‘And then,’ said Stringham, lowering his voice and raising his eyebrows slightly, ‘one wonders about making love … counts up on one’s fingers … No … It can’t be that …’
Mrs Maclintick gave a raucous laugh.
‘I know!’ Stringham now almost shouted, as if in sudden enlightenment. ‘I’ve got it. It was going on about what a charming girl Rosie Manasch is. That was a bloody silly thing to do, when I know Peggy hates Rosie like poison. But I’m wandering … talking of years ago … of the days before Rosie married Jock Udall …’
‘Heavens,’ said Moreland. ‘Do you know the Manasches? I once conducted at a charity concert in their house.’
Stringham ignored him.
‘But then, on the other hand,’ he went on, in a slower, much quieter voice, ‘Rosie may have nothing whatever to do with it. One’s wife may be ill. Sickening for some terrible disease. Something to which one has never given a thought. She is sinking. Wasting away under one’s eyes. It is just one’s own callousness about her state. That is all that’s wrong. You begin to get really worried. Should you get up and summon a doctor right away?’
‘The doctor always tells Maclintick to drink less,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘Always the same story. “Put a drop more water in it,” he says, “then you will feel better.” You might just as well talk to a brick wall. Maclintick is not going to drink less because a doctor tells him to. If he won’t stop after what I’ve said to him, is it likely he will knock off for a doctor? Why should he?’
‘Why, indeed, you little rogue?’ said Stringham, tapping Mrs Maclintick’s knee with a folded copy of the concert programme, which had somehow found its way into his hand. ‘Well, of course, in the end you discover that all this ill humour is nothing to do with yourself at all. In fact your wife is hardly aware that she is living in the same house with you. It was something that somebody said about her to someone who gossiped to somebody she knew when that somebody was having her hair done. Neither less nor more than that. All the same, it is you, her husband, who has to bear the brunt of those ill-chosen remarks by somebody about something. I’ve talked it all over with Ted Jeavons and he quite agrees.’
‘I adore Uncle Ted,’ said Priscilla, anxious to show that she herself had perfectly followed this dissertation.
‘And you, Black-eyed Susan,’ said Stringham, turning again in the direction of Mrs Maclintick, at the same time raising the programme interrogatively, ‘do you too suffer in your domestic life – of which you speak with such a wealth of disillusionment – from the particular malaise I describe: the judgment of terrible silences?’
That was a subject upon which Mrs Maclintick felt herself in a position to speak authoritatively; the discussion, if uninterrupted, might have proceeded for a long time. Moreland was showing some signs of restlessness, although he and the others sitting there seemed to be finding some release from themselves, and their individual lives, in what was being said. The remainder of Mrs Foxe’s guests, although in fact just round the corner, appeared for some reason infinitely far away. Then, all at once, I became aware that a new personality, an additional force, had been added to our group. This was a woman. She was standing beside me. How long she had been there, where she came from, I did not know.
It was Miss Weedon. She had probably avoided having herself announced in order to make quietly for the place where Stringham was to be found. In any case, her long association with the house as one of its inmates made such a formality almost inappropriate. As usual, she managed to look both businesslike and rather elegant, her large sharp nose and severe expression adding to her air of efficiency, suggesting on the whole a successful, fairly chic career woman. Enclosed in black, her dress committed her neither to night nor day; suitable for Mrs Foxe’s party, it would have done equally well for some lesser occasion. She did not look at all like the former governess of Stringham’s sister, Flavia, although there remained something dominating and controlling about Miss Weedon, hinting that she was used to exercising some form of professional authority. Undoubtedly her intention was to take Stringham home. No other objective could have brought her out at this hour of the night. Priscilla, who had probably met Miss Weedon more than once at the Jeavonses’ – where Miss Weedon was a frequent guest before moving in as an occupant of the house itself – was the first to notice her.
‘Hullo, Miss Weedon,’ she said blushing.
Priscilla moved, probably involuntarily, further from Moreland, who was sitting rather close to her on the sofa. Miss Weedon smiled coldly. She advanced a little deeper into the room, her mysterious, equivocal presence casting a long, dark shadow over the scene.
