by E. F. Benson
Dora had gone to her room shortly after tea to rest, on the diplomatic prompting of her mother-in-law. With so many gentlemen present, Lady Osborne would never have said, “Dora, the doctor told you to rest for a couple of hours before dinner,” but she had reminded her that she had several letters to write for the post. And Dora, secretly and kindly smiling, had remembered at once, though (like the almug trees) there were no such letters. And with her to her room she took up the parcel of thought that has been indicated, for she wanted to examine its contents a little more closely before Claude came up, as he always did, to read to her for a while before she dressed. Right at the bottom of the packet, she knew, there lay something very precious. She would look at that by and by, with him perhaps.
But in spite of the preponderance that qualities of the heart had now gained in her mind compared to what must be called qualities of the surface, to which belonged such things as beauty and breeding, she found that the latter had not at all lost their value. But she saw such things differently. They had assumed, so it seemed to her, not a truer value, but the true value. She loved Claude’s beauty more than even in those enchanted days of honeymoon in Venice, not only now because it was beauty, but because it was Claude’s, while such superficial failings as were undoubtedly his she laughed at still, but now without bitterness or irritation. They were funny: to say a “handsome lady” was still ludicrous, but now, since it was Claude who said it, it could not help being lovable. Indeed she and Jim had invented what they called “The Claude Catechism,” which began, “Are you a handsome lady? No, but I am a perfect gentleman.” And then Claude would throw whatever was handiest at Jim’s head.
And how, like Pharaoh, had she at one time hardened her heart, refusing to give admittance, so it seemed to her now, to that sunshine of beautiful qualities that was always ready to stream in upon her. He had never failed her, he had always been patient, waiting for the door to open, for the closed windows to be unbarred. True, in the early days he thought they had been unbarred, that he had full admittance, but in the weeks that followed, when it was clear to him that ingress was given him no longer, he had waited, waited without bitter thought of her. She had made him, after their reconciliation, try to explain what he had felt to her, and he had done it, unwillingly, but not failing to answer her questions.
“You see it was like this, darling,” he had said. “I saw something was wrong, and I tried to find out if I had done anything, or how I could set things right. But it didn’t seem to me that I had altered at all — at least I knew I hadn’t — toward you, from the time that you said you loved me, and so the best thing I could do was just to keep on at that. I thought of all sorts of things, tried to wonder at your reasons for not being pleased with me. But that was no use: I’d always been myself to you, and — and I thought you might care for me again later on. Of course — I suppose it was in a selfish way — I was glad when poor old Jim made such a mistake, because that gave me an opportunity, you see, to — well, treat him decently. Not that I ever thought it would get to your ears. However, it did: Jim was a trump over that, going and telling you. I didn’t mean him to, but when it happened like that, I couldn’t help being pleased. You had been a bit hard on me, you know: thank God you were, for it makes it better now that you are not. Lord, what a jaw!”
This was the outcome of her talk with him, but the “jaw” was punctuated by questions of hers. It was another Claude catechism. But this one was not funny, nor had Jim any part in it.
Yes: she had separated this man who loved her into packets: there was her mistake. First she had loved his beauty, and then had taken that for granted. Next she had felt growingly irritated with all in him that did not correspond to the particular little tricks of conversation and life in which she had been brought up. Then she had got accustomed to those sterling qualities which she had taken for granted from the first. And then had come “the little more,” and how much it was. He had but shown, in practical demonstration, that he was kind and brave and reliable, all that she had thought she had given him credit for at first. But the effect was immense: she fell in love, at first real sight, with his qualities.
That fused the whole: at last she was in love with the man, not with his face, not with his character taken by itself, but with him as a whole. That splendid body was his, his too were the greater splendours of character, and if his also were the things dealt with in the public Claude catechism, they were no longer rejected, they were no longer even accepted, they were welcomed and hugged. The reason for this was plain: it was Claude who said and did all that which was symbolized under the title of “handsome lady,” and since it was Claude, it was a thing to be kissed, though laughter came too. He was no longer packets: they were fused into one dear whole, the thought of which and the presence of which made her heart ache with tenderness.
And now, thinking of these things, she had a thirsty eye for the opening of the door, a thirsty ear for the sound of his foot in the passage outside. But she knew he would not come quite yet, for at tea some silly discussion had arisen between him and Jim as to whether it was possible to get (with a run) from the bottom of the terrace to the lake in twelve strides. Jim had been vehement on the impossibility of it, and though Claude cordially agreed that it was a feat of which Jim was pathetically incapable, he backed himself to do it for the sum of one shilling. Even now she could hear him running along the terrace below the window, and Jim’s voice counting the strides.
