‘Have you told Annie to give Joan her tea in the kitchen, mother?’ she said.
‘Yes, she’ll have it when the servants have theirs.’
Kathleen looked at her sister coolly.
‘The Bishop spent two or three days at Singapore on his way home,’ she went on. ‘He’s very fond of travelling. He’s been to Borneo, and he knows a good many of the people that you know.’
‘He’ll be interested to see you, dear,’ said Mrs Skinner. ‘Did he know poor Harold?’
‘Yes, he met him at Kuala Solor. He remembers him very well. He says he was shocked to hear of his death.’
Millicent sat down and began to put on her black gloves. It seemed strange to Mrs Skinner that she received these remarks with complete silence.
‘Oh, Millicent,’ she said, ‘Harold’s photo has disappeared. Have you taken it?’
‘Yes, I put it away.’
‘I should have thought you’d like to have it out.’
Once more Millicent said nothing. It really was an exasperating habit.
Kathleen turned slightly in order to face her sister.
‘Millicent, why did you tell us that Harold died of fever?’
The widow made no gesture, she looked at Kathleen with steady eyes, but her sallow skin darkened with a flush. She did not reply.
‘What do you mean, Kathleen?’ asked Mr Skinner, with surprise.
‘The Bishop says that Harold committed suicide.’
Mrs Skinner gave a startled cry, but her husband put out a deprecating hand.
‘Is it true, Millicent?’
‘It is.’
‘But why didn’t you tell us?’
Millicent paused for an instant. She fingered idly a piece of Brunei brass which stood on the table by her side. That too had been a present from Harold.
‘I thought it better for Joan that her father should be thought to have died of fever. I didn’t want her to know anything about it.’
‘You’ve put us in an awfully awkward position,’ said Kathleen, frowning a little. ‘Gladys Heywood said she thought it rather nasty of me not to have told her the truth. I had the greatest difficulty in getting her to believe that I knew absolutely nothing about it. She said her father was rather put out. He says, after all the years we’ve known one another, and considering that he married you, and the terms we’ve been on, and all that, he does think we might have had confidence in him. And at all events, if we didn’t want to tell him the truth we needn’t have told him a lie.’
‘I must say I sympathize with him there,’ said Mr Skinner, acidly.
‘Of course I told Gladys that we weren’t to blame. We only told them what you told us.’
‘I hope it didn’t put you off your game,’ said Millicent.
‘Really, my dear, I think that is a most improper observation,’ exclaimed her father.
He rose from his chair, walked over to the empty fireplace, and from force of habit stood in front of it with parted coat-tails.
‘It was my business,’ said Millicent, ‘and if I chose to keep it to myself I didn’t see why I shouldn’t.’
‘It doesn’t look as if you had any affection for your mother if you didn’t even tell her,’ said Mrs Skinner.
Millicent shrugged her shoulders.
‘You might have known it was bound to come out,’ said Kathleen.
‘Why? I didn’t expect that two gossiping old parsons would have nothing else to talk about than me.’
‘When the Bishop said he’d been to Borneo it’s only natural that the Heywoods should ask him if he knew you and Harold.’
‘All that’s neither here nor there,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘I think you should certainly have told us the truth, and we could have decided what was the best thing to do. As a solicitor I can tell you that in the long run it only makes things worse if you attempt to hide them.’
‘Poor Harold,’ said Mrs Skinner, and the tears began to trickle down her raddled cheeks. ‘It seems dreadful. He was always a good son-in-law to me. Whatever induced him to do such a dreadful thing?’
‘The climate.’
‘I think you’d better give us all the facts, Millicent,’ said her father.
‘Kathleen will tell you.’
Kathleen hesitated. What she had to say really was rather dreadful. It seemed terrible that such things should happen to a family like theirs.
‘The Bishop says he cut his throat.’
Mrs Skinner gasped and she went impulsively up to her bereaved daughter. She wanted to fold her in her arms.
‘My poor child,’ she sobbed.
But Millicent withdrew herself.
‘Please don’t fuss me, mother. I really can’t stand being mauled about.’
