The Voyage Out

  Chapter XXIII

  But no brush was able to efface completely the expression of happiness,so that Mrs. Ambrose could not treat them when they came downstairsas if they had spent the morning in a way that could be discussednaturally. This being so, she joined in the world's conspiracy toconsider them for the time incapacitated from the business of life,struck by their intensity of feeling into enmity against life, andalmost succeeded in dismissing them from her thoughts.

  She reflected that she had done all that it was necessary to do inpractical matters. She had written a great many letters, and hadobtained Willoughby's consent. She had dwelt so often upon Mr. Hewet'sprospects, his profession, his birth, appearance, and temperament, thatshe had almost forgotten what he was really like. When she refreshedherself by a look at him, she used to wonder again what he was like, andthen, concluding that they were happy at any rate, thought no more aboutit.

  She might more profitably consider what would happen in three years'time, or what might have happened if Rachel had been left to explore theworld under her father's guidance. The result, she was honest enoughto own, might have been better--who knows? She did not disguise fromherself that Terence had faults. She was inclined to think him too easyand tolerant, just as he was inclined to think her perhaps a triflehard--no, it was rather that she was uncompromising. In some ways shefound St. John preferable; but then, of course, he would never havesuited Rachel. Her friendship with St. John was established, foralthough she fluctuated between irritation and interest in a way thatdid credit to the candour of her disposition, she liked his company onthe whole. He took her outside this little world of love and emotion.He had a grasp of facts. Supposing, for instance, that England made asudden move towards some unknown port on the coast of Morocco, St.John knew what was at the back of it, and to hear him engaged with herhusband in argument about finance and the balance of power, gave heran odd sense of stability. She respected their arguments without alwayslistening to them, much as she respected a solid brick wall, or oneof those immense municipal buildings which, although they compose thegreater part of our cities, have been built day after day and year afteryear by unknown hands. She liked to sit and listen, and even felt alittle elated when the engaged couple, after showing their profound lackof interest, slipped from the room, and were seen pulling flowers topieces in the garden. It was not that she was jealous of them, but shedid undoubtedly envy them their great unknown future that lay beforethem. Slipping from one such thought to another, she was at thedining-room with fruit in her hands. Sometimes she stopped to straightena candle stooping with the heat, or disturbed some too rigid arrangementof the chairs. She had reason to suspect that Chailey had been balancingherself on the top of a ladder with a wet duster during their absence,and the room had never been quite like itself since. Returning from thedining-room for the third time, she perceived that one of the arm-chairswas now occupied by St. John. He lay back in it, with his eyes halfshut, looking, as he always did, curiously buttoned up in a neat greysuit and fenced against the exuberance of a foreign climate which mightat any moment proceed to take liberties with him. Her eyes rested onhim gently and then passed on over his head. Finally she took the chairopposite.

  "I didn't want to come here," he said at last, "but I was positivelydriven to it. . . . Evelyn M.," he groaned.

  He sat up, and began to explain with mock solemnity how the detestablewoman was set upon marrying him.

  "She pursues me about the place. This morning she appeared in thesmoking-room. All I could do was to seize my hat and fly. I didn't wantto come, but I couldn't stay and face another meal with her."

  "Well, we must make the best of it," Helen replied philosophically. Itwas very hot, and they were indifferent to any amount of silence, sothat they lay back in their chairs waiting for something to happen. Thebell rang for luncheon, but there was no sound of movement in the house.Was there any news? Helen asked; anything in the papers? St. John shookhis head. O yes, he had a letter from home, a letter from his mother,describing the suicide of the parlour-maid. She was called Susan Jane,and she came into the kitchen one afternoon, and said that she wantedcook to keep her money for her; she had twenty pounds in gold. Then shewent out to buy herself a hat. She came in at half-past five and saidthat she had taken poison. They had only just time to get her into bedand call a doctor before she died.

  "Well?" Helen enquired.

