2
They were all collected at the front door as she came down the drive: all except Roddy. They had ceased to hold terror for her now, or anguish: she had grown up. She could observe the tall group they made without a tremor. What a way they had of all standing together, as if to prevent a stranger from breaking in among them! But that did not matter now. Since she had met them again, there had been no approach to intimacy on either side, no significant interchanges; and she had not minded, had not lain awake feverish with doubt and longing. She was equal to them now. Her heart was in a stupor or dead; and it seemed as if they were never going to disturb her any more.
Mariella, Julian, Martin; but no Roddy....
Julian had come down for the day. He was more cadaverous than ever. His face was composed of furrows, projections, and hollows, with eyes blazing far back in his head. A lock of his thick brown hair had turned white. He wore elegant white flannel trousers and an apricot-coloured shirt of softest silk; and he made Martin, in blue cotton shirt and old grey flannels, look rustic and unkempt.
‘Pile in,’ said Martin. ‘Mariella, I can’t let you drive my new car. You do understand, don’t you, angel?’
‘I’m not at all a good driver,’ said Mariella, smiling vaguely round upon them all. ‘I smashed Martin’s car to pieces last year, didn’t I, Martin? I ran it into a wall. He was awfully nice about it.’
‘He’s an awfully nice man,’ said Julian, putting his hand on Martin’s shoulder.
Martin was the only one who ever received obvious marks of affection from the rest. They all treated him in the same way—with a sort of teasing tenderness.
‘Judith, will you come in front with me? And Mariella and Julian, you go there.... Yes, that’s right. Will you be comfortable? Are you all quite happy?’ Martin was terribly anxious lest there should be a hitch. Everyone had got to enjoy the picnic.
‘Is the food in? And the drink? Who’s got the opener? Oh, I have. Mariella, remember that this is Julian’s Day in the Country and don’t sit there and never open your mouth, but point out objects of interest as we go along, and any country sight or sound you happen to notice. Are we ready then? To Monk’s Water, isn’t it?’
The car swooped up the drive.
‘Is Martin safe?,’ cried Julian, clinging to Mariella. ‘I don’t believe he’s safe. If he goes fast I shall jump out. Oh, let’s stay at home and have a picnic in the garden. Don’t let’s go away from this nice house and see objects of interest. I didn’t mean it when I suggested it. I never wanted to. Oh, why can’t you ever see a joke any of you? Oh!...’
He subsided with a groan and shut his eyes as Martin swung round the corner and out on to the road. Mariella was giggling like a little girl, Martin was grinning, everybody was in the proper picnic mood. But where was Roddy?
‘Martin, what’s happened to Roddy?’
‘Oh, Roddy,’ said Martin. ‘Poor old Roddy’s got a headache.’
‘A headache?’ Something leapt painfully in her.
‘Yes. We left him lying down. The idiot would play tennis all yesterday in the broiling sun without a hat, and the consequence is a touch of the sun I suppose. He kept me awake most of the night shivering and warning me he was going to be sick. He looked awful at breakfast I must say,—bright yellow; so we gave him an aspirin and put him on the sofa and left him.’
‘Left him, Martin? But oughtn’t someone to have stayed with him?’
‘O Lord, no. He’ll sleep it off and be all right to-morrow. His temper was his worst trouble, so we thought we’d keep away.’
Martin laughed cheerfully, as if he were amused about Roddy’s headache. How cruel, how callous people were! They called themselves his friends and they left him ill and alone, and went off to enjoy themselves. He might get worse during the day: he might be sickening for a serious illness.
Roddy’s absence and his headache mattered terribly. She realized suddenly that it was chiefly because of seeing him that she had looked forward to the picnic; that she had hoped to watch him, to talk to him; that she had had a pang of dismay at his absence from the group by the door; that she had been secretly alert for his coming, in a fever for some mention of him until the very moment of starting; and that then a weight had descended; and that now the day was utterly ruined.
After all, was she going to be obliged to live, to feel, to want again?
Roddy was lying in the deserted house, on the red sitting-room sofa, with the blinds down. His forehead and closed eyes were contracted with his headache. He tossed his head and buried it in the cushions; and his hair got ruffled, and the cushions became more and more uncomfortable. He swore. You came in on tip-toe and knelt down beside him.
‘Roddy, I’ve come to see you,’ you whispered.
‘Oh, Judy, I’ve got such a headache and nobody cares.’
‘Darling, I care. I’m so terribly sorry. I’ve come to make it better.’
You stroked his forehead with cool fingers, smoothed his pillows, gave him a drink and told him to lie still.
‘That’s better. Thank you, Judy. Do stay with me.’