‘Really, Millicent,’ said Mr Skinner, with a frown.
He did not think she was behaving very nicely.
Mrs Skinner dabbed her eyes carefully with her handkerchief and with a sigh and a little shake of the head returned to her chair. Kathleen fidgeted with the long chain she wore round her neck.
‘It does seem rather absurd that I should have to be told the details of my brother-in-law’s death by a friend. It makes us all look such fools. The Bishop wants very much to see you, Millicent; he wants to tell you how much he feels for you.’ She paused, but Millicent did not speak. ‘He says that Millicent had been away with Joan and when she came back she found poor Harold lying dead on his bed.’
‘It must have been a great shock,’ said Mr Skinner.
Mrs Skinner began to cry again, but Kathleen put her hand gently on her shoulder.
‘Don’t cry, mother,’ she said. ‘It’ll make your eyes red and people will think it so funny.’
They were all silent while Mrs Skinner, drying her eyes, made a successful effort to control herself. It seemed very strange to her that this very moment she should be wearing in her toque the ospreys that poor Harold had given her.
‘There’s something else I ought to tell you,’ said Kathleen.
Millicent looked at her sister again, without haste, and her eyes were steady, but watchful. She had the look of a person who is waiting for a sound which he is afraid of missing.
‘I don’t want to say anything to wound you, dear,’ Kathleen went on, ‘but there’s something else and I think you ought to know it. The Bishop says that Harold drank.’
‘Oh, my dear, how dreadful!’ cried Mrs Skinner. ‘What a shocking thing to say. Did Gladys Heywood tell you? What did you say?’
‘I said it was entirely untrue.’
‘This is what comes of making secrets of things,’ said Mr Skinner, irritably. ‘It’s always the same. If you try and hush a thing up all sorts of rumours get about which are ten times worse than the truth.’
‘They told the Bishop in Singapore that Harold had killed himself while he was suffering from delirium tremens. I think for all our sakes you ought to deny that, Millicent.’
‘It’s such a dreadful thing to have said about anyone who’s dead,’ said Mrs Skinner. ‘And it’ll be so bad for Joan when she grows up.’
‘But what is the foundation of this story, Millicent?’ asked her father. ‘Harold was always very abstemious.’
‘Here,’ said the widow.
‘Did he drink?’
‘Like a fish.’
The answer was so unexpected, and the tone so sardonic, that all three of them were startled.
‘Millicent, how can you talk like that of your husband when he’s dead?’ cried her mother, clasping her neatly gloved hands. ‘I can’t understand you. You’ve been so strange since you came back. I could never have believed that a girl of mine could take her husband’s death like that.’
‘Never mind about that, mother,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘We can go into all that later.’
He walked to the window and looked out at the sunny little garden, and then walked back into the room. He took his pince-nez out of his pocket, and though he had no intention of putting them on, wiped them with his handkerchi
ef. Millicent looked at him and in her eyes, unmistakably, was a look of irony which was quite cynical. Mr Skinner was vexed. He had finished his week’s work and he was a free man till Monday morning. Though he had told his wife that this garden-party was a great nuisance and he would much sooner have tea quietly in his own garden, he had been looking forward to it. He did not care very much about Chinese missions, but it would be interesting to meet the Bishop. And now this! It was not the kind of thing he cared to be mixed up in; it was most unpleasant to be told on a sudden that his son-in-law was a drunkard and a suicide. Millicent was thoughtfully smoothing her white cuffs. Her coolness irritated him; but instead of addressing her he spoke to his younger daughter.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Kathleen? Surely there are plenty of chairs in the room.’
Kathleen drew forward a chair and without a word seated herself. Mr Skinner stopped in front of Millicent and faced her.
‘Of course I see why you told us Harold had died of fever. I think it was a mistake, because that sort of thing is bound to come out sooner or later. I don’t know how far what the Bishop has told the Heywoods coincides with the facts, but if you will take my advice you will tell us everything as circumstantially as you can, then we can see. We can’t hope that it will go no further now that Canon Heywood and Gladys know. In a place like this people are bound to talk. It will make it easier for all of us if we at all events know the exact truth.’
