful. And, by the way, may I ask if you and he have been in that hall ever since you came in this afternoon?’
‘Oh, no! I was there with Lois and Hubert. And then John. Gerald had only just come.’
‘Oh, really? That’s not as bad as I thought. Still you know, Agatha, when I saw you coming up through the garden …’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Agatha impatiently, ‘how many more? Did everybody in the house see me coming up through the garden?’
‘I expect so. That’s where you are so silly, dear.’
‘I never knew it was such a monstrous thing to do.’
‘Now you are being even sillier. Tell me, who else has seen you?’
‘Oh … Lois and Hubert … and John….’
‘John! What did John say?’
Agatha made no reply, but dabbed powder on to her nose with shaking fingers.
‘You’ve put on too much,’ observed her mother critically, and she fetched a damp sponge and removed it all. ‘Now begin again. Tell me … is John annoyed? Have you quarrelled with him?’
‘He blames me,’ began Agatha, and stopped with a gasp.
‘What for?’
‘For the same reason that Gerald blames me.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Cocks was at a loss. ‘But I thought you said you had not quarrelled with Gerald.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘But you have quarrelled with John?’
‘Yes. They both want to know if I can’t think straight.’
‘What shoes will you wear? Is John jealous?’
Agatha was silent.
‘It’s only natural,’ continued her mother, as she folded up discarded garments. ‘You can’t have it both ways. I’ve never seen a more devoted husband. You wouldn’t like it if he got tired of you?’
‘I shouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, of course, if that’s your line, I don’t blame him if he does resent it a little. In fact, I think he’d be justified in consoling himself elsewhere. Do consider the possible consequences of such behaviour, child. With a man like John you can’t afford to run risks.’
‘Thank you, Mother, I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘Try to look at things a little more from his point of view. What, after all, did he marry you for?’
‘Oh, please, Mother, would you mind going? Will you please leave me alone? I want to be by myself. I … I won’t come down to dinner, I think.’
‘Good heavens! Child! Are you ill? Don’t go that colour! Sit down and let me get you some sal volatile.’
‘No. I’m all right. I’m perfectly all right. I only want to be by myself.’
‘But if you are too ill to come down to dinner, you are too ill to be left alone. I shall stay with you and make it clear that you are really unwell. I’m not going to have Marian saying that you are sulking after a scene with John. Are you sure you can’t come down? It would look much better if you could.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Agatha, whose colour was returning. ‘I will come. Could you find my Spanish comb? And I’ll have that black lace shawl. It’s somewhere in the wardrobe.’
‘You are still very white. I should put on just a very little touch, if I were you. You don’t want to go down looking conspicuously pale. Of course, John is such a paragon of a husband….’
The gong, heralding another of the endless Braxhall meals, reminded Mrs Cocks of the need for haste. She turned to the wardrobe without another word.
5.
Towards four o’clock upon the following afternoon Lois stood on the topmost garden terrace, watching a car which sped along the valley road. It contained the last of the guests who had lunched at Braxhall. She stood attentive until it had turned the corner and then heaved a great sigh of relief.
Hubert had been instructed to take Mrs Cocks to some retired place and keep her there. He had evidently done his duty, for nothing had been seen of the pair of them for above an hour and a half. Lois thought he should be released and set off in search of him. She found them in the sunk garden: they were sitting upon a stone bench by the fountain, absorbed in animated conversation. Hubert, though sprightly, was, to the practised eye of his wife, at the point of exhaustion; but his companion was enjoying herself vivaciously.
‘The guests have all gone,’ said Lois, joining them.
‘Gone? No! It must be very early!’ cried Mrs Cocks. ‘Nearly four? I couldn’t have believed it! I’m afraid I’ve been very uncivil; I do hope Cynthia won’t think so. I never meant to stay here so long. But your husband has been telling me such killing stories, Lois.’
‘Cynthia has gone up to rest, and Sir Thomas is having a cocktail somewhere. I heard him calling for it.’
‘But are they all gone? How annoying! There are several people I particularly wanted to talk to. Why were you so amusing, Mr Ervine?’
Hubert, who had been amusing because told to be so by Lois, said that he was very sorry for it.
‘I wanted to find out how many people have noticed that the Bragges have set up a portrait gallery. Most original, I call it. I hear that you all discovered it yesterday, and I think it most unkind of you not to point it out to me.’
‘Dear lady,’ began Hubert, ‘we meant for the best.’
‘Oh, I know you did. And you were perfectly right. But you see I never noticed it until the middle of lunch. I pointed it out at once to Mr Chaytor, who was sitting next to me. But he was very crushing. He merely said that he had already observed a resemblance, and changed the subject. I think he was rather scandalized. And the man on my other side was deaf. I was longing to find someone to laugh with about it. Do you really mean to say that the Bragges don’t know?’
‘Not yet,’ sighed Lois. ‘But they’ll have to be told, I suppose.’
‘James is really a wag. When will you tell them?’
‘Oh, Mrs Cocks,’ interrupted Lois, ‘Agatha was looking for you everywhere. She wanted to see you before she went. She told me to tell you she’d left a note for you in your sitting-room on the mantelpiece.’
‘Went? Went where?’
‘Away from here. Back to London, I suppose. She went by the three-forty.’
‘But they aren’t going till Saturday. We all go up to Scotland together.’
‘Oh, John hasn’t gone. Only Agatha. She went in a great hurry just after lunch. She didn’t even have time to say good-bye to Cynthia. I met her on the stairs taking leave of Sir Thomas, and she told me
she had to run because her car was round, and asked me to give you her message about the note.’
‘This is very strange!’ exclaimed Mrs Cocks jumping up. ‘I can’t understand this. I must find John.’
She hurried off towards the house, and Lois sank upon the stone bench beside her husband and felt in his pocket for a cigarette. He lighted it for her, and another for himself, remarking as he threw away the match:
‘I suppose we can now say “Nunc Dimittis” and what not.’
‘You did nobly, dear! I felt that our only hope was to keep her away from people. When I glanced across the table and saw by her expression that she had seen, I thought all was lost. But your skill in keeping her in seclusion has saved the day. What did you tell her stories about?’
‘Oh, the Jews mostly. We began with the frescoes, of course, and I propounded my theory that art is in for a golden age because all the profiteers are going to patronize it. This, I say, is due to the prevalence of Semitism. Formerly the Jews pretended not to be Jews and spent their money on baronial halls and portraits of Norman ancestors. Nowadays, when the whole world is run by ’em, nobody’s ashamed of being a Jew. They build their own houses, and don’t waste money on second-hand stuff. They patronize contemporary art. From that we got on to swapping stories about our Jewish acquaintances.’
‘But Sir Thomas isn’t a Jew.’
‘No. But he meekly follows the beaten track of the leading profiteers who mostly are. But tell me, how did this affair go as a whole? What was the impression you got? How many people would you say spotted it?’
‘Oh, a good many. But most of them were too well mannered to show it. They were too much shocked and embarrassed to be amused.’
‘Then on the whole it was better than it might have been?’
‘I don’t know! It was pretty grim, I hope I’ll never have to live through such another day.’
‘So do I.’
‘In the beginning I thought it was going off better than I could possibly have supposed. I was astonished.’
‘I know. When the thing was so blazingly obvious to me, I could not see how they could miss it. And when we got to the joints without a hitch, I began to be positively elated.’
Ladies of Lyndon Page 22