It was bliss looking after him. He had ceased to withdraw himself and be proud: he was utterly dependent. You bent and kissed his forehead....
Martin broke in upon her dream, saying: ‘Quite comfortable, Judith?’
And after he had adjusted the wind-screen, explained to her some of the devices on the dash-board, looked round to see that the others were all right, he addressed himself with satisfaction to his driving again, resuming his one-sided muttered conversations with his car and with passers-by.
‘Now, now, come along, old lady ... that’s right.... What’s the matter with you? Got a pain?... Well done, old girl....’ ‘Now, my dear sir, what are you up to?... Put out your hand, Madam, before you turn corners like that.... Look out, you little brutes, spinning tops in the road. Lucky for you I didn’t run you clear over.... Oh, so you think you can race me, do you? Well, try, that’s all.’
As a variant he read the signposts aloud.
Judith watched the deep-golden, dark-shadowed country slip by: its woods and fields wore a sullen empty look.
They reached their destination at tea-time, and walked down the steep slope to the edge of Monk’s Water.
Bracken and long grass came pouring from the top of the hill to the very bank of the stream; and the beech-trunks rose up from that soft, swirling blue-green cascade, up and up, as far as eye could see. They sprang up clear from their lovely symmetrical pattern of naked roots and climbed the air in one long pure lift and flow, or in a lightly twisting spiral. Ardently they soared, column after smooth grey-green column, lightly balancing on their roots, gathering their power, sweeping it upwards for the final high breaking of the boughs. The strong outflung whirl of the snaky boughs was lost at last in a fountain of foliage. The bright spray wove closely and shut out the sky; but the sun pierced it and lay beneath it in pools of dappled green light.
The smell of bracken was on the air, and the little Monk’s Water slipped past in front of them, brown and clear, singing over its shallows, hiding beneath its overhanging greenery.
‘This is where I once found a new kind of beetle,’ said Julian, looking round him with pleasure.
‘I shall bathe after tea,’ said Mariella. ‘Boys, we must all bathe. I rather wish I’d brought Peter now. Don’t you, Julian?’ She looked at him uncertainly.
‘Well, I told you to, didn’t I? You said he’d got to stay with his governess,’ he said, in an unkind voice.
‘Never mind, Mariella,’ said Martin quickly. ‘I think you were right not to bring him. He’d probably have found it very tiring, a long expedition like this.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, agreeing with a sort of pathetic childish complacence.
Judith remembered once again, with a pang of amazement, that Mariella was a mother.
‘What about tea?’ said Martin. ‘God, I do hope nothing’s been forgotten.’
He opened the picnic basket and searched eagerly among its contents until he found a napkinful of raw tomatoes and lettuce.
Judith smiled at him suddenly. Whoever changed, Martin remained unchanged. He had always been, was now, and would be till he died, kindly, greedy and comforting. He would always eat raw vegetables and smell very faintly of healthy sweat, and ask nothing much of life save that the people he was fond of should be cheerful.
He caught the smile and answered it swiftly, radiantly.
They ate sandwiches, fruit and cake; and the flies, gnats, mosquitoes and midges came in murmurous clouds around them; and Julian started to lose his temper.
‘Smoke, all of you, smoke! Don’t stop for a moment!’ he shouted. ‘My God, we shall all be devoured. Now you know what the Insect Age will be like. Now you see to what end you’ve been helping to produce the next generation, Mariella: to battle with insects and to be defeated.’
They lit cigarettes and frenziedly puffed smoke into the air until the main body of the cloud died away.
‘Now please may we go home?’ he said plaintively. And all at once Judith was reminded of Charlie as a small boy, difficult, petulant, imperious, and yet all the time half laughing at himself in a way that disarmed rebuke: as who should say: ‘I know I’m being a beast and I will be a beast, as long as I like; but you mustn’t mind and you mustn’t take me seriously.’
Julian went on:
‘Let’s all go home and have a nice quiet game of something in the billiard room. Oh, I do hate outdoors so. I do hate the country.’
Martin looked distressed.
‘You’re very ungrateful,’ said Mariella. ‘It was Martin’s treat for you.’ She took Martin’s hand and patted it.
‘Because you said you remembered coming here once when you were a boy and finding a new insect, and how you’d always wanted to come back,’ explained Martin.
‘Oh, my accursed sentimentality! I wanted to bring back the days when I was a carefree beetle-hunter. Weren’t there any flies then? Or didn’t one notice them?’
‘I remember one of the beetle-walks when I went with you,’ said Judith. ‘We came back with our legs and arms swollen up like balloons.’
‘Do you remember that?’ He sat up and smiled at her. ‘Did we go on beetle-walks together?’
