It was queer that her heart was nearly as much in Christopher’s game as was his own. As house-mother she ought to have grabbed after the last penny – and goodness knew the life was strain enough. Why do women back their men in unreasonable romanticisms? You might say that it was because if their men had their masculinities abated – like defeated roosters! – the women would suffer in intimacies… . Ah, but it wasn’t that! Nor was it merely that they wanted the buffaloes to which they were attached to charge.
It was really that she had followed the convolutions of her man’s mind. And ardently approved. She disapproved with him of riches, of the rich, of the frame of mind that riches confers. If the war had done nothing else for them – for those two of them – it had induced them at least to instal Frugality as a deity. They desired to live hard even if it deprived them of the leisure in which to think high! She agreed with him that if a ruling class loses the capacity to rule – or the desire! – it should abdicate from its privileges and get underground.
And having accepted that as a principle, she could follow the rest of his cloudy obsessions and obstinacies.
Perhaps she would not have backed him up in his long struggle with dear Mark if she had not considered that their main necessity was to live high… . And she was aware that why, really, she had sprung to the door rather than to the window, had been that she had not desired to make an unfair move in that long chess game; on behalf of Christopher. If she had had to see Mrs. de Bray Pape or to speak to her it would have been disagreeable to have that descendant of a king’s companion look at her with the accusing eyes of one who thinks: ‘You live with a man without being married to him!’ Mrs. de Bray Pape’s ancestress had been able to force the king to marry her… . But that she would have chanced: they had paid penalty enough for having broken the rules of the Club. She could carry her head high: not obtrusively high, but sufficiently! For, in effect they had surrendered Groby in order to live together and she had endured sprays of obloquy that seemed never to cease to splash over the garden hedges … in order to keep Christopher alive and sane!
No, she would have faced Mrs. de Bray Pape. But she would hardly, given Christopher’s half-crazed condition, have kept herself from threatening Mrs. Pape with dreadful legal consequences if she touched Groby Great Tree. That would not have been jonnock. That would have been to interfere in the silent Northern struggle between the brothers. That she would never do, even to save Christopher’s reason – unless she were jumped into it! … That Mark did not intend to interfere between Mrs. Pape and the tree she knew – for when she had read Mrs. Pape’s letter to him he had signified as much to her by means of his eyes… . Mark she loved and respected because he was a dear – and because he had backed her through thick and thin. Without him … There had been a moment on that dreadful night… . She prayed God that she would not have to think again of that dreadful night… . If she had to see Sylvia again she would go mad, and the child within her… . Deep, deep within her the blight would fall on the little thread of brain!
Mrs. de Bray Pape, God be thanked, provided diversion for her mind. She was speaking French with an eccentricity that could not be ignored.
Valentine could see, without looking out of the window, Marie Léonie’s blank face and the equal blankness with which she must have indicated that she did not intend to understand. She imagined her standing, motionless, pinafored and unmerciful before the other lady who beneath the three-cornered hat was stuttering out:
‘Lady Tietjens, mwaw Madam de Bray Pape desire coo-pay la arbre… .’
Valentine could hear Marie Léonie’s steely tones saying:
‘On dit “l’arbre”, Madame!’
And then the high voice of the little maid:
‘Called us “the pore” she did, your ladyship… . Ast us why we could not take example!’
Then a voice, soft for these people, and with modulations:
‘Sir Mark seems to be perspiring a great deal. I was so free as to wipe …’
Whilst, above, Valentine said: ‘Oh Heaven!’ Marie Léonie cried out: ‘Mon Dieu!’ and there was a rush of skirts and pinafore.
Marie Léonie was rushing past a white, breeched figure, saying:
‘Vous, une étrangère, avez osé… .’
A shining, red-cheeked boy was stumbling slightly from before her. He said, after her back:
‘Mrs. Lowther’s handkerchief is the smallest, softest …’ He added to the young woman in white: ‘We’d better go away… . Please let’s go away… . It’s not sporting… .’ A singularly familiar face; a singularly moving voice.
