Evvy continued, ‘And it has been my constant study to resemble him in every way possible.’ This was almost too much for Rain. It became clear from Demoyte’s expression that she had kicked him under the table. They looked at each other. What a spring of life she has within her, Mor thought, to be able to laugh at such a time. But the secret of this is simple. She is young.
Evvy’s voice was now taking on the elevated and lilting quality which it displayed in Chapel when he was nearing the end of a sermon. ‘ — that in future years, when time and mortality shall have taken from us the great original, we shall be privileged to possess, for the admiration of the boys and the wonder of our visitors, this painting, the representation by so distinguished a painter of so distinguished a man.’ Polite clapping broke out. Evvy sat down, and everyone looked at Demoyte.
Demoyte rose to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is for me a moving and a sad occasion. It is the first time since my retirement that I have set foot inside the school which was for so many years my creation and my home. Needless to say, my absence from this scene has been at my own wish, unwilling as I am to play, within these walls which are so dear to me, the role merely of an ancestral ghost whose days of productivity are past and who can now only unnerve and terrify the beholder. This would in itself be a theme for sadness. Add to this, however, the fact that what has called up this apparition is the presence in the world of something new — a work of art: the extremely fine picture which we now have before us.’
Demoyte looked up at the picture. So did everyone else, the guests nearest the fireplace leaning backwards across the table in order to see it. Nobody was bored now.
‘The reverend speaker who preceded me,’ said Demoyte, ‘spoke, as it is his especial right to do, of mortality. And what indeed could be more calculated to impress upon one a sense of finitude than the dedication, to the place where one has passed, such as it was, one’s life, of an image of oneself, to be left as a memorial for future generations? This is to give a palpable body to the sad truth that we can enjoy immortality only in the thoughts of others-aplace in which during our lives we have not always been cherished and in which after our death we shall be without defence. I speak, of course, sub spetie temporis.’
A polite smile spread round the table. Demoyte had transformed the scene. The look of condescension which the Governors had been wearing all the evening had faded now from their faces. They no longer felt themselves to be conferring, by their presence, a favour upon a bunch of simple-minded provincial schoolmasters.
‘This truth,’ said Demoyte, ‘may trouble us or it may merely wound us. My situation is, however, more complex - since I am so fortunate as to have my image passed on to posterity by the brilliant brush of Miss Carter, whom we are so glad and so privileged to have with us tonight.’ Applause followed. About time, thought Mor. He looked at Rain. He felt proud.
‘Such an experience,’ Demoyte went on, ‘cannot but induce humility. How well we know the faces and how little we are concerned with the obscure careers of so many of the men and women whom the great painters of the past have made to live forever among us. Who was Dr Peral? Who was Jacob Trip? Who were Mr and Mrs Arnolfini? In a way we know, with a supreme knowledge, since we may look upon their faces through the eye of a genius. In a way we do not know, nor do we care, what were their talents, their hopes, and their fears, or how they must have appeared to themselves. And so he too will live on, this obscure schoolmaster, held in the profound, and if I may say so, charitable, vision of Miss Carter - and it is a consolation to think that if St Bride’s is in the years to come distinguished for nothing else, it will at least be a place of pilgrimage for those who are interested in the early work of one who - can we doubt it in the face of such evidence - is destined to be one of the more remarkable painters of her age.’
Mor was watching Rain. Demoyte continued to speak. She was fingering her glass, looking down, frowning. She was moved by his words. Mor returned his glance to the tablecloth, and then after a suitable interval looked at Nan.
Nan was looking, for the first time that evening, thoroughly nervous and disturbed. She was looking straight ahead of her with an unseeing stare, and her hand which lay upon the table was visibly trembling. She had drawn out of her handbag and clutched in her other hand a small piece of paper with notes upon it. A deep blush had spread downward from her cheeks to her neck. Her lips moved slightly. Poor Nan, thought Mor. He tried to catch her eye. She turned towards him - and he was startled by the scared and wide-eyed expression with which she looked at him. He smiled and made an encouraging gesture with his hand. Mad, mad, he thought to himself, all is mad. But at least this evening will soon be done. After Nan’s speech they would adjourn to the Common Room, and soon after that one could decently go. The evening was almost over. Nan was still giving him a look of distress and fear, and he could see now that her lower jaw was trembling. He had to look away. He was beginning to tremble himself. He hoped that she would not blunder too much. It was certainly hard on her, following after so accomplished a speaker as Demoyte.
By now Demoyte’s speech was almost done. He was speaking of the school. He was even being gracious to Evvy. At last the toast was being proposed: St Bride’s! They lifted their glasses. Sir Leopold was laying an encouraging hand upon Nan’s bare arm. Nan rose to her feet. Mor averted his eyes and tried to think how splendid it would be in a few minutes when they had all escaped into the Common Room and could relax.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Nan, her voice pitched higher than usual and quivering with the uncanny refinement of the nervous woman, ‘I am privileged and pleased that such a gathering as this should be the occasion of my very first public speech.’ Everyone was leaning forward, looking upon her sympathetically. ‘And it is fitting too that the person who answers the toast that we have just had should be an outsider, a mere wife, someone who, while living in the shadow of this great institution, does not really form part of it.’