‘Yes.’ She blushed. ‘Sometimes. I was very proud when you took me.’
He laughed delightedly.
‘I believe I remember. You were a peculiar child. What else did we do when we were young? Can you remember?’
‘I remember a lot.’
‘Oh, do tell us.’
She shook her head.
‘What were we like? Who was the nicest? Martin of course: you needn’t answer that. But who was the most attractive? Which did you like best?’
‘If you can’t remember I shan’t remind you.’
‘Oh, I believe it was me!’ cried Julian; ‘I’m almost sure it was. Haven’t I always been your favourite?’
She laughed teasingly in his face.
‘Well, I’m sure I deserved to be,’ he said. ‘You were my favourite anyway. Absolutely my favourite woman. You always have been.... Have we changed very much?’
‘No. Very little.’
‘Which of us has changed most?’
Judith paused a moment and then answered: ‘Mariella.’
And directly she had said it she realized afresh how true it was: too true to have been so lightly spoken. Mariella had changed indeed.
Her smile, and Julian’s, faded abruptly.
‘Oh, have I?’ she said, looking away embarrassed.
‘I don’t think Mariella’s changed a bit,’ said Martin with surprise.
‘Ah, well,’ said Julian, coming out of a deep musing, ‘I feel changed, Heaven knows.... Now I shall have a short sleep, my children, and then I am at your disposal for a jolly game of tag. Judith has, as usual, cured me of most of my bad temper, and slumber will complete the process. Judith, angel, you’ll stay by me, won’t you, and wave cigarettes?... Go away, chaps. Judith and I are going to converse until I fall asleep. Remember I haven’t seen her for three years.’
‘I’m going to look for a place to bathe,’ said Martin. ‘Mariella, will you come?’
‘Yes.’ She held out her hands to him, giving him her sweet, small smile of the lips. He pulled her up on to her feet and they started to walk away.
‘I’ll come and find you,’ called Judith. ‘I want to bathe too.’
Martin turned eagerly.
‘There are one or two pools somewhere down this way,’ he said. ‘Will you follow us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
He waved and she waved back; and they were lost round the corner.
Julian lay down in the shade of an elder bush, lit another cigarette, and looked at Judith with bright appraising eyes.
‘Well, Judith?’ he said, and smiled. And as of old the smile transfigured the whole harsh face with beauty.
‘Well, Julian? What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘You’re happier than you were last time I saw you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She hesitated.
‘Your—acting is much more natural.’
He laughed and made a face at her.
‘Doesn’t my elegant and elaborate window-dressing dazzle you? Well, never mind. It never did, did it? And I never minded. You’re the only woman I’ve never been able to deceive to whom I have remained consistently attached.’
‘Are there many you’ve been able to deceive, Julian?’
He paused.
‘There are some who have loved me,’ he said. ‘So they must have been deceived.’
‘You think if they hadn’t been they couldn’t have loved you?’
He nodded.
‘Ah, I don’t believe that. Nor do you.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a thing I never would have believed ... how one can go on loving a person one knows to be—cruel and selfish and indifferent.’
Whom did she have in mind,—she wondered as she said it. That was not Jennifer, surely: surely not Roddy?
‘Not,’ she added quickly, ‘that you’re any of those things. I can’t allow you the satisfaction of thinking so.’
‘I’m all of them,’ he said:
‘ ... bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
That has a name....
And that reminds me, Judy, I hear you acquitted yourself with supreme distinction in your tripos. I’m very glad—very proud to know you.’
‘It hasn’t given me much satisfaction.’
‘Now, now! Less of that.’
‘Oh, it’s true. I’m not being modest.’ She turned away from him and said: ‘I worked very very hard. I thought of nothing but work, because I didn’t have anything else—particularly pleasant—to think about. One doesn’t much value that sort of success.’
There was a silence.
‘And I suppose,’ said Julian, ‘that’s all I’m to be told about it.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Oh, there’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just that.’
‘Nobody ever will confide in me,’ he complained. ‘I don’t know why. I’m quite madly interested—especially in love affairs. I suppose my face puts them off.’
She laughed.... No, nobody would confide in Julian. He would be too clear-sighted, too scientifically interested, too cold and reasonable. He would give such good advice and so much of it. People only wanted a muddle-headed outpouring of sympathy.
‘It’s far too long since I last saw you. Why didn’t I come to see you at College? Or write to you? I meant to.’
‘Why not indeed?... Because you forgot about me.’
‘I never forgot about you, Judy. You were always in the back of my mind. But life was very full.... And I wanted to wait.’
