‘Do?’ he echoed. ‘What is there — could there be — that I could — as it were — do?’
‘You could put your marriage to rights.’
‘But what about Marjorie herself? Will she — speak her mind?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ murmured Marjorie listlessly. ‘I haven’t made a success of being your wife — we just aren’t suited to each other.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, dear,’ said Mrs Williton grimly.
There was a pause. Then Aylwin, who had been pacing about the room, came to a standstill in front of the sofa where the two women were sitting. ‘I may as well tell you,’ he said firmly, ‘that I intend to provide you with evidence for divorce as soon as possible’
‘Ah, Tuscany!’ hissed Mrs Williton.
‘Not at all,’ said Aylwin. ‘I spent most of my time there looking at churches and art galleries.’
Marjorie let out a nervous giggle, and Dulcie was very much afraid that she might too. It was a dreadful position to find oneself in — that of eavesdropper — and yet she could not help feeling that if anyone had to overhear what was going on it was best that it should be herself, with her genuine interest in Aylwin Forbes — just as a bona fide research worker may be granted access to private letters or diaries considered too shocking to be gloated over by the general public.
‘I’m as anxious as you are to get this unhappy business straightened out’ Aylwin went on.
‘I suppose you want to get married again yourself,’ said Mrs Williton sharply, ‘that’s what it is. Some Italian senorita, no doubt.’
‘She would be a signorina, if she existed’ said Aylwin, smiling faintly, unable to resist correcting his mother-in-law.
‘So she’s not Italian?’
‘No — and the whole affair is at present of too nebulous a nature to be even — one might say — dreamed of. I have not — I dare not, indeed — you must understand this — say more. It would be most imprudent, to say the least of it.’ Aylwin resumed his pacing and stood over by the window, his eyes fixed on a distant height just visible through the private hotels and boarding-houses opposite.
Why was Aylwin talking in this odd pseudo-Henry-Jamesian way, Dulcie wondered. Was it an affectation, the outcome of his sojourn in Italy, or did it indicate real uncertainty of mind? And who was this unknown, vaguely hinted-at, ‘other woman’? Not Italian — that was something, but it didn’t get one very far. Perhaps this time it was a sensible person of his own age or a little younger, with similar academic and literary interests — somebody he had met at the conference — somebody like herself, or, she thought suddenly, like Viola. It would certainly be ironical if, after all this time, he should decide to turn to Viola. But no, it must be somebody unknown to them and there was a curious kind of relief in acknowledg-ing this — like finding only Pontings’ catalogue lying on the mat instead of the more interesting but trouble-bringing letter.
Mrs Williton, too, thought Aylwin’s way of talking odd, but she attributed it to his having been drinking, probably since early morning.
‘Well, if that’s the case … ‘ she began, rather at a loss, for divorce was against her principles, and yet she would have liked to retort that Marjorie herself had found somebody else, if only to keep her end up.
‘I’m going back to London this morning,’ he said, ‘so there will be no need for you to cut your holiday short. You realize, of course, that we mustn’t have any communication about this business — you have heard of collusion and that sort of thing, I imagine.’
Mrs Williton’s answer was inaudible to Dulcie, but she heard Aylwin go over to the door-luckily not the one she was crouching by — and walk out, closing it behind him. She would have liked to stand up and reveal her presence, if only to ease her cramped position, but she was suddenly aware that Marjorie Forbes was weeping and her mother apparently comforting her, mainly by abuse of Aylwin. Very cautiously, Dulcie stood up and saw that they were sitting on a sofa, quite unaware of her. She guessed that they would soon go out, probably in search of the much-needed solace of a cup of tea. Now would have been the time for Neville to enter the room with a word of comfort and hope. But he did not come, and, sorry though Dulcie was for poor Marjorie, she did not feel equal to the role of comforter herself. Besides, it might have seemed presumptuous, and what could she have said? As it was, she crept quietly and unobserved out of the door, saddened and a little surprised at Marjorie’s tears. The astonishing thing was that the whole scene had taken less than a quarter of an hour. Passing the writing-room, she saw that Viola was engrossed, in a letter, so she did not disturb her but began walking down the road towards the sea, not quite sure where she was going or what she was going to do when she got anywhere, but feeling the need for solitude.
