It was Mona’s presence that was at first inexplicable to me. She could hardly have come up for the day to take part in all this. Perhaps the Templers were again in London for the week-end, and she had chosen to walk in the procession as an unusual experience; while Peter had gone off to amuse himself elsewhere. Then all at once the thing came to me in a flash, as such things do, requiring no further explanation. Mona had left Templer. She was now living with Quiggin. For some reason this was absolutely clear. Their relationship was made unmistakable by the manner in which they moved together side by side.
‘Where are they going?’ I asked.
‘To meet some Hunger-Marchers arriving from the Midlands,’ said Members, as if it were a foolish, irrelevant question. ‘They are camping in the park, aren’t they?’
‘This crowd?’
‘No, the Hunger-Marchers, of course.’
‘Why is Mona there?’
‘Who is Mona?’
‘The girl walking with Quiggin and helping to push St. John Clarke. She was a model, you remember. I once saw you with her at a party years ago.’
‘Oh, yes, it was her, wasn’t it?’ he said, indifferently.
Mona’s name seemed to mean nothing to him.
‘But why is she helping to push the chair?’
‘Probably because Quiggin is too bloody lazy to do all the work himself,’ he said.
Evidently he was ignorant of Mona’s subsequent career since the days when he had known her. The fact that she was helping to trundle St. John Clarke through the mists of Hyde Park was natural enough for the sort of girl she had been. In the eyes of Members she was just another ‘arty’ woman roped in by Quiggin to assist Left Wing activities. His own thoughts were entirely engrossed by St. John Clarke and Quiggin. I could not help being impressed by the extent to which the loss of his post as secretary had upset him. His feelings had undoubtedly been lacerated. He watched them pass by, his mouth clenched.
The procession wound up the road towards Marble Arch. Two policemen on foot brought up the rear, round whom, whistling shrilly, circled some boys on bicycles, apparently unconnected with the marchers. The intermittent shouting grew gradually fainter, until the column disappeared from sight into the upper reaches of the still foggy park.
Members looked round at me.
‘Can you beat it?’ he said.
‘I thought St. John Clarke disliked girls near him?’
‘I don’t expect he cares any longer,’ said Members, in a voice of despair. ‘Quiggin will make him put up with anything by now.’
On this note we parted company. As I continued my way through the park I was conscious of having witnessed a spectacle that was distinctly strange. Jean had already told me more than once that the Templers were getting on badly. These troubles had begun, so it appeared, a few months after their marriage, Mona complaining of the dullness of life away from London. She was for ever making scenes, usually about nothing at all. Afterwards there would be tears and reconciliations; and some sort of a ‘treat’ would be arranged for her by Peter. Then the cycle would once more take its course. Jean liked Mona, but thought her ‘impossible’ as a wife.
‘What is the real trouble?’ I had asked.
‘I don’t think she likes men.’
‘Ah.’
‘But I don’t think she likes women either. Just keen on herself.’
‘How will it end?’
‘They may settle down. If Peter doesn’t lose interest. He is used to having his own way. He has been unexpectedly good so far.’
She was fond of Peter, though free from that obsessive interest that often entangles brother and sister. They were not alike in appearance, though her hair, too, grew down like his in a ‘widow’s peak’ on her forehead. There was also something about the set of her neck that recalled her brother. That was all.
‘They might have a lot of children.’
‘They might.’
‘Would that be a good thing?’
‘Certainly.’
I was surprised that she was so decisive, because in those days children were rather out of fashion. It always seemed strange to me, and rather unreal, that so much of her own time should be occupied with Polly.
‘You know, I believe Mona has taken quite a fancy for your friend J. G. Quiggin,’ she had said, laughing.
‘Not possible.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Has he appeared at the house again?’
‘No—but she keeps talking about him.’
‘Perhaps I ought never to have introduced him into the household.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she had replied, quite seriously.
At the time, the suggestion had seemed laughable. To regard Quiggin as a competitor with Templer for a woman—far less his own wife—was ludicrous even to consider.
‘But she took scarcely any notice of him.’
‘Well, I thought you were rather wet the first time you came to the house. But I’ve made up for it later, haven’t I?’
‘I adored you from the start.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘Certainly at Stourwater.’
‘Oh, at Stourwater I was very impressed too.’
‘And I with you.’
‘Then why didn’t you write or ring up or something? Why didn’t you?’
‘I did—you were away.’
‘You ought to have gone on trying.’
‘I wasn’t sure you weren’t rather lesbian.’
‘How ridiculous. Pretty rude of you, too.’
‘I had a lot to put up with.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘But I had.’
‘How absurd you are.’