Mor began to feel some relief. Nan had caught the absurd tone of the evening’s proceedings quite well. Her voice was becoming steadier. Now she was going on to say suitably banal and complimentary things about St Bride’s. She was acquitting herself quite respectably. Another sentence or two, thought Mor, and she will have said enough and can decently sit down. He looked up approvingly, hoping that she was about to make an end. But Nan went on.
‘St Bride’s,’ she was saying, ‘has always been distinguished for its tradition of public service. Our great democracy has not looked towards St Bride’s in vain - and public servants in all ranks of honourable employment are numbered among our old boys’ Mor smiled inwardly. He knew just how much Nan cared about traditions of public service. He was amazed at her capacity to put on this act. He would not have suspected her capable of such a masquerade.
‘I trust then,’ Nan was saying - her voice was trembling again now, ‘that you will not think it unsuitable if, before ending my speech, I strike a more personal note. The windows of St Bride’s have never, as we know, been closed upon the world of commerce and of politics. Enriched by contact with the School, many have gone out, boys and masters alike, into the world beyond the classroom and the library And here I am sure you will pardon me if I speak to you of something which has long been known to many of you - the ambitions of my husband.’
Mor jumped, and upset what remained of his glass of wine. He looked up quickly at Nan. She was looking at the ceiling, her mouth open to speak again. Mor’s heart began to twist within him like a corkscrew. But still he did not realize what was coming.
‘It has been for many years,’ Nan went on, ‘the dear wish and ambition of my husband, myself, and our children that he should serve his country in the highest role to which a democratic society can call its citizens - that of a Member of Parliament. After a long period of patient work, my husband has now the great happiness of being able to realize his lifelong ambition. The nearby borough of Marsington have decided to adopt him as their
Labour candidate - and as we know, Marsington, with all respect to those present who are of the other party, is a safe Labour seat.’
Amazement, horror, and anger struggled within him; Mor could scarcely believe his ears. He turned his head to where Demoyte and Rain were sitting. Demoyte looked completely stunned; he was half turned towards Nan, his hand raised to his mouth. Then he turned sharply back towards Mor, a look of surprise, dismay, and accusation. But it was the face of Rain that made Mor almost cry out aloud. He had told her nothing of his political plans. She was hearing of them now for the first time. She looked towards him, her lips parting as if to question him, her eyes expressing astonishment and sheer horror, her whole face working in an agony of interrogation. Mor shook his head violently.
Nan was going on. ‘As Shakespeare says, there is a tide in the affairs of men that taken at the flood leads on to fortune. This tide now runs for my husband, and for myself, and for our children. We have discussed the matter fully, and we are at last agreed that there is no other bond or tie which can prevent us from adventuring forward together. Courage is needed to make the great step. To delay would be fatal. Such a chance comes but once in a lifetime. Courage he has never lacked - nor is it likely that he will hesitate now when all his deepest and most cherished wishes are about to find so complete a fulfilment.’
Mor was breathing deeply. He was still almost deprived of breath by the shock. Who would have thought that Nan would be so ingenious - or so desperate? He knew that something vital, perhaps final, was happening to him, but he did not fully see what it was. He tried to keep Rain’s eyes, but she turned away from him, grimacing with distress. Mor told himself that what he ought to do now, now this very minute, was to get up from his seat and lead Rain out of the room. Nan had attempted to comer him by a public gesture. She should be answered in the same way. To rise now and go out with Rain would set the seal on all his intentions. At last Nan had raised the storm. It was for him to ride it. But Rain had turned away her eyes - and although Mor struggled in his seat he could not bring himself to get up. A lifetime of conformity was too much for him. He stayed where he was.
‘To you, therefore, my husband’s friends and colleagues,’ Nan continued, ‘I turn at this crucial moment of choice, and ask for your blessing and your good wishes for an enterprise worthy indeed of the traditions of St Bride’s, and of the great talents of my husband. In the end, no destiny could satisfy him but this one, which he has always so ardently desired and which is now so unexpectedly placed within his reach.’
Nan was speaking slowly and precisely, making every word count. Once more the tremor had gone from her voice. She was masterly. She paused for breath.
Quite quietly Rain rose to her feet. She turned towards Demoyte as if to speak to him, but did not. She turned about, gathering up her evening-bag, and went soft-footed out of the room. Everyone shifted uneasily, stared at her as she departed, and then looked back to Nan, puzzled but still spell-bound. The candles were burning low.
Nan prolonged her pause. From the comer of his eye Mor could see her figure relax. She threw her page of notes down on the table. She began to say, ‘But you will have heard enough now of my personal hopes and fears - it remains for me to conclude my remarks by - Her voice became inaudible to Mor. He half rose from his seat, and then slumped back again, helpless. He became aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. He thought at first it must be because of Rain’s departure, but then realized that it was because of Nan’s speech. He knew he ought to follow Rain out — but again he could not. The scene held him prisoner, his wife’s presence and her words pinned him to his chair, his whole previous life contained him like a strait-jacket. He turned to face Demoyte and flinched away from the expression of blazing fury in the old man’s eyes that bid him get up and go. He could not.