Dora got up and strolled on to her balcony. The last attempt had apparently been unsuccessful, for Claude was starting again, and next moment with great strides his long legs were taking him across the grass that sloped down to the lake. This time it looked as if he would easily succeed, for the sixth leap had taken him well beyond the half-distance. The eleventh took him within a couple of yards of the edge, and next moment Dora joined in the shout of laughter that came from Jim. For it had not apparently occurred to Claude what happened next, if you leap at top speed to the margin of a lake. But he knew now, as he vanished in a fountain of spray. It was the deep end of the lake too.
Jim had collapsed altogether on the ground by the time Claude swam to shore, and Dora was equally helpless on the balcony, but by the time the involuntary bather had wrung his clothes out, Jim had recovered sufficiently to find the shilling he had lost to him.
“Oh! it was cheap at the price,” he said. “I wish it had been a florin.”
Claude walked up the terrace to the house, leaving a trail of water on the paving stones, and in a moment his dressing room door opened with a crack, and a head and naked shoulder came round the corner.
“Darling! I’ve been making a fool of myself,” be said.
“I must change first, and then shall I come in to read to you?”
“Yes, do,” she said, still laughing. “I saw it. I thought I should have a fit. Can’t you do it again before you change? It was too heavenly.”
“Yes, if you wish,” said he. “But I shall have to put on my wet clothes again.”
She laughed again.
“No, there would be no ‘first fine careless rapture” the second time,” she said.
“What’s that?” asked Claude.
“Nothing. Browning. Change, and then come and read to me.”
It was not long before he joined her, and seated himself on the floor by the side of the sofa where she lay, with his back against it. The book he was reading was “Esmond,” and that evening they came to the chapter in which Harry comes home, on December 29th, and goes to the service in Winchester Cathedral. And Claude read:
“‘She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement had passed. They had never been separated.’”
Dora’s hand lay on her husband’s arm, and he felt a soft pressure of her fingers.
“Oh, Claude,” she said, “how nice! He was so faithful and patient, and it all came right.”
He let
the book fall to the ground. As soon as she spoke he ceased to think of Esmond, and though Dora’s words referred to him, she was not thinking of him either.
‘“They had never been separated,’” she went on, still quoting, but still not thinking of the book. “They hadn’t really been separated, because their love was present all the time, but she had let it get covered up with irritation and impatience. Was it like that it happened?”
“I can’t remember,” he said, “indeed I cannot. Everything seems unreal that isn’t perfect.”
“And there is something more coming,” she said, “coming soon, perhaps in a few days now. So to-night, dear, let us talk a little instead of reading even that beautiful chapter. I am glad we got to it to-day. I like stopping just at those very words, and I want you to tell me just once, what really I know so well, that you feel as if we had never been separated, that you forgive all my stupidity and shallowness. I want to let it all pass from my mind for ever: to know that I needn’t ever reproach myself any more. I think I have learned my lesson: I do indeed. Just tell me, if you can, that you think I have!” He had turned himself about as she spoke, and now instead of sitting he knelt by her side, she leaning on her elbow toward him. In the humility of the simple words, there was something exquisite to him, they flooded his heart with a tender protectiveness.
“Oh, my darling, you say that to me! Indeed, indeed, I never reproached you.”
Dora was still grave.
“I know that,” she said, “but I reproached myself. How could I help it? But, Claude, the sting has gone out of my self-reproach. I can’t help it: it has. You have to tell me, if you truly can, that I needn’t barb it again.”
He saw she wanted the direct answer.
“You need not,” he said. “And I think you cannot. You can’t make an old bruise ache again when it is well.”
“Then it has gone,” she said. “Pull me up, dear, with those strong hands.”
He raised her to her feet, and she clung to him a moment.
“Oh, Claude! it is getting near the best time of all,” she said. “Your mother once told me that to bear a child was the best thing God ever thought of for women. Oh dear! and she was so funny at tea. Dad said something about a foreman he had discharged with nine children and another coming, and she pulled him up. How beautifully laughter and the biggest things in the world go together. They don’t interfere with one another in the least.”
“Lord! and to think that once I used to believe you weren’t respectful enough to Dad and her,” said he.
“And you were quite right. I can laugh at them now I love them. It’s that which makes the difference.”
She strolled to the window.
“Let’s come out on the balcony for a little,” she said. “What an evening!”
The sun had set, but not long, and in the west a flash of molten red lay along the horizon. That melted into orange, which again faded into pale green. Higher up the sky was of velvet blue, and little wisps of feathery cloud flushed with rose colour were flecked over it. The stars were already lit, and some noble planet near to its setting flamed jewel-like in that green strip of sky. Already the colours were half withdrawn from the garden beds, but a hint of the flower presences came to them in the little fragrant breeze that fluttered moth-like in the stillness. Beyond lay the lake, screened from the glory of sunset by the tall clumps of rhododendrons on its far side, and in the shadow the water was dark and steellike in tone. Birds still chuckled in the bushes, and from far away came the pulse of some hurrying train. And in the hush and quiet of the hour they spoke together of the dear event that was coming and would not be long delayed.