When the colour came quickly into her face, the change used to fill me with excitement. Even when she sat in silence, scarcely answering if addressed, such moods seemed a necessary part of her: something not to be utterly regretted. Her forehead, high and white, gave a withdrawn look, like a great lady in a medieval triptych or carving; only her lips, and the elegantly long lashes under slanting eyes, gave a hint of latent sensuality. But descriptions of a woman’s outward appearance can hardly do more than echo the terms of a fashion paper. Their nature can be caught only in a refractive beam, as with light passing through water: the rays of character focused through the person with whom they are intimately associated. Perhaps, therefore, I alone was responsible for what she seemed to me. To another man—Duport, for example—she no doubt appeared—indeed, actually was—a different woman.
‘But why, when we first met, did you never talk about books and things?’ I had asked her.
‘I didn’t think you’d understand.’
‘How hopeless of you.’
‘Now I see it was,’ she had said, quite humbly.
She shared with her brother the conviction that she ‘belonged’ in no particular world. The other guests she had found collected round Sir Magnus Donners at Stourwater had been on the whole unsympathetic.
‘I only went because I was a friend of Baby’s,’ she had said; ‘I don’t really like people of that sort.’
‘But surely there were people of all sorts there?’
‘Perhaps I don’t much like people anyway. I am probably too lazy. They always want to sleep with one, or something.’
‘But that is like me.’
‘I know. It’s intolerable.’
We laughed, but I had felt the chill of sudden jealousy; the fear that her remark had been made deliberately to tease.
‘Of course Baby loves it all,’ she went on. ‘The men hum round her like bees. She is so funny with them.’
‘What did she and Sir Magnus do?’
‘Not even I know. Whatever it was, Bijou Ardglass refused to take him on.’
‘She was offered the job?’
‘So I was told. She preferred to go off with Bob.’
‘Why did that stop?’
‘Bob could no longer support her in the style to which she was accustomed—or ra
ther the style to which she was unaccustomed, as Jumbo Ardglass never had much money.’
It was impossible, as ever, to tell from her tone what she felt about Duport. I wondered whether she would leave him and marry me. I had not asked her, and had no clear idea what the answer would be. Certainly, if she did, like Lady Ardglass, she would not be supported in the style to which she had been accustomed. Neither, for that matter, would Mona, if she had indeed gone off with Quiggin, for I felt sure that the final domestic upheaval at the Templers’ had now taken place. Jean had been right. Something about the way Quiggin and Mona walked beside one another connected them inexorably together. ‘Women can be immensely obtuse about all kinds of things,’ Barnby was fond of saying, ‘but where the emotions are concerned their opinion is always worthy of consideration.’
The mist was lifting now, gleams of sunlight once more coming through the clouds above the waters of the Serpentine. Not unwillingly dismissing the financial side of marriage from my mind, as I walked on through the melancholy park, I thought of love, which, from the very beginning perpetually changes its shape: sometimes in the ascendant, sometimes in decline. At present we sailed in comparatively calm seas because we lived from meeting to meeting, possessing no plan for the future. Her abandonment remained; the abandonment that had so much surprised me at that first embrace, as the car skimmed the muddy surfaces of the Great West Road.
But in love, like everything else—more than anything else—there must be bad as well as good; and by silence or some trivial remark she could inflict unexpected pain. Away from her, all activities seemed waste of time, yet sometimes just before seeing her I was aware of an odd sense of antagonism that had taken the place of the longing that had been in my heart for days before. This sense of being out of key with her sometimes survived the first minutes of our meeting. Then, all at once, tension would be relaxed; always, so it seemed to me, by some mysterious force emanating from her: intangible, invisible, yet at the same time part of a whole principle of behaviour: a deliberate act of the will by which she exercised power. At times it was almost as if she intended me to feel that unexpected accident, rather than a carefully arranged plan, had brought us together on some given occasion; or at least that I must always be prepared for such a mood. Perhaps these are inward irritations always produced by love: the acutely sensitive nerves of intimacy: the haunting fear that all may not go well.
Still thinking of such things, I rang the bell of the ground- floor flat. It was in an old-fashioned red-brick block of buildings, situated somewhere beyond Rutland Gate, concealed among obscure turnings that seemed to lead nowhere. For some time there was no answer to the ring. I waited, peering through the frosted glass of the front door, feeling every second an eternity. Then the door opened a few inches and Jean looked out. I saw her face only for a moment. She was laughing.
‘Come in,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s cold.’
As I entered the hall, closing the door behind me, she ran back along the passage. I saw that she wore nothing but a pair of slippers.
‘There is a fire in here,’ she called from the sitting-room.
I hung my hat on the grotesque piece of furniture, designed for that use, that stood by the door. Then I followed her down the passage and into the room. The furniture and decoration of the flat were of an appalling banality.
‘Why are you wearing no clothes?’
‘Are you shocked?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are.’
‘Surprised, rather than shocked.’
‘To make up for the formality of our last meeting.’
‘Aren’t I showing my appreciation?’
‘Yes, but you must not be so conventional.’