Nan sat down amid applause, and an immediate buzz of excited talk. Everyone knew that something odd was happening, nobody knew what it was. Curious stares were directed at Mor. Sir Leopold was filling Nan’s glass. She sat there with her elbow on the table, her face hidden by her hand. Evvy was saying to Demoyte that he hoped Miss Carter had not been taken ill, and oughtn’t they - Demoyte got up and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Mor closed his eyes.
Some ten or fifteen minutes passed during which Evvy made some rather lengthy concluding remarks and the bottle circulated again. Then the company began to rise to their feet to adjourn to the Common Room. Several people converged on Mor, to make sympathetic remarks and offer good wishes. He walked with them through the door into the Common Room. Then he excused himself and ran out into the corridor.
He ran down the steps and out into the playground. It was an exceedingly dark night, and apart from the blaze from the windows above him no lights were on in the school. Only a lamp burning at the comer of School House lit up an expanse of asphalt and gravel and the edges of the grass. He looked about. Where had Rain gone to? Where could he find her now? He began to run down the drive. He saw the Riley parked upon the grass verge. But there was no sign of Rain. He called her name, cautiously at first and then more loudly. He turned and ran back to the main buildings, hoping to see some trace of her or of Demoyte. There was nobody. He ran up as far as the school gates. It was in vain. He came back, panting with exhaustion, and fell down, hiding his face in the grass near to the wheels of the car.
Chapter Nineteen
MOR waited beside the car for a long time. Now and then voices were to be heard and footsteps on the gravel, but it was only the departing guests. No one came near the Riley. At last he got up and searched for a while in the grounds, more or less aimlessly. Then he ran to find his bicycle. It was not in the shed in the masters’ garden. It must be at home. He began to run as fast as he could towards his house. He wondered how long a time had passed. He could not judge. Why had he let her go away? If only he had held her then, taking her hand before the whole company, none of the forces which Nan had tried to drive between them would have been of any avail.
As he came near his house he saw that there was a light on in Nan’s room. She had evidently returned. He forced his way through the gate, kicking it violently open, and ran down the side way into the garden to find his bicycle. As he dragged the machine towards the road he could hear the curtains being drawn back. Light fell upon the path and on the flowers which he had kicked aside. Nan was looking out. He paid no attention and did not look round. He mounted the machine, bounced noisily off the pavement, and began to pedal as hard as he could in the direction of Brayling’s Close.
There was a light on in the hall of the Close and another in the drawing-room. The bicycle came bucking across the gravel, and Mor dismounted it at speed. As he ran the last few steps he saw that the front door was ajar. Demoyte was standing in the hall. Their bodies came into violent collision. Demoyte seized Mor by the shoulder in a grip that hurt. For a second he thought that the old man was going to strike him. Mor wrenched himself free. The power which he had lacked when he sat at the dinner table now flowed in him with such abundance that he could have torn a wall down to reach Rain.
‘Where is she?’ he said to Demoyte.
‘I don’t know!’ said Demoyte. He began to say something else, but Mor had already turned and shot out of the door again. He seized the bicycle, which seemed to have got entangled in a rose bush, shook it free, and began to pedal back in the direction of the school. He moaned aloud now, partly with breathlessness and partly with the agony of suspense. For he still did not know what had happened.
The bicycle came hurtling down the drive. The Riley was still there. Mor braked violently and dismounted beside the car. What could he do now? Where could he look? It was impossible to find her, yet impossible too to endure her disappearance. It came to him that this was the first time for many weeks that he had not known where Rain was. He threw the bicycle on the grass verge and began to walk towards the playground. She might still be here, somewhere inside the school. The lamp had been extinguished at the co
mer of School House and the drive was in total darkness. Hours had passed. It must now be well after midnight. Everyone would have gone home. Yet perhaps she was still here. The Riley had not gone. She must be somewhere here.
He walked into the playground and looked about him. All was dark. Except for one light. Looking up, Mor saw that a light was still burning in the masters’ dining-room. They were probably clearing up the remains of the dinner. But at that hour? He stood looking at the light. Then he began to run towards the door of the building, his feet clattering on the asphalt and his footsteps echoing from the dark façades. The main door was unlocked. He mounted the stairs two at a time and blundered into the Common Room which was in darkness. He switched the lights on, sprang across the room, and threw open the door of the dining-room.
A bright electric bulb now lit the room, which looked exceedingly strange. The remnants of the feast had been removed. It seemed at first as if there was no one there. Then Mor saw Rain. She was high above his head. She had found a very tall step ladder and had set it up, standing it upon the tiles of the fireplace. She was sitting now upon the very top, level with the portrait which still hung in its place high aloft above the mantelshelf. She was applying paint to the canvas. She held the enormous palette upon her left hand and her lap was full of paints. Paint marks of all colours streaked her white evening-dress which fell in a great fan about her, hanging down over the side of the ladder. As the door opened she did not look round but continued carefully with what she was doing. She was working on the head.