The sun had come out in a rather watery sky and people were strolling on the promenade or sitting in the shelters reading newspapers, talking, or just sitting with that air of hopeless resignation that people on holiday so often seem to have. Dulcie felt that there would be something comforting about the sea; its cold grey detachment (she also remembered Matthew Arnold’s lines, as Aylwin had) might bring consolation after the upsetting scene she had just overheard. I too know what it is to be rejected, she said to herself, and wondered if it might forge some kind of bond between herself and Marjorie. But then she realized that Marjorie was in a superior position, for she had at least acquired a husband and been married to him for some years, whereas she herself had only got as far as a fiancé. So there could really be no bond, when the rejections had been on such different planes. And then there was that china donkey, Dulcie remembered. Could she really have any kind of bond with somebody who had thought it sweet?
She walked on rather briskly until she had left the crowds behind her and met only solitary figures. She was not surprised to see that one of them was Aylwin, standing by the sea wall, looking down at the flat stones from which the tide was now receding.
But if Dulcie had expected to see Aylwin she was by no means as sure of what she ought to do. For, in spite of Viola’s reassurances, might he not think it extremely odd, suspicious almost, that she should be in Taviscombe at this moment and staying at Eagle House? Trying to make up her mind quickly, she decided that she must either greet him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, or walk straight past him, leaving him alone with his grief, if, indeed, it was grief.
Fortunately the decision was taken out of her hands, for just as she came up to him he turned away from his contemplation of the stones and Dulcie, finding herself face-to-face with him, was forced to say ‘Good morning.’
‘Why, it’s Miss Mainwaring-Laurel’s aunt — isn’t it?’ he said in a surprised tone.
‘Yes, it is,’ Dulcie agreed, for of course she was Miss Mainwaring and Laurel’s aunt. But she felt curiously depressed by this description of herself and by the fact that he seemed to have forgotten her Christian name.
Aylwin, for his part, was thinking what a very odd coincidence that Laurel’s aunt should be staying in Taviscombe when Laurel was so much in his thoughts. Then he suddenly remembered what his brother had told him last night — about the ‘two women from London’ staying at Eagle House — could they be Miss Mainwaring — Dulcie — and Viola Dace? Oh, please not Viola, he almost prayed, under the same roof as Marjorie, under the same roof, he repeated, as if the actual physical structure of the roof somehow made it worse — that would be too much!
Dulcie, plucking up her courage, found herself saying in a kind of burst, ‘Viola and I are staying at Eagle House — I expect you heard.’ She realized that she had not seen him in full daylight before, and that it was as suitable a setting for his good looks as a lecture platform or library.
‘Yes, my brother told me. It was a pleasant surprise,’ he added rather formally.
‘It’s very nice here — the sea and everything,’ said Dulcie, feeling very foolish.
‘Yes, I suppose I’m so used to it that I don’t notice.’ He glance
d indifferently towards the horizon. ‘I was turned out of my room — the woman was making my bed.’
‘Yes, after breakfast is an awkward time in a hotel,’ Dulcie said. ‘One has no right to exist between the hours of half past nine and twelve. So much work is going on that it makes one feel guilty.’
‘I suppose women — nice women — feel guilty. Men are only irritated,’ said Aylwin. He paused for a moment and then went on, ‘Seeing you here reminds me of Laurel, of course. I’ve grown so fond of her these last weeks. And I believe — I even dare to hope — that she cares a little for me.’
‘Laurel — care for you?’ burst out Dulcie in amazement. ‘But you’re old enough to be her father! She’s only nineteen, you know.’
‘It’s true, I am some twenty years older than she is,’ he began.