  "There'll have to be an inquest," said St. John.

  Why had she done it? He shrugged his shoulders. Why do people killthemselves? Why do the lower orders do any of the things they do do?Nobody knows. They sat in silence.

  "The bell's run fifteen minutes and they're not down," said Helen atlength.

  When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessary forhim to come to luncheon. He imitated Evelyn's enthusiastic tone as sheconfronted him in the smoking-room. "She thinks there can be nothing_quite_ so thrilling as mathematics, so I've lent her a large work intwo volumes. It'll be interesting to see what she makes of it."

  Rachel could now afford to laugh at him. She reminded him of Gibbonshe had the first volume somewhere still; if he were undertaking theeducation of Evelyn, that surely was the test; or she had heard thatBurke, upon the American Rebellion--Evelyn ought to read them bothsimultaneously. When St. John had disposed of her argument and hadsatisfied his hunger, he proceeded to tell them that the hotel wasseething with scandals, some of the most appalling kind, which hadhappened in their absence; he was indeed much given to the study of hiskind.

  "Evelyn M., for example--but that was told me in confidence."

  "Nonsense!" Terence interposed.

  "You've heard about poor Sinclair, too?"

  "Oh, yes, I've heard about Sinclair. He's retired to his mine with arevolver. He writes to Evelyn daily that he's thinking of committingsuicide. I've assured her that he's never been so happy in his life,and, on the whole, she's inclined to agree with me."

  "But then she's entangled herself with Perrott," St. John continued;"and I have reason to think, from something I saw in the passage, thateverything isn't as it should be between Arthur and Susan. There's ayoung female lately arrived from Manchester. A very good thing if itwere broken off, in my opinion. Their married life is something toohorrible to contemplate. Oh, and I distinctly heard old Mrs. Paleyrapping out the most fearful oaths as I passed her bedroom door. It'ssupposed that she tortures her maid in private--it's practically certainshe does. One can tell it from the look in her eyes."

  "When you're eighty and the gout tweezes you, you'll be swearing likea trooper," Terence remarked. "You'll be very fat, very testy, verydisagreeable. Can't you imagine him--bald as a coot, with a pair ofsponge-bag trousers, a little spotted tie, and a corporation?"

  After a pause Hirst remarked that the worst infamy had still to be told.He addressed himself to Helen.

  "They've hoofed out the prostitute. One night while we were away thatold numskull Thornbury was doddering about the passages very late.(Nobody seems to have asked him what _he_ was up to.) He saw the SignoraLola Mendoza, as she calls herself, cross the passage in her nightgown.He communicated his suspicions next morning to Elliot, with the resultthat Rodriguez went to the woman and gave her twenty-four hours in whichto clear out of the place. No one seems to have enquired into the truthof the story, or to have asked Thornbury and Elliot what business it wasof theirs; they had it entirely their own way. I propose that we shouldall sign a Round Robin, go to Rodriguez in a body, and insist upon afull enquiry. Something's got to be done, don't you agree?"

  Hewet remarked that there could be no doubt as to the lady's profession.

  "Still," he added, "it's a great shame, poor woman; only I don't seewhat's to be done--"

  "I quite agree with you, St. John," Helen burst out. "It's monstrous.The hypocritical smugness of the English makes my blood boil. A manwho's made a fortune in trade as Mr. Thornbury has is bound to be twiceas bad as any prostitute."

  She respected St. John's morality, which
she took far more seriouslythan any one else did, and now entered into a discussion with him as tothe steps that were to be taken to enforce their peculiar view of whatwas right. The argument led to some profoundly gloomy statements of ageneral nature. Who were they, after all--what authority had they--whatpower against the mass of superstition and ignorance? It was theEnglish, of course; there must be something wrong in the English blood.Directly you met an English person, of the middle classes, you wereconscious of an indefinable sensation of loathing; directly you saw thebrown crescent of houses above Dover, the same thing came over you. Butunfortunately St. John added, you couldn't trust these foreigners--

  They were interrupted by sounds of strife at the further end of thetable. Rachel appealed to her aunt.

