‘I have never understood,’ he said, ‘how people presumably civilized can indulge in a habit that is not only barbarous but disgusting.’
I may state that this did not deter Miss Gray and me from having a couple of dry Martinis, though it was with impatience and distaste that he watched us drink them.
But the dinner was a success. The good wine and Miss Gray’s sprightly chatter combined to give Landon a geniality I had never before seen in him. It was plain to me that notwithstanding his austere appearance he liked feminine society; and Miss Gray in a becoming dress, with her neat head only just touched with grey and her delicate features, her sparkling eyes, was still alluring. After dinner the judge, with some old brandy still further to mellow him, let himself go, and for a couple of hours held us entranced while he told us of celebrated trials in which he had been concerned. I was not surprised therefore that when Miss Gray asked us to lunch with her next day, Landon, even before I could answer, accepted with alacrity.
‘A very nice woman,’ he said when she had left us. ‘And a head on her shoulders. She must have been very pretty as a girl. She’s not bad now. Why isn’t she married?’
‘She always says nobody asked her.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! Women ought to marry. Too many of these women about who want their independence. I have no patience with them.’
Miss Gray lived in a little house facing the sea at St Jean, which is a couple of miles from my own house at Cap Ferrat. We drove down next day at one and were shown into her sitting-room.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ she said to me, as we shook hands. ‘The Craigs are coming.’
‘You’ve got to know them at last.’
‘Well, I thought it was too absurd that we should live next door to one another, and bathe from the same beach every day and not speak. So I forced myself on them, and they’ve promised to come to lunch today. I wanted you to meet them, to see what you make of them.’ She turned to Landon. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
But he was on his best behaviour.
‘I’m sure I shall be delighted to meet any friends of yours, Miss Gray,’ he said.
‘But they’re not friends of mine. I’ve seen a lot of them, but I never spoke to them till yesterday. It’ll be a treat for them to meet an author and a celebrated judge.’
I had heard a good deal of the Craigs from Miss Gray during the previous three weeks. They had taken the cottage next to hers, and at first she feared they would be a nuisance. She liked her own company and did not want to be bothered with the trivialities of social intercourse. But she very quickly discovered that the Craigs were as plainly disinclined to strike up an acquaintance with her as she with them. Though in that little place they could not but meet two or three times a day, the Craigs never by so much as a glance gave an indication that they had ever seen her before. Miss Gray told me she thought it very tactful of them to make no attempt to intrude upon her privacy, but I had an idea that she was not affronted, a little puzzled rather, that they apparently wanted to know her as little as she wanted to know them. I had guessed some time before that she would not be able to resist making the first advance. On one occasion, while we were walking we passed them, and I was able to have a good look at them. Craig was a handsome man, with a red, honest face, a grey moustache, and thick strong grey hair. He held himself well, and there was a bluff heartiness of manner about him that suggested a broker who had retired on a handsome fortune. His wife was a woman hard of visage, tall, and of masculine appearance, with dull, fair hair too elaborately dressed, a large nose, a large mouth, and a weather-beaten skin. She was not only plain but grim. Her clothes, pretty, flimsy and graceful, sat oddly upon her, for they would better have suited a girl of eighteen, and Mrs Craig was certainly forty. Miss Gray told me they were well cut and expensive. I thought he looked commonplace and she looked disagreeable, and I told Miss Gray she was lucky that they were obviously disposed to keep themselves to themselves.
‘There’s something rather sweet about them,’ she answered.
‘What?’
‘They love one another. And they adore the baby.’
For they had a child that was not more than a year old; and from this Miss Gray had concluded that they had not long been married. She liked to watch them with their baby. A nurse took it out every morning in a pram, but before this, father and mother spent an ecstatic quarter of an hour teaching it to walk. They stood a few yards apart and urged the child to flounder from one to the other; and each time it tumbled into the parental arms it was lifted up and rapturously embraced. And when finally it was tucked up in the smart pram, they hung over it with charming baby talk and watched it out of sight as though they couldn’t bear to let it go.
Miss Gray used often to see them walking up and down the lawn of their garden arm in arm; they did not talk, as though they were so happy to be together that conversation was unnecessary; and it warmed her heart to observe the affection which that dour, unsympathetic woman so obviously felt for her tall, handsome husband. It was a pretty sight to see Mrs Craig brush an invisible speck of dust off his coat, and Miss Gray was convinced that she purposely made holes in his socks in order to have the pleasure of darning them. And it looked as though he loved her as much as she loved him. Every now and then he would give her a glance, and she would look up at him and smile, and he gave her cheek a little pat. Because they were no longer young, their mutual devotion was peculiarly touching.
I never knew why Miss Gray had never married; I felt as certain as the judge that she had had plenty of chances; and I asked myself, when she talked to me about the Craigs, whether the sight of this matrimonial felicity didn’t give her a slight pang. I suppose complete happiness is very rare in this world, but these two people seemed to enjoy it, and it may be that Miss Gray was so strangely interested in them only because she could not quite suppress the feeling in her heart that by remaining single she had missed something.