‘Some twenty! Thirty would be nearer the mark!’ Dulcie interrupted him indignantly. ‘She thinks of you as an old man — I’m sure of it.’
When the words were out, she was sorry that she had been so cruel, but was she not only being ‘cruel to be kind’, as the saying went’ Or was there some other reason for her indignation at the idea of Laurel and Aylwin together?
But Aylwin’s natural male conceit soon reasserted itself, and he smiled in such a way that Dulcie felt she was being naive and unworldly.
‘I hope you haven’t said anything to Laurel about caring for her,’ she went on, unnerved by his silence. ‘Because you’ve no right to while you’re still married. If you were free, it might be different, though I’m sure her parents wouldn’t approve.’ And yet her sister Charlotte might well think it rather romantic; she could not imagine her brother-in-law having any opinion in the matter.
‘You could hardly describe me as an old man,’ Aylwin went on, ignoring Dulcie’s last remarks. ‘I think you might say I was in the prime of life.’ He smiled, trying to turn the whole thing into a joke.
‘Oh, yes, I might say so,’ Dulcie agreed. ‘But Laurel is much too young for you.’
There was silence between them, perhaps an awkward silence, but fortunately a few drops of rain began to fall.
‘Haven’t you got a coat or anything with you?’ Aylwin said.
‘No, I came out without one. I didn’t think it would rain.’
‘Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,’
he quoted in a mocking tone. ‘You should always carry a macintosh in Taviscombe. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Your mother told us it was a very dry place. I can sit in this shelter.’ Dulcie began to move towards it, wondering if the rather disgruntled-looking occupants would move up to make room for her. They looked as if nothing could displace them.
‘You’d better have my coat.’
‘No, thank you, that would embarrass me,’ said Dulcie, thinking it rather odd that he should have remembered his macintosh after what must surely have been a rather upsetting scene with his wife and mother-in-law. But perhaps his early upbringing in Taviscombe had made it automatic.
‘Well,’ he said, as they lingered on the threshold of the shelter, ‘if you’re really determined to stay here, I’ll leave you. No doubt we shall meet in London.’
‘Oh, I dare say … will you be seeing Laurel?’
‘I hope so. I must know how she feels — how she would feel if by any chance … ‘he said uncertainly.
‘Oh, why do you always want such unsuitable wives!’ Dulcie burst out impatiently.
‘You make me sound like a polygynous African chief — I’ve only had one wife so far,’ he said lightly.
‘It’s time you made a sensible marriage,’ said Dulcie boldly. ‘You should choose quite a different kind of wife — somebody who can appreciate your work and help you with it — an older woman, perhaps.’
‘That doesn’t sound very attractive, if I may say so.’
‘No, probably not,’ Dulcie admitted, for it really did sound as if she meant Viola or somebody like that. And of course, in a sense, she did. He might even think that she was putting herself forward as a possible candidate. She went suddenly hot with embarrassment at the idea of it. She was by no means at her best this morning, though if it had been a romantic novel, she thought, he would have been struck by how handsome she looked when she was angry, the sea breeze having whipped some colour into her normally pale cheeks. Certainly he was looking at her more intently than before, but perhaps only because he was surprised at her outburst.
‘I had no idea you felt so strongly about my work,’ he said ironically.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said meekly. ‘It’s none of my business — except that I’m Laurel’s aunt. Perhaps I’ve said too much.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. It’s better when people say what they really think.’
‘Is it? How could we ever carry on with our everyday life if we did that?’
The people in the shelter seemed to draw nearer to each othei Aylwin smiled and looked at his watch.
‘Your train — you mustn’t miss it,’ said Dulcie, looking out to sea. ‘Goodbye.’
Aylwin hurried away. What a surprising conversation with that nice Miss Mainwaring — Dulcie — he thought. Perhaps there were hidden depths there. He realized that he was almost afraid of her and glanced back quickly over his shoulder to see if she were following. But Dulcie was sitting humbly in the shelter, wondering what could have made her talk to Aylwin Forbes like that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LEAVING Taviscombe was, for Dulcie, an almost painful experience, only to be endured because of the certainty that she would go there again, and because Aylwin had already returned to London. And yet it was also a relief to leave the scene of so much drama and emotion.