  "Terence says we must go to tea with Mrs. Thornbury because she's beenso kind, but I don't see it; in fact, I'd rather have my right hand sawnin pieces--just imagine! the eyes of all those women!"

  "Fiddlesticks, Rachel," Terence replied. "Who wants to look at you?You're consumed with vanity! You're a monster of conceit! Surely, Helen,you ought to have taught her by this time that she's a person of noconceivable importance whatever--not beautiful, or well dressed, orconspicuous for elegance or intellect, or deportment. A more ordinarysight than you are," he concluded, "except for the tear across yourdress has never been seen. However, stay at home if you want to. I'mgoing."

  She appealed again to her aunt. It wasn't the being looked at, sheexplained, but the things people were sure to say. The women inparticular. She liked women, but where emotion was concerned they wereas flies on a lump of sugar. They would be certain to ask her questions.Evelyn M. would say: "Are you in love? Is it nice being in love?"And Mrs. Thornbury--her eyes would go up and down, up and down--sheshuddered at the thought of it. Indeed, the retirement of their lifesince their engagement had made her so sensitive, that she was notexaggerating her case.

  She found an ally in Helen, who proceeded to expound her views of thehuman race, as she regarded with complacency the pyramid of variegatedfruits in the centre of the table. It wasn't that they were cruel, ormeant to hurt, or even stupid exactly; but she had always found that theordinary person had so little emotion in his own life that the scent ofit in the lives of others was like the scent of blood in the nostrils ofa bloodhound. Warming to the theme, she continued:

  "Directly anything happens--it may be a marriage, or a birth, or adeath--on the whole they prefer it to be a death--every one wants to seeyou. They insist upon seeing you. They've got nothing to say; theydon't care a rap for you; but you've got to go to lunch or to tea or todinner, and if you don't you're damned. It's the smell of blood," shecontinued; "I don't blame 'em; only they shan't have mind if I know it!"

  She looked about her as if she had called up a legion of human beings,all hostile and all disagreeable, who encircled the table, with mouthsgaping for blood, and made it appear a little island of neutral countryin the midst of the enemy's country.

  Her words roused her husband, who had been muttering rhythmically tohimself, surveying his guests and his food and his wife with eyes thatwere now melancholy and now fierce, according to the fortunes of thelady in his ballad. He cut Helen short with a protest. He hated eventhe semblance of cynicism in women. "Nonsense, nonsense," he remarkedabruptly.

  Terence and Rachel glanced at each other across the table, whichmeant that when they were married they would not behave like that. Theentrance of Ridley into the conversation had a strange effect. It becameat once more formal and more polite. It would have been impossible totalk quite easily of anything that came into their heads, and to say theword prostitute as simply as any other word. The talk now turned uponliterature and politics, and Ridley told stories of the distinguishedpeople he had known in his youth. Such talk was of the nature of an art,and the personalities and informalities of the young were silenced. Asthey rose to go, Helen stopped for a moment, leaning her elbows on thetable.

  "You've all been sitting here," she said, "for almost an hour, andyou haven't noticed my figs, or my flowers, or the way the light comesthrough, or anything. I haven't been listening, because I've beenlooking at you. You looked very beautiful; I wish you'd go on sittingfor ever."

  She led the way to the drawing-room, where she took up her embroidery,and began again to dissuade Terence from walking down to the hotel inthis heat. But the more she dissuaded, the more he was determined to go.He became irritated and obstinate. There were moments when they almostdisliked each other. He wanted other people; he wanted Rachel, to seethem with him. He suspected that Mrs. Ambrose would now try to dissuadeher from going. He was annoyed by all this space and shade and beauty,and Hirst, recumbent, drooping a magazine from his wrist.