Because she didn’t know what their first names were, she called them Edwin and Angelina. She made up a story about them. She told it to me one day; and when I ridiculed it, she was quite short with me. This, as far as I can remember, is how it went: They had fallen in love with one another years before – perhaps twenty years – when Angelina, a young girl then, had the fresh grace of her teens and Edwin was a brave youth setting out joyously on the journey of life. And since the gods, who are said to look upon young love with kindliness, nevertheless do not bother their heads with practical matters, neither Edwin nor Angelina had a penny. It was impossible for them to marry, but they had courage, hope, and confidence. Edwin made up his mind to go out to South America or Malaya or where you like, make his fortune and return to marry the girl who had patiently waited for him. It couldn’t take more than two or three years, five at the utmost; and what is that, when you’re twenty and the whole of life is before you? Meanwhile of course Angelina would live with her widowed mother.
But things didn’t pan out according to schedule. Edwin found it more difficult than he had expected to make a fortune; in fact, he found it hard to earn enough money to keep body and soul together, and only Angelina’s love and her tender letters gave him the heart to continue the struggle. At the end of five years he was not much better off than when he started. Angelina would willingly have joined him and shared his poverty, but it was impossible for her to leave her mother, bed-ridden as she was, poor thing, and there was nothing for them to do but have patience. And so the years passed slowly, and Edwin’s hair grew grey, and Angelina became grim and haggard. Hers was the harder lot, for she could do nothing but wait. The cruel glass showed such charms as she had possessed slipping away from her one by one, and at last she discovered that youth, with a mocking laugh and a pirouette, had left her for good. Her sweetness turned sour from long tending of a querulous invalid; her mind was narrowed by the society of the small town in which she lived. Her friends married and had children, but she remained a prisoner to duty.
She wo
ndered if Edwin still loved her. She wondered if he would ever come back. She often despaired. Ten years went by, and fifteen, and twenty. Then Edwin wrote to say that his affairs were settled, and he had made enough money for them to live upon in comfort, and if she were still willing to marry him, he would return at once. By a merciful interposition of providence, Angelina’s mother chose that very moment to abandon a world in which she had made herself a thorough nuisance. But when after so long a separation they met, Angelina saw with dismay that Edwin was as young as ever. It’s true his hair was grey, but it infinitely became him. He had always been good-looking, but now he was a very handsome man in the flower of his age. She felt as old as the hills. She was conscious of her narrowness, her terrible provincialism, compared with the breadth he had acquired by his long sojourn in foreign countries. He was gay and breezy as of old, but her spirit was crushed. The bitterness of life had warped her soul. It seemed monstrous to bind that alert and active man to her by a promise twenty years old, and she offered him his release. He went deathly pale.
‘Don’t you care for me any more?’ he cried brokenly.
And she realized on a sudden – oh, the rapture, oh, the relief! – that to him she was just the same as she had ever been. He had thought of her always as she was; her portrait had been, as it were, stamped on his heart, so that now, when the real woman stood before him, she was, to him, still eighteen.
So they were married.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ I said when Miss Gray had brought her story to its happy ending.
‘I insist on your believing it,’ she said. ‘I’m convinced it’s true, and I haven’t the smallest doubt that they’ll live happily together to a ripe old age.’ Then she made a remark that I thought rather shrewd. ‘Their love is founded on an illusion, perhaps; but since it has to them all the appearance of reality, what does it matter?’
While I have told you this idyllic story of Miss Gray’s invention, the three of us, our hostess, Landon, and myself, waited for the Craigs to come.
‘Have you ever noticed that if people live next door to you, they’re invariably late?’ Miss Gray asked the judge.
‘No, I haven’t,’ he answered acidly. ‘I’m always punctual myself, and I expect other people to be punctual.’
‘I suppose it’s no good offering you a cocktail?’
‘None whatever, madam.’
‘But I have some sherry that they tell me isn’t bad.’
The judge took the bottle out of her hands and looked at the label. A faint smile broke on his thin lips.
‘This is a civilized drink, Miss Gray. With your permission I will help myself. I never knew a woman yet who knew how to pour out a glass of wine. One should hold a woman by the waist, but a bottle by the neck.’
While he was sipping the old sherry with every sign of satisfaction, Miss Gray glanced out of the window.
‘Oh, that’s why the Craigs are late. They were waiting for the baby to come back.’
I followed her eyes and saw that the nurse had just pushed the pram past Miss Gray’s house on her way home. Craig took the baby out of the pram and lifted it high in the air. The baby, trying to tug at his moustache, crowed gleefully. Mrs Craig stood by, watching, and the smile on her face made her harsh features almost pleasant. The window was open, and we heard her speak.
‘Come along, darling,’ she said, ‘we’re late.’
He put the baby back in the pram, and they came up to the door of Miss Gray’s house and rang the bell. The maid showed them in. They shook hands with Miss Gray, and because I was standing near, she introduced me to them. Then she turned to the judge.
‘And this is Sir Edward Landon – Mr and Mrs Craig.’
One would have expected the judge to move forward with an outstretched hand, but he remained stock-still. He put his eyeglass up to his eye, that eyeglass that I had on more than one occasion seen him use with devastating effect in court, and stared at the newcomers.
‘Gosh, what a dirty customer,’ I said to myself.