‘For God’s sake let us go away… .’
Who said ‘For God’s sake!’ like that – with staring blue eyes?
She was at the door frantically trying to twist the great iron key; the lock was of very old hammered ironwork. The doctor ought to be telephoned to. He had said that if Mark had fever or profuse sweats he should be telephoned to at once. Marie Léonie would be with him; it was her, Valentine’s, duty to telephone. The key would not turn; she hurt her hand in the effort. But part of her emotion was due to that bright-cheeked boy. Why should he have said that it was not sporting of them to be there? Why had he exclaimed for God’s sake to go away? The key would not turn. It stayed solid, like a piece of the old lock… . Who was the boy like? She rammed her shoulder against the unyielding door. She must not do that. She cried out.
From the window – she had gone to the window intending to tell the girl to set up a ladder for her, but it would be more sensible to tell her to telephone! – she could see Mrs. de Bray Pape. That lady was still haranguing the girl. And then on the path, beyond the lettuces and the newly sticked peas, arose a very tall figure. A very tall, thin, figure. Portentous. By some trick of the slope, figures there always appeared very tall… . The figure appeared leisurely: almost hesitant. Like the apparition of the statue of the Commander in Don Juan, somehow. It appeared to be preoccupied with its glove: undoing its glove… .
Very tall, but with too much slightness of the legs… . A woman in hunting-breeches! Grey against the tall ash-stems of the spinney. You could not see her face because you were above her, in the window, and her head was bent down! In the name of God! …
There wafted over her a sense of the dreadful darkness in the old house at Gray’s Inn on that dreadful night… . She must not think of that dreadful night because of little Chrissie deep within her. She felt as if she held the child covered in her arms, as if she were looking upwards, bending down over the child. Actually she was looking downwards… . Then she had been looking upwards – up the dark stairs. At a marble statue, the white figure of a woman, the Nike … the Winged Victory. It is like that on the stairs of the Louvre. She must think of the Louvre, not Gray’s Inn. They were, in a Pompeian ante-room, Etruscan tombs, with guardians in uniform, their hands behind their backs. Strolling about as if they expected you to steal a tomb… .
She had – they had – been staring up the stairs. The house had seemed unnaturally silent when they had entered. Unnaturally… . How can you seem more silent than silent. But you can! They had seemed to tiptoe. She had, at least. Then light had shone above – coming from an opened door, above. In the light had been the white figure that had said it had cancer!
She must not think about these things!
Such rage and despair had swept over her as she had never before known. She cried to Christopher, dark, beside her, that the woman lied. She had not got cancer… .
She must not think about these things.
The woman on the path – in grey riding-clothes – approached slowly. The head still bent down. Undoubtedly she had silk underthings beneath all that grey cloth … Well, they – Christopher and Valentine – gave her them.
It was queer how calm she was. That of course was Sylvia Tietjens. Let it be. She had fought for her man before and so she could again; the Russians should not have … The old jingle ran in her calm head… .
But she was also desper
ately perturbed: trembling at the thought of that dreadful night! Christopher had wanted to go with Sylvia after she had fallen downstairs. A good theatre fall, but not good enough. But she, Valentine, had shouted: No! He was never going with Sylvia again. Finis Sylviae et magna… . In the black night… . Maroons had gone on firing. They could hear!
Well, she was calm. The sight of that figure was not going to hurt the tiny brain that worked deep within her womb. Nor the tiny limbs! She was going to slub the warm, soap-transfused flannel onto those little legs in the warm of the great hearth… . Nine hams up that chimney! Chrissie looking up and laughing… . That woman would never again do that! Not to a child of Christopher’s. Not to any man’s child, belike!
That had been Sylvia Tietjens’ son! With a girl in white breeches! … Well, who was she to prevent a son’s seeing his father? She felt on her arm the weight of her own son. With that there she could confront the world!