‘Why, hullo, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, suddenly seeing Miss Weedon too. ‘I am so glad you have turned up. I wondered if I should see you. I just dropped in to say good evening to Mamma, whom I hadn’t set eyes on for ages, only to find the gayest of gay parties in progress. Let me introduce everyone. Lady Priscilla Tolland – you know Tuffy, of course. How silly of me. Now this is Mrs Maclintick, who has been telling me some really hair-raising stories about musical people. I shall never listen to an orchestra again without the most painful speculations about the home life of the players. Nick, of course, you’ve often met. I’m afraid I don’t know your name, Mr—?’
‘Moreland,’ said Moreland, absolutely enchanted by Stringham’s complete ignorance of his identity.
‘Moreland!’ said Stringham. ‘This is Mr Moreland, Tuffy. Mr Moreland for whom the whole party is being given. What a superb faux pas on my part. A really exquisite blunder. How right it is that I should emerge but rarely. Well, there we are – and this, I nearly forgot to add, Mr Moreland, is Miss Weedon.’
He was still perfectly at ease. There was not the smallest sign to inform a casual observer that Stringham was now looked upon by his own family, by most of his friends, as a person scarcely responsible for his own actions; that he was about to be removed from his mother’s house by a former secretary who had taken upon herself to look after him, because – I suppose – she loved him. All the same, although nothing outward indicated that something dramatic was taking place, Stringham himself, after he had performed these introductions, had risen from his chair with one of his random, easy movements, so that to me it was clear he knew the game was up. He knew that he must be borne away by Miss Weedon within the next few minutes to whatever prison-house now enclosed him. Moreland and Priscilla glanced at each other, recognising a break in the rhythm of the party, probably wanting to make a move themselves, but unaware quite what was happening. Mrs Maclintick, on the other hand, showed herself not at all willing to have the group disposed of in so arbitrary a manner. She turned a most unfriendly stare on Miss Weedon, which seemed by its contemptuous expression to recognise in her, by some unaccountable feminine intuition, a figure formerly subordinate in Mrs Foxe’s household.
‘We have been talking about marriage,’ said Mrs Maclintick aggressively.
She addressed herself to Miss Weedon, who in return gave her a smile that cut like a knife.
‘Indeed?’ she said.
‘This gentleman and I have been comparing notes,’ said Mrs Maclintick, indicating Stringham.
‘We have, indeed,’ said Stringham laughing. ‘And found a lot to agree about.’
He had dropped his former air of burlesque, now appeared completely sober.
‘It sounds a very interesting discussion,’ said Miss Weedon.
She spoke in a tone damaging to Mrs Maclintick’s self-esteem. Miss Weedon was undoubtedly prepared to take anybody on; Mrs Maclintick; anybody. I admired her for that.
‘Why don’t you tell us what you think about marriage yourself?’ asked Mrs Maclintick, who had drunk more champagne than I had at first supposed. ‘They say the onlooker sees most of the game.’
‘Not now,’ said Miss Weedon, in the cosmically terminating voice of one who holds authority to decide when the toys must be returned to the toy-cupboard. ‘I have my little car outside, Charles. I thought yo
u might like a lift home.’
‘But he is going to take me to a night-club,’ said Mrs Maclintick, her voice rising in rage. ‘He said that after we had settled a few points about marriage we would go to a very amusing place he knew of.’
Miss Weedon looked at Stringham without a trace of surprise or disapproval; just a request for confirmation.
‘That was the suggestion, Tuffy.’
He laughed again. He must have known by experience that in the end Miss Weedon would turn out to hold all the cards, but he showed no sign yet of capitulation.
‘The doctor begged you not to stay up too late, Charles,’ said Miss Weedon, also smiling.
She was in no degree behind Stringham where keeping one’s head was concerned.