Mrs Skinner and Kathleen thought he put the matter very well. They waited for Millicent’s reply. She had listened with an impassive face; that sudden flush had disappeared and it was once more, as usual, pasty and sallow.
‘I don’t think you’ll much like the truth if I tell it you,’ she said.
‘You must know that you can count on our sympathy and understanding,’ said Kathleen gravely.
Millicent gave her a glance and the shadow of a smile flickered across her set mouth. She looked slowly at the three of them. Mrs Skinner had an uneasy impression that she looked at them as though they were mannequins at a dressmaker’s. She seemed to live in a different world from theirs and to have no connexion with them.
‘You know, I wasn’t in love with Harold when I married him,’ she said reflectively.
Mrs Skinner was on the point of making an exclamation when a rapid gesture of her husband, barely indicated, but after so many years of married life perfectly significant, stopped her. Millicent went on. She spoke with a level voice, slowly, and there was little change of expression in her tone.
‘I was twenty-seven, and no one else seemed to want to marry me. It’s true he was forty-four, and it seemed rather old, but he had a very good position, hadn’t he? I wasn’t likely to get a better chance.’
Mrs Skinner felt inclined to cry again, but she remembered the party.
‘Of course I see now why you took his photograph away,’ she said dolefully.
‘Don’t, mother,’ exclaimed Kathleen.
It had been taken when he was engaged to Millicent and was a very good photograph of Harold. Mrs Skinner had always thought him quite a fine man. He was heavily built, tall and perhaps a little too fat, but he held himself well, and his presence was imposing. He was inclined to be bald, even then, but men did go bald very early nowadays, and he said that topees, sun-helmets, you know, were very bad for the hair. He had a small dark moustache, and his face was deeply burned by the sun. Of course his best feature was his eyes; they were brown and large, like Joan’s. His conversation was interesting. Kathleen said he was pompous, but Mrs Skinner didn’t think him so, she didn’t mind it if a man laid down the law; and when she saw, as she very soon did, that he was attracted by Millicent she began to like him very much. He was always very attentive to Mrs Skinner, and she listened as though she were really interested when he spoke of his district, and told her of the big game he had killed. Kathleen said he had a pretty good opinion of himself, but Mrs Skinner came of a generation which accepted without question the good opinion that men had of themselves. Millicent saw very soon which way the wind blew, and though she said nothing to her mother, her mother knew that if Harold asked her she was going to accept him.
Harold was staying with some people who had been thirty years in Borneo and they spoke well of the country. There was no reason why a woman shouldn’t live there comfortably; of course the children had to come home when they were seven; but Mrs Skinner thought it unnecessary to trouble about that yet. She asked Harold to dine, and she told him they were always in to tea. He seemed to be at a loose end, and when his visit to his old friends was drawing to a close, she told him they would be very much pleased if he would come and spend a fortnight with them. It was towards the end of this that Harold and Millicent became engaged. They had a very pretty wedding, they went to Venice for their honeymoon, and then they started for the East. Millicent wrote from various ports at which the ship touched. She seemed happy.
‘People were very nice to me at Kuala Solor,’ she said. Kuala Solor was the chief town of the state of Sembulu. ‘We stayed with the Resident and everyone asked us to dinner. Once or twice I heard men ask Harold to have a drink, but he refused; he said he had turned over a new leaf now he was a married man. I didn’t know .why they laughed. Mrs Gray, the Resident’s wife, told me they were all so glad Harold was married. She said it was dreadfully lonely for a bachelor on one of the outstations. When we left Kuala Solor Mrs Gray said good-bye to me so funnily that I was quite surprised. It was as if she was solemnly putting Harold in my charge.’
They listened to her in silence. Kathleen never took her eyes off her sister’s impassive face; but Mr Skinner stared straight in front of him at the Malay arms, krises and parangs, which hung on the wall above the sofa on which his wife sat.