It was queer! That woman’s face was all blurred… . Blubberingly! The features swollen, the eyes red! … Ah, she had been thinking, looking at the garden and the stillness: ‘If I had given Christopher that I should have kept him!’ But she would never have kept him. Had she been the one woman in all the world he would never have looked at her. Not after he had seen her, Valentine Wannop!
Sylvia had looked up, contemplatively – as if into the very window. But she could not see into the window. She must have seen Mrs. de Bray Pape and the girl for it became apparent why she had taken off her glove. She now had a gold vanity box in her hand: looking in at the mirror and moving her right hand swiftly before her face … Remember: it was we who gave her that gold thing. Remember! Remember it hard!
Sudden anger came over her. That woman must never come into their house-place before whose hearth she was to bathe the little Chrissie! Never! Never! The place would be polluted. She knew, only by that, how she loathed and recoiled from that woman.
She was at the lock. The key turned… . See what emotion at the thought of harm to your unborn child can do for you! Subconsciously her right hand had remembered how you pressed the key upwards when you made it turn… . She must not run down the narrow stairs. The telephone was in a niche on the inner side of the great ingle. The room was dim: very long, very low. The Barker cabinet looked very rich with its green, yellow, and scarlet inlays. She was leaning sideways in the nook between the immense fireplace and the room wall, the telephone receiver at her ear. She looked down her long room – it opened into the dining-room, a great beam between. It was dark, gleaming, rich with old beeswaxed woods… . Elle ne demandait pas mieux … the phrase of Marie Léonie occurred constantly to her mind… . She did not ask better – if only the things were to be regarded as theirs! She looked into the distant future when things would spread out tranquilly before them. They would have a little money, a little peace. Things would spread out … like a plain seen from a hill. In the meantime they had to keep all on going… . She did not in effect grumble at that … as long as strength and health held out.
The doctor – she pictured him, long, sandy and very pleasant, suffering too from an incurable disease and debts, life being like that! – the doctor asked cheerfully on the telephone how Mark was. She said she did not know. He was said to have been profusely sweating… . Yes, it was possible that he might have been having a disagreeable interview. The doctor said:
‘Tut! Tut! And yourself?’ He had a Scotch accent, the sandy man… . She suggested that he might bring along a bromide. He said: ‘They’ve been bothering you. Don’t let them!’ She said she had been asleep – but they probably would. She added: ‘Perhaps you would come quickly!’ … Sister Anne! Sister Anne! For God’s sake Sister Anne! If she could get a bromide into her it would pass like a dream.
It was passing like a dream. Perhaps the Virgin Mary exists… . If she does not, we must invent her to look after mothers who cannot … But she could! She, Valentine Wannop!
The light from the doorway that was open onto the garden was obscured. A highwayman in skirts with panniers stood in the room against the light. It said:
‘You’re the saleswoman, I guess. This is a most insanitary place and I hear you have no bath. Show me some things. In the Louie Kaators style.’ It guessed that it was going to re-furnish Groby in Louie Kaators style. Did she, Valentine, as saleswoman suppose that They – her employers – would meet her in the expense. Mr. Pape had had serious losses in Miami. They must not suppose that the Papes could be bled white. This place ought to be pulled down as unfit for human habitation and a model workman’s cottage built in its place. People who sold things to rich Americans in this country were sharks. She herself was descended spiritually from Madame de Maintenon. It would be all different if Marie Antoinette had treated the Maintenon better. She, Mrs. de Bray Pape, would have the authority in the country that she ought to have. She had been told that she would be made to pay an immense sum for having cut down Groby Great Tree. Of course the side wall of the house had fallen in. These old houses could not stand up to modern inventions. She, Mrs. de Bray Pape, had employed the latest Australian form of tree-stump extractor – the Wee Whizz Bang… . But did she, as saleswoman, doubtless more intimate with her employers than was necessary, considering the reputation of that establishment … did she consider …
Valentine’s heart started. The light from the doorway was again obscured. Marie Léonie ran panting in. Sister Anne, in effect! She said: ‘Le téléphone! Vite!’