‘My medical adviser did indeed prescribe early hours,’ said Stringham. ‘You are right there, Tuffy. I distinctly recollect his words. But I was turning over in my mind the possibility of disregarding such advice. Ted Jeavons was speaking recently of some night haunt he once visited where he had all kind of unusual adventures. A place run by one, Dicky Umfraville, a bad character whom I used to see in my Kenya days and have probably spoken of. Something about the sound of the joint attracted me. I offered to take Mrs Maclintick there. I can hardly go back on my promise. Of course, the club has no doubt closed down by now. Nothing Dicky Umfraville puts his hand to lasts very long. Besides, Ted was a little vague about the year his adventure happened – it might have been during the war, when he was a gallant soldier on leave from the trenches. That all came in when he told the story. However, if defunct, we could always visit the Bag of Nails.’
Mrs Maclintick snatched facetiously at him.
‘You know perfectly well I should hate any of those places,’ she said gaily, ‘and I believe you are only trying to get me there to make me feel uncomfortable.’
Miss Weedon remained unruffled.
‘I had no idea you were planning anything like that, Charles.’
‘It wasn’t exactly planned,’ said Stringham. ‘Just one of those brilliant improvisations that come to me of a sudden. My career has been built up on them. One of them brought me here tonight.’
‘But I haven’t agreed to come with you yet,’ said Mrs Maclintick, with some archness. ‘Don’t be too sure of that.’
‘I recognise, Madam, I can have no guarantee of such an honour,’ said Stringham, momentarily returning to his former tone. ‘I was not so presumptuous as to take your company for granted. It may even be that I shall venture forth into the night – by no means for the first time in my chequered career – on a lonely search for pleasure.’
‘Wouldn’t it really be easier to accept my offer of a lift?’ said Miss Weedon.
She spoke so lightly, so indifferently, that no one could possibly have guessed that in uttering those words she was issuing an order. There was no display of power. Even Stringham must have been aware that Miss Weedon was showing a respect for his own situation that was impeccable.
‘Much, much easier, Tuffy,’ he said. ‘But who am I to be given a life of ease?
Not for ever by still waters
Would we idly rest and stay …
I feel just like the hymn. Tonight I must take the hard road that leads to pleasure.’
‘We could give this lady a lift home too, if she liked,’ said Miss Weedon.
She glanced at Mrs Maclintick as if prepared to accept the conveyance of her body at whatever the cost. It was a handsome offer on Miss Weedon’s part, a very handsome offer. No just person could have denied that.
‘But I am not much in the mood for going home, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, ‘and I am not sure that Mrs Maclintick is either, in spite of her protests to the contrary. We are young. We want to see life. We feel we ought not to limit our experience to musical parties, however edifying.’
There was a short pause.
‘If only I had known this, Charles,’ said Miss Weedon.
She spoke sadly, almost as if she were deprecating her own powers of dominion, trying to minimise them because their very hugeness embarrassed her; like the dictator of some absolutist state who assures journalists that his most imperative decrees have to take an outwardly parliamentary form.
‘If only I had known,’ she said, ‘I could have brought your notecase. It was lying on the table in your room.’
Stringham laughed outright.
‘Correct, as usual, Tuffy,’ he said.
‘I happened to notice it.’
‘Money,’ said Stringham. ‘It is always the answer.’
‘But even if I had brought it, you would have been much wiser not to stay up late.’
‘Even if you had brought it, Tuffy,’ said Stringham, ‘the situation would remain unaltered, because there is no money in it.’
He turned to Mrs Maclintick.
‘Little Bo-Peep,’ he said, ‘I fear our jaunt is off. We shall have to visit Dicky Umfraville’s club, or the Bag of Nails, some other night.’
He made a movement to show he was ready to follow Miss Weedon.
‘I didn’t want to drag you away,’ she said, ‘but I thought it might save trouble as I happen to have the car with me.’
‘Certainly it would,’ said Stringham. ‘Save a lot of trouble. Limitless trouble. Untold trouble. I will bid you all good night.’