‘It wasn’t till I went back to Kuala Solor a year and a half later, that I found out why their manner had seemed so odd.’ Millicent gave a queer little sound like the echo of a scornful laugh. ‘I knew then a good deal that I hadn’t known before. Harold came to England that time in order to marry. He didn’t much mind who it was. Do you remember how we spread ourselves out to catch him, mother? We needn’t have taken so much trouble.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Millicent,’ said Mrs Skinner, not without acerbity, for the insinuation of scheming did not please her. ‘I saw he was attracted by you.’
Millicent shrugged her heavy shoulders.
‘He was a confirmed drunkard. He used to go to bed every night with a bottle of whisky and empty it before morning. The Chief Secretary told him he’d have to resign unless he stopped drinking. He said he’d give him one more chance. He could take his leave then and go to England. He advised him to marry so that when he got back he’d have someone to look after him. Harold married me because he wanted a keeper. They took bets in Kuala Solor on how long I’d make him stay sober.’
‘But he was in love with you,’ Mrs Skinner interrupted. ‘You don’t know how he used to speak to me about you, and at that time you’re speaking of, when you went to Kuala Solor to have Joan, he wrote me such a charming letter about you.’
Millicent looked at her mother again and a deep colour dyed her sallow skin. Her hands, lying on her lap, began to tremble a little. She thought of those first months of her married life. The government launch took them to the mouth of the river, and they spent the night at the bungalow which Harold said jokingly was their seaside residence. Next day they went up-stream in a prahu. From the novels she had read she expected the rivers of Borneo to be dark and strangely sinister, but the sky was blue, dappled with little white clouds, and the green of the mangroves and the nipahs, washed by the flowing water, glistened in the sun. On each side stretched the pathless jungle, and in the distance, silhouetted against the sky, was the rugged outline of a mountain. The air in the early morning was fresh and buoyant. She seemed to enter upon a friendly, fertile land, and she had a sense of spacious freedom. They watched the banks for monkeys sitting on the branches of the tangled trees, and once Harold
pointed out something that looked like a log and said it was a crocodile. The Assistant Resident, in ducks and a topee, was at the landing-stage to meet them, and a dozen trim little soldiers were lined up to do them honour. The Assistant Resident was introduced to her. His name was Simpson.
‘By Jove, sir,’ he said to Harold. ‘I’m glad to see you back. It’s been deuced lonely without you.’
The Resident’s bungalow, surrounded by a garden in which grew wildly all manner of gay flowers, stood on the top of a low hill. It was a trifle shabby and the furniture was sparse, but the rooms were cool and of generous size.
‘The kampong is down there,’ said Harold, pointing.
Her eyes followed his gesture, and from among the coconut trees rose the beating of a gong. It gave her a queer little sensation in the heart.
Though she had nothing much to do the days passed easily enough. At dawn a boy brought them their tea and they lounged about the veranda, enjoying the fragrance of the morning (Harold in a singlet and a sarong, she in a dressing-gown) till it was time to dress for breakfast. Then Harold went to his office and she spent an hour or two learning Malay. After tiffin he went back to his office while she slept. A cup of tea revived them both, and they went for a walk or played golf on the nine-hole links which Harold had made on a level piece of cleared jungle below the bungalow. Night fell at six and Mr Simpson came along to have a drink. They chatted till their late dinner hour, and sometimes Harold and Mr Simpson played chess. The balmy evenings were enchanting. The fireflies turned the bushes just below the veranda into coldly-sparkling, tremulous beacons, and flowering trees scented the air with sweet odours. After dinner they read the papers which had left London six weeks before and presently went to bed. Millicent enjoyed being a married woman, with a house of her own, and she was pleased with the native servants, in their gay sarongs, who went about the bungalow, with bare feet, silent but friendly. It gave her a pleasant sense of importance to be the wife of the Resident. Harold impressed her by the fluency with which he spoke the language, by his air of command, and by his dignity. She went into the court-house now and then to hear him try cases. The multifariousness of his duties and the competent way in which he performed them aroused her respect. Mr Simpson told her that Harold understood the natives as well as any man in the country. He had the combination of firmness, tact, and good-humour which was essential in dealing with that timid, revengeful, and suspicious race. Millicent began to feel a certain admiration for her husband.
Collected Short Stories: Volume 1 Page 48