Valentine said:
‘J’ai déjà téléphoné… . Le docteur sera ici dans quelques minutes… . Je te prie de rester à côté de moi!’ … ‘I beg you to remain beside me!’ Selfish! Selfish! But there was a child to be born… . Anyhow Marie Léonie could not have got out of that door. It was blocked… . Ah! …
Sylvia was looking down on Valentine. You could hardly see her face against the light… . Well, it did not amount to more than that… . She was looking down because she was so tall; you could not see her face against the light. Mrs. de Bray Pape was explaining what spiritual descent from grands seigneurs did for you… .
Sylvia was bending her eyes on Valentine. That was the phrase. She said to Mrs. de Bray Pape:
‘For God’s sake hold your damned tongue. Get out of here!’
Mrs. de Bray Pape had not understood. For the matter of that neither did Valentine take it in. A thin voice from a distance thrilled:
‘Mother! … Mo … ther!’
She – IT – for it was more like a statue than a human being… . Marvellous how she had made her face up… . Three minutes before it had been all … be-blubbered! It was flawless now – Dark-shadowed under the eyes. And sorrowful. And tremendously dignified. And kind! Damn! Damn! Damn!
It occurred to Valentine that this was only the second time that she had seen that face.
Its stillness now was terrible!
What was she waiting for before she began upon the Billingsgate they would both have to use before they parted? For she, Valentine, had her back against the wall. She heard herself begin to say:
‘You have spoilt …’
She could not continue. You cannot very well tell a person that their loathsomeness is so infectious as to spoil your baby’s bathing place. It is not done!
Marie Léonie said in French to Mrs. de Bray Pape that Madame Tietjens did not require her presence. Mrs. de Bray Pape did not understand. It is difficult for a Maintenon to understand that her presence is not required.
The first time that she, Valentine, had seen that face – in Edith Ethel’s drawing-room, she had thought how kind – how blindingly kind it was. Those lips had approached her mother’s cheeks and the tears had been in Valentine’s eyes. It had said – that face of a statue – that it must kiss Mrs. Wannop for her kindness to Christopher. Damn it all, she might as well kiss her, Valentine now. But for her there would have been no Christopher.
You must not say Damn it all. The war is over … Ah, but its backwashes, when would they be over?
I
t said – that woman’s voice was so perfectly expressionless that you could continue appropriately to call it ‘it’ – it said coldly to Mrs. de Bray Pape:
‘You hear! The lady of the house does not require your presence. Please go away.’
Mrs. de Bray Pape had been explaining that she intended refurnishing Groby in the Louis Quatorze style.
It occurred to Valentine that this position had its comicalities. Mrs. de Bray Pape did not know her, Valentine. Marie Léonie did not know who that figure was.
They could miss a good deal of the jam… . Jam tomorrow, jam yesterday… . Where was the jam? … That figure had said ‘The lady of the house.’ Delicately. Quelle delicatesse!
But she did not appear denunciatory. She dropped sideways: pensive. Puzzled. As if at the ways of God. As if stricken by God and puzzled at His ways… . Well, she might be.
She caught at the telephone shelf. The child had moved within her. It wanted her to be called Mrs. Tietjens in its own house. This woman stood in the way. She could not give a father’s name to the little thing. So he protested within her. Dark it was growing. Hold up there.
Someone was calling: ‘Valentine!’
A boy’s voice called:
‘Mother! Mother!’
A soft voice said:
‘Mrs. Tietjens!’
What things to say in her child’s hearing! … Mother! Mother! … Her mother was in Pontresina, complete with secretary in black alpaca… . The Italian Alps!
Dark! … Marie Léonie said in her ear: ‘Tiens toi debout, ma chérie!’
Dark, dark night; cold, cold snow – Harsh, Harsh, wind and lo! – Where shall we shepherds go, God’s son to find?
Edith Ethel was reading from a letter to Mrs. de Bray Pape. She said: ‘As an American of culture you will be interested… . From the great poet!’ … A gentleman held a top-hat in front of his face, as if he were in church. Thin, with dull eyes and a Jewish beard! Jews keep their hats on in church… .