Dulcie sat in the train with Viola, drained of all feeling, reading a woman’s magazine of the type she usually despised. ‘God gave us Memories’, she read, ‘that we might have Roses in December.’ It was the end-piece of a page, enclosed in a flowery border, but, like so many ‘beautiful’ sayings, it wasn’t strictly true. Dulcie thought how often roses bloomed on the blackened suburban trees on Christmas Eve, and she was sure that many such bloomed in Mrs Williton’s garden in Deodar Grove. But she, and Marjorie too, no doubt, would treasure the saying. They were staying a day or two longer in Taviscombe. The weather had improved, and it was thought that the sea air might do them good. It might also help them to forget that last distressing interview with Aylwin, though this had not been mentioned. Dulcie’s thoughts had often turned to her own conversation with him by the sea, but her memories were shameful ones. How ever could she have said what she did — what must he have thought of her! Most likely he thought nothing at all, which was at once comforting and depressing.
Neville had been hanging about the hall when Dulcie and Viola left. Dulcie had said — rather too brightly, she realized — ‘I must visit your church some time’ and just for a second a shadow had crossed his face, as if he were remembering that he must soon return to his London parish to face Miss Spicer and his parishioners: perhaps the thought of Dulcie — another unattached woman — being added to all this was too much for him. But he soon rallied, and said that he hoped to see her there.
‘Now then, Nev,’ Mrs Forbes had said meaningly, and nobody had quite known what to answer.
Luckily the taxi had arrived at that moment and Dulcie’s last sight had been of Mrs Forbes plucking a feather from the tail of the moulting eagle and waving it at them.
‘I was wondering whether I might take a job when I get back to London,’ said Viola rather self-consciously. ‘Bill tells me they’re wanting a new staff supervisor at the head office.’
‘Wouldn’t you find it too much of a change from the kind of work you’re used to?’ said Dulcie.
‘Oh, that academic stuff — where does it get one,’ said Viola impatiently. ‘One only meets people like Aylwin Forbes, and what use are they?’
‘None whatever,’ said Dulcie sadly. ‘What kind of wo
rk would you be doing?’
‘Oh, engaging staff to work in the various shops — travelling round a bit, I gather.’
‘But do you think he would like it?’ asked Dulcie seriously. ‘After all, it isn’t like shared academic work. A man who moves in that kind of world might not like you to see how he made his living or meet the kind of people he has to mix with.’
‘The same might be said of the academic world,’ said Viola. ‘One can share in any kind of work. That’s where Marjorie Forbes has failed — not being able to share Aylwin’s interests.’
‘Well, she hardly could if the interests were other women,’ said Dulcie, suddenly frivolous. ‘Those are the kind of interests wives really can’t be expected to share. Anyway, poor Marjorie probably tried — to begin with, at any rate. Don’t you think it’s also a man’s fault for choosing an unsuitable wife?’
A steward came round, announcing that the first luncheon was now being served, and Dulcie and Viola got up to go to the restaurant car.
The small tables were already occupied, and they were shown to a table for four, where a woman was already sitting.
‘Why, it’s Miss Randall!’ said Dulcie. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, but my friend and I were at the conference last summer. I very much enjoyed your lecture on “Some problems of indexing”.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Randall, with simple dignity. ‘It’s so seldom that one meets anyone who appreciates one’s work, or who even knows that there can be problems of indexing.’
‘Soup, ladies?’ said a waiter rather threateningly, standing over them with three plates balanced in his hands.
‘Yes, please,’ said Dulcie, not wishing to give him the trouble of an extra journey; but she need not have been so considerate, for both Viola and Miss Randall demanded tomato juice, which she would really have preferred herself.
‘I’ve been down in the West Country at a funeral,’ said Miss Randall, carefully seasoning her tomato juice.