After that, Miss Weedon had him out of the house in a matter of seconds. There was the faintest suspicion of a reel as he followed her through the door. Apart from that scarcely perceptible lurch, Stringham’s physical removal was in general accomplished by her with such speed and efficiency that probably no one but myself recognised this trifling display of unsteadiness on his feet. The moral tactics were concealed almost equally successfully until the following day, when they became plain to me. The fact was, of course, that Stringham was kept without money; or at least on that particular evening Miss Weedon had seen to it that he had no more money on him than enabled buying the number of drinks that had brought him to his mother’s house. He must have lost his nerve as to the efficacy of his powers of cashing a cheque; perhaps no longer possessed a cheque-book. Otherwise, he would undoubtedly have proceeded with the enterprise set on foot. Possibly fatigue, too, stimulated by the sight of Miss Weedon, had played a part in evaporating desire to paint the town red in the company of Mrs Maclintick; perhaps in the end Stringham was inwardly willing to ‘go quietly’. That was the most likely of all. While these things had been happening, Moreland and Priscilla slipped away. I found myself alone with Mrs Maclintick.
‘Who was she, I should like to know,’ said Mrs Maclintick. ‘Not that I wanted all that to go wherever it was he wanted to take me. Not in the least. It was just that he was so pressing. But what a funny sort of fellow he is. I didn’t see why that old girl should butt in. Is she one of his aunts?’
I was absolved from need to explain about Miss Weedon to Mrs Maclintick, no easy matter to embark upon, by seeing Carolo drifting towards us. A dinner jacket made him look more melancholy than ever.
‘Coming?’ he enquired.
‘Where’s Maclintick?’
‘Gone home.’
‘Full of whisky, I bet.’
‘You bet.’
‘All right.’
Stringham had made no great impression on her. She must have seen him as one of those eccentric figures naturally to be encountered in rich houses of this kind. That was probably the most judicious view of Stringham for her to take. Certainly there was no way for Mrs Maclintick to guess that a small, violent drama had been played out in front of her; nor would she have been greatly interested if some explanation of the circumstances could have been revealed. Now – in her tone to Carolo – she re-entered, body and soul, the world in which she normally lived. The two of them went off together. I began to look once more for Isobel. By the door Commander Foxe was saying goodbye to Max Pilgrim.
‘Well,’ said Commander Foxe, when he saw me, ‘that was neatly arranged, wasn’t it?’
‘What was?’
‘Persuading Charles to go home.’
‘Lucky Miss Weedon happened to look in, you mean?’
‘There was a good reason for that.’
‘Oh?’
‘I rang her up and told her to come along,’ said Commander Foxe briefly.
That answer was such a simple one that I could not imagine why I had not guessed it without having to be told.
Those very obvious tactical victories are always the victories least foreseen by the onlooker, still less the opponent. Mrs Foxe herself might feel lack of dignity in summoning Miss Weedon to remove her own son from the house; for Buster, no such delicacy obstructed the way. Indeed, this action could be seen as a beautiful revenge for much owed to Stringham in the past; the occasion, for example, when Buster and I had first met in the room next door, and Stringham, still a boy, had seemed to order Buster from the house. No doubt other old scores were to be paid off. The relationship between Commander Foxe and Miss Weedon herself was also to be considered. Like two rival powers-something about Miss Weedon lent itself to political metaphor – who temporarily abandon their covert belligerency to combine against a third, there was a brief alliance; but also, for Miss Weedon, diplomatically speaking, an element of face-losing. She had been forced to allow her rival to invoke the treaty which demanded that in certain circumstances she should invest with troops her own supposedly pacific protectorate or mandated territory. In fact there had been a victory for Commander Foxe all round. He was not disposed to minimise his triumph.
‘Pity about poor old Charles,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to say good night.’
‘Come again soon.’
‘That would be nice.’
A general movement to leave was taking place among the guests. Mrs Maclintick and Carolo had already disappeared. Gossage still remained deep in conversation with Lady Huntercombe. There was no sign of the Morelands, or of Priscilla. Isobel was talking to Chandler. We went to find our hostess and say goodbye. Mrs Foxe was listening to the famous conductor, like Gossage, unable to tear himself away from the party.