“So I wanted,” she said at last, “to clear everything off my mind which could make me look backward. I want nothing to exist for me except you and our love for each other. Even Dad and Mother must get a little dim. I can’t explain.”
“I think I understand very well,” said he.
“And you won’t be frightened for me, Claude?” she asked. “Yet I needn’t ask you. I saw what you were when mother was ill.”
He did not answer.
“What then, dear?” asked Dora.
“Well, it’s you, you see, now,” he said. “I can’t help it But I’ll do my best.”
A week more passed quietly enough. Lady Austell arrived, and that somehow was the last straw for Uncle Alf, for she was so extraordinarily appropriate, and he persuaded Jim to come back to Richmond with him. Lady Austell had very thoughtfully let the house at Deal most advantageously for the whole month of September, and intended to have a nice long stay at Grote. Really it was quite too wonderful that Dora’s baby should be born at Grote. It was a dear case of special Providence.
Then came a day when the house was very still, and the hot hours passed with leaden foot. To Claude it seemed that the morning would never pass to noon, and when noon was over each hour the more seemed an eternity twice told. But just before sunset there was heard the cry of a child.
Later, he was allowed to see Dora for a moment, and in a cot by her bed, tiny and red and crumpled., lay that which had come into the world.
“Oh Claude!” she said softly, as he came up to her bed, “all three of us — you and your son and I.”
THE END
MRS. AMES
First published in 1912, this novel is reminiscent of the Mapp and Lucia series in its satirical portrait of the petty preoccupations and gossip of the upper-middle-class denizens of a typical English village. It concerns the eponymous character’s battle with Mrs. Altham to be the social queen of Riseborough – a battle which Mrs. Ames appears to be winning, until Millie Evans, the pretty young wife of the local doctor, arrives on the scene…
Although laced with Benson’s trademark humour and biting satire, the novel is perhaps more complex than the Mapp and Lucia series in its sometimes poignant insights into the psychology of characters, whose lives have not turned out quite as they would have liked.
A review of the novel from The Spectator, 2 November 1912
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
A picturesque street in Rye, East Sussex, on which the town of Riseborough is based
CHAPTER I
Certainly the breakfast tongue, which was cut for the first time that morning, was not of the pleasant reddish hue which Mrs. Altham was justified in expecting, considering that the delicacy in question was not an ordinary tinned tongue (you had to take things as you found them, if your false sense of economy led you to order tinned goods) but one that came out of a fine glass receptacle with an eminent label on it. It was more of the colour of cold mutton, unattractive if not absolutely unpleasant to the eye, while to the palate it proved to be singularly lacking in flavour. Altogether it was a great disappointment, and for this reason, when Mr. Altham set out at a quarter-past twelve to stroll along to the local club in Queensgate Street with the ostensible purpose of seeing if there was any fresh telegram about the disturbances in Morocco, his wife accompanied him to the door of that desirable mansion, round which was grouped a variety of chained-up dogs in various states of boredom and irritation, and went on into the High Street in order to make in person a justifiable complaint at her grocer’s. She would be sorry to have to take her custom elsewhere, but if Mr. Pritchard did not see his way to sending her another tongue (of course without further charge) she would be obliged . . .
So this morning there was a special and imperative reason why Mrs. Altham should walk out before lunch to the High Street, and why her husband should make a morning visit to the club. But to avoid misconception it may be stated at once that there was, on every day of the week e
xcept Sunday, some equally compelling cause to account for these expeditions. If it was very wet, perhaps, Mrs. Altham might not go to the High Street, but wet or fine her husband went to his club. And exactly the same thing happened in the case of most of their friends and acquaintances, so that Mr. Altham was certain of meeting General Fortescue, Mr. Brodie, Major Ames, and others in the smoking-room, while Mrs. Altham encountered their wives and sisters on errands like her own in the High Street. She often professed superior distaste for gossip, but when she met her friends coming in and out of shops, it was but civil and reasonable that she should have a few moments’ chat with them. Thus, if any striking events had taken place since the previous afternoon, they all learned about them. Simultaneously there was a similar interchange of thought and tidings going on in the smoking-room at the club, so that when Mr. Altham had drunk his glass of sherry and returned home to lunch at one-thirty, there was probably little of importance and interest which had not reached the ears of himself or his wife. It could then be discussed at that meal.