‘But if it had been the postman?’
‘I could have seen through the glass.’
‘He, too, perhaps.’
‘I had a dressing-gown handy.’
‘It was a kind thought, anyway.’
‘You like it?’
‘Very much.’
‘Tell me something nice.’
‘This style suits you.’
‘Not too outré’
‘On the contrary.’
‘Is this how you like me?’
‘Just like this.’
There is, after all, no pleasure like that given by a woman who really wants to see you. Here, at last, was some real escape from the world. The calculated anonymity of the surroundings somehow increased the sense of being alone with her. There was no sound except her sharp intake of breath. Yet love, for all the escape it offers, is closely linked with everyday things, even with the affairs of others. I knew Jean would burn with curiosity when I told her of the procession in the park. At the same time, because passion in its transcendence cannot be shared with any other element, I could not speak of what had happened until the time had come to decide where to dine.
She was pulling on her stockings when I told her. She gave a little cry, indicating disbelief.
‘After all, you were the first to suggest something was “on” between them.’
‘But she would be insane to leave Peter.’
We discussed this. The act of marching in a political demonstration did not, in itself, strike her as particularly unexpected in Mona. She said that Mona always longed to take part in anything that drew attention to herself. Jean was unwilling to believe that pushing St. John Clarke’s chair was the outward sign of a decisive step in joining Quiggin.
‘She must have done it because Peter is away. It is exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to her. Besides, it would annoy him just the right amount. A little, but not too much.’
‘Where is Peter?’
‘Spending the week-end with business friends. Mona thought them too boring to visit.’
‘Perhaps she was just having a day out, then. Even so, it confirms your view that Quiggin made a hit with her.’
She pulled on the other stocking.
‘True, they had a splitting row just before Peter left home,’ she said. ‘You know, I almost believe you are right.’
‘Put a call through.’
‘Just to see what the form is?’
‘Why not?’
‘Shall I?’
She was undecided.
‘I think I will,’ she said at last.
Still only partly dressed, she took up the telephone and lay on the sofa. At the other end of the line the bell rang for some little time before there was an answer. Then a voice spoke from the Templers’ house. Jean made some trivial enquiry. A short conversation followed. I saw from her face that my guess had been somewhere near the mark. She hung up the receiver.
‘Mona left the house yesterday, saying she did not know when she would be back. She took a fair amount of luggage and left no address. I think the Burdens believe something is up. Mrs. Burden told me Peter had rung up about something he had forgotten. She told him Mona had left unexpectedly.
‘She may be taking a few days off.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jean.
Barnby used to say: ‘All women are stimulated by the news that any wife has left any husband.’ Certainly I was aware that the emotional atmosphere in the room had changed. Perhaps I should have waited longer before telling her my story. Yet to postpone the information further was scarcely possible without appearing deliberately secretive. I have often pondered on the conversation that followed, without coming to any definite conclusion as to why things took the course they did.
We had gone on to talk of the week-end when Quiggin had been first invited to the Templers’ house. I had remarked something to the effect that if Mona had really left for good, the subject would have been apt for one of Mrs. Erdleigh’s prophecies. In saying this I had added some more or less derogatory remark about Jimmy Stripling. Suddenly I was aware that Jean was displeased with my words. Her face took on a look of vexation. I supposed that some out-of-the-way loyalty had for some reason made her take exception to the idea of laug
hing at her sister’s ex-husband. I could not imagine why this should be, since Stripling was usually regarded in the Templer household as an object of almost perpetual derision.
‘I know he isn’t intelligent,’ she said.
‘Intelligence isn’t everything,’ I said, trying to pass the matter off lightly. ‘Look at the people in the Cabinet.’
‘You said the other day that you found it awfully difficult to get on with people who were not intelligent.’
‘I only meant where writing was concerned.’
‘It didn’t sound like that.’
A woman’s power of imitation and adaptation make her capable of confronting you with your own arguments after even the briefest acquaintance: how much more so if a state of intimacy exists. I saw that we were about to find ourselves in deep water. She pursed her lips and looked away. I thought she was going to cry. I could not imagine what had gone wrong and began to feel that terrible sense of exhaustion that descends, when, without cause or warning, an unavoidable, meaningless quarrel develops with someone you love. Now there seemed no way out. To lavish excessive praise on Jimmy Stripling’s intellectual attainments would not be accepted, might even sound satirical; on the other hand, to remain silent would seem to confirm my undoubtedly low opinion of his capabilities in that direction. There was also, of course, the more general implication of her remark, the suggestion of protest against a state of mind in which intellectual qualities were automatically put first. Dissent from this principle was, after all, reasonable enough, though not exactly an equitable weapon in Jean’s hands, for she, as much as anyone—so it seemed to me as her lover—was dependent, in the last resort, on people who were ‘intelligent’ in the sense in which she used the word.