  "I'm going," he repeated. "Rachel needn't come unless she wants to."

  "If you go, Hewet, I wish you'd make enquiries about the prostitute,"said Hirst. "Look here," he added, "I'll walk half the way with you."

  Greatly to their surprise he raised himself, looked at his watch, andremarked that, as it was now half an hour since luncheon, the gastricjuices had had sufficient time to secrete; he was trying a system, heexplained, which involved short spells of exercise interspaced by longerintervals of rest.

  "I shall be back at four," he remarked to Helen, "when I shall lie downon the sofa and relax all my muscles completely."

  "So you're going, Rachel?" Helen asked. "You won't stay with me?"

  She smiled, but she might have been sad.

  Was she sad, or was she really laughing? Rachel could not tell, and shefelt for the moment very uncomfortable between Helen and Terence.Then she turned away, saying merely that she would go with Terence, oncondition that he did all the talking.

  A narrow border of shadow ran along the road, which was broad enough fortwo, but not broad enough for three. St. John therefore dropped a littlebehind the pair, and the distance between them increased by degrees.Walking with a view to digestion, and with one eye upon his watch, helooked from time to time at the pair in front of him. They seemed to beso happy, so intimate, although they were walking side by side much asother people walk. They turned slightly toward each other now and then,and said something which he thought must be something very private. Theywere really disputing about Helen's character, and Terence was trying toexplain why it was that she annoyed him so much sometimes. But St. Johnthought that they were saying things which they did not want him tohear, and was led to think of his own isolation. These people werehappy, and in some ways he despised them for being made happy so simply,and in other ways he envied them. He was much more remarkable than theywere, but he was not happy. People never liked him; he doubted sometimeswhether even Helen liked him. To be simple, to be able to say simplywhat one felt, without the terrific self-consciousness which possessedhim, and showed him his own face and words perpetually in a mirror, thatwould be worth almost any other gift, for it made one happy. Happiness,happiness, what was happiness? He was never happy. He saw too clearlythe little vices and deceits and flaws of life, and, seeing them, itseemed to him honest to take notice of them. That was the reason, nodoubt, why people generally disliked him, and complained that he washeartless and bitter. Certainly they never told him the things he wantedto be told, that he was nice and kind, and that they liked him. But itwas true that half the sharp things that he said about them were saidbecause he was unhappy or hurt himself. But he admitted that he hadvery seldom told any one that he cared for them, and when he had beendemonstrative, he had generally regretted it afterwards. His feelingsabout Terence and Rachel were so complicated that he had never yet beenable to bring himself to say that he was glad that they were going tobe married. He saw their faults so clearly, and the inferior nature ofa great deal of their feeling for each other, and he expected that theirlove would not last. He looked at them again, and, very strangely, forhe was so used to thinking that he seldom saw anything, the look of themfilled him with a simple emotion of affection in which there were sometraces of pity also. What, after all, did people'
s faults matter incomparison with what was good in them? He resolved that he would nowtell them what he felt. He quickened his pace and came up with them justas they reached the corner where the lane joined the main road. Theystood still and began to laugh at him, and to ask him whether thegastric juices--but he stopped them and began to speak very quickly andstiffly.

  "D'you remember the morning after the dance?" he demanded. "It was herewe sat, and you talked nonsense, and Rachel made little heaps of stones.I, on the other hand, had the whole meaning of life revealed to me ina flash." He paused for a second, and drew his lips together in a tightlittle purse. "Love," he said. "It seems to me to explain everything.So, on the whole, I'm very glad that you two are going to be married."He then turned round abruptly, without looking at them, and walked backto the villa. He felt both exalted and ashamed of himself for havingthus said what he felt. Probably they were laughing at him, probablythey thought him a fool, and, after all, had he really said what hefelt?

  It was true that they laughed when he was gone; but the dispute aboutHelen which had become rather sharp, ceased, and they became peacefuland friendly.