He let the glass drop from his eye.
‘How do you do,’ he said. ‘Am I mistaken in thinking that we’ve met before?’
The question turned my eyes to the Craigs. They stood side by side close to one another, as though they had drawn together for mutual protection. They did not speak. Mrs Craig looked terrified. Craig’s red face was darkened by a purple flush, and his eyes appeared almost to start out of his head. But that only lasted a second.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said in a rich, deep voice. ‘Of course I’ve heard of you, Sir Edward.’
‘More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows,’ said he.
Miss Gray meanwhile had been giving the cocktail-shaker a shake, and now she handed cocktails to her two guests. She had noticed nothing. I didn’t know what it all meant; in fact, I wasn’t sure it meant anything. The incident, if incident there was, passed so quickly that I was half inclined to think that I had read into the strangers’ momentary embarrassment on being introduced to a celebrated man something for which there was no foundation. I set about making myself pleasant. I asked them how they liked the Riviera and if they were comfortable in their house. Miss Gray joined in, and we chatted, as one does with strangers, of commonplace things. They talked easily and pleasantly. Mrs Craig said how much they enjoyed the bathing and complained of the difficulty of getting fish at the seaside. I was aware that the judge did not join in the conversation, but looked down at his feet as though he were unconscious of the company.
Lunch was announced. We went into the dining-room. We were only five, and it was a small round table, so the conversation could not be anything but general. I must confess that it was carried on chiefly by Miss Gray and myself. The judge was silent, but he often was, for he was a moody creature, and I paid no attention. I noticed that he ate the omelette with good appetite, and when it was passed round again took a second helping. The Craigs struck me as a little shy, but that didn’t surprise me, and as the second course was produced they began to talk more freely. It didn’t strike me that they were very amusing people; they didn’t seem interested in very much besides their baby, the vagaries of the two Italian maids they had, and an occasional flutter at Monte Carlo; and I couldn’t help thinking that Miss Gray had erred in making their acquaintance. Then suddenly something happened: Craig rose abruptly from his chair and fell headlong to the floor. We jumped up. Mrs Craig threw herself down, over her husband, and took his head in her hands.
‘It’s all right, George,’ she cried in an agonized tone. ‘It’s all right!’
‘Put his head down,’ I said. ‘He’s only fainted.’
I felt his pulse and could feel nothing. I said he had fainted, but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t a stroke. He was the sort of heavy, plethoric man who might easily have one. Miss Gray dipped her napkin into water and dabbed his forehead. Mrs Craig seemed distraught. Then I noticed that Landon had remained quietly sitting in his chair.
‘If he’s fainted, you’re not helping him to recover by crowding round him,’ he said acidly.
Mrs Craig turned her head and gave him a look of bitter hatred.
‘I’ll ring up the doctor,’ said Miss Gray.
‘No, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I said. ‘He’s coming to.’
I could feel his pulse growing stronger, and in a minute or two he opened his eyes. He gasped when he realized what had happened, and tried to struggle to his feet.
‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘Lie still a little longer.’
I got him to drink a glass of brandy, and the colour came back to his face.
‘I feel all right now,’ he said.
‘We’ll get you into the next room, and you can lie on the sofa for a bit.’
‘No, I’d sooner go home. It’s only a step.’
He got up from the floor.
‘Yes, let’s go back,’ said Mrs Craig. She turned to Miss Gray. ‘I’m so sorry; he’s never done anything like this before.’ r />
They were determined to go, and I thought myself it was the best thing for them to do.
‘Put him to bed and keep him there, and he’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.’
Mrs Craig took one of his arms and I took the other; Miss Gray opened the door, and though still a bit shaky, he was able to walk. When we arrived at the Craigs’ home, I offered to go in and help undress him; but they would neither of them hear of it. I went back to Miss Gray’s and found them at dessert.
‘I wonder why he fainted,’ Miss Gray was saying. ‘All the windows are open, and it’s not particularly hot today.’
‘I wonder,’ said the judge.
I noticed that his thin pale face bore an expression of some complacency. We had our coffee; and then, since the judge and I were going to play golf, we got into the car and drove up the hill to my house.
‘How did Miss Gray get to know those people?’ Landon asked me. ‘They struck me as rather second-rate. I shouldn’t have thought they were very much her mark.’
‘You know women. She likes her privacy, and when they settled in next door, she was quite decided that she wouldn’t have anything to do with them; but when she discovered that they didn’t want to have anything to do with her, she couldn’t rest till she’d made their acquaintance.’
I told him the story she had invented about her neighbours. He listened with an expressionless face.
‘I’m afraid your friend Miss Gray is a sentimental donkey, my dear fellow,’ he said when I had come to an end. ‘I tell you, women ought to marry. She’d soon have had all that nonsense knocked out of her if she’d had half a dozen brats.’
‘What do you know about the Craigs?’ I asked.
He gave me a frigid glance.
‘I? Why should I know anything about them? I thought they were very ordinary people.’
I wish I knew how to describe the strong impression he gave me, both by the glacial austerity of his look and by the rasping finality of his tone, that he was not prepared to say anything more. We finished the drive in silence.