He gave her a quick glance, whose meaning she did not pause to interpret. She said hurriedly:
‘I am glad life was full. You have been happy, haven’t you? Tell me about these three years.’
‘They haven’t been—outwardly—dramatic,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s been ill-health, and again ill-health for me.’
‘Oh, poor Julian!’ She took up his hand and pressed it for a moment; and her eyes started with tears. She had forgotten the asthma which had hollowed his always hollow cheeks, ploughed deeper the lines about the mouth, lifted and bowed the always high stooping shoulders.
‘It’s all right,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘It’s given me a good excuse for never doing anything I didn’t want to do. These years since the war have been an uninterrupted succession of self-indulgences. I was happy in a way at Oxford. But I only stayed a year. It didn’t do really. The locust-eaten years behind me were too strong. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t play. I was too old altogether. But the gentleness of people, the peace, the beauty!—all that was very comforting. I took to my music again, a little.... But, as I say, it wasn’t any good trying to recapture what I had once found there. And then of course the climate did me in. So I came down,—a physical wreck, but more or less sane again. Since then I have been in France, Switzerland, Austria—all over Europe. I have composed a ballet which will never be performed. I have written three songs. I have contributed pseudo-highbrow criticism of modern music to several periodicals. I have listened—oh, listened very happily to a great deal of music in a great many countries. I have had a Russian mistress, and a French and an Austrian. I think that was all.’ He gave her a quick look as if to see what effect this announcement had upon her; but her face remained unmoved. Julian’s passions had always been an uninteresting if not distasteful subject for speculation. ‘And I got tired of them all and treated them monstrously and left them. They seemed to me quite insupportable after a bit—so stupid. I have tried in vain to be cured of asthma at the inept hands of countless doctors. I have read a lot—and talked more, as you may guess. I have spent and still spend much time looking for someone to whom I might attach myself permanently. But that of course is the most tiresome romantic folly. Nobody could love me for long: I know that well. And I daresay I myself am incapable of anything except a little passing lust. In short, Judy, you see in me what is known as a waster. It’s in the family I’m afraid. Roddy’s another. Charlie was designed for one from birth.... But he’d have been a happy one, poor boy.... Whereas my conscience pricks.’ He rolled over on the grass to look at Judith, lazily, laughingly. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
‘No, no. Go to sleep. I’ve nothing to tell you.’
‘The mosquitoes have all disappeared,’ he said. ‘Why? Perhaps I’d better take the opportunity—I shall be so charming when I wake up again. Thank you, Judith. You’ve done me good.’ He shut his eyes; and re-opened them to say: ‘I told you you were always in the back of my mind. It’s true. Always.’ He took her hand. ‘Judith, am I going to be allowed to know you at last?’
‘Oh yes, Julian, of course.’
‘Hum—I wonder.’
He was staring at her with intense inquiry and concentration; but she turned her eyes away. She could not feel that the matter was of much importance.
‘We’re going to see each other a lot?’
‘As much as you like.’
‘I’m here till the end of July. Then I go abroad with Mamma. To France. To Vichy part of the time. She will believe the cure does her good.’
‘I shall come and find you in France. I shall come to Vichy and take you away from Mamma. I do better in France. You might find me quite a pleasant companion. There’s so much I should like to show you—do with you. Shall I come?’
‘Oh yes, Julian. Do.’
‘And you’d talk to me?’
She nodded.
‘In the end,’ he said, watching her intently, ‘I believe you will.... I told you I could wait.’
He relinquished her hand, and shut his eyes.
She got up and sprang away from him down the bank.
The afternoon was breathless with a thundery heat. The fern-clad slopes were sculptured and glittering cascades. Monk’s Water hid between its shady banks. She followed its twisting course, looking ahead of her for the blue of Martin’s shirt, the white of Mariella’s linen frock.
Roddy was a waster.... It was in the family.... Roddy was no good, he was a waster. Perhaps, like Julian, he had mistresses: a French, an Austrian, a Russian—countless mistresses. Perhaps that was an integral part of being a waster....
She came round a sharp corner, and saw, through the elder bushes, a whitish form in the water. It straightened itself swiftly, alert at the sound of her footsteps.
‘Judy?’ called a voice uncertainly—Mariella’s voice.
Judith parted the elder bushes and looked through: and there was Mariella standing naked in midstream with clear brown water up to her knees.
‘Goodness, I’m glad it’s you!’ she cried happily. ‘I thought it might be someone else. Come on in, Judy. It’s so lovely.’
She stood in the full sunlight, her arms lifted and laid across her forehead to shade her eyes, her lips laughing. Her tall body glowed in the glowing air, narrow of hip, breastless almost, with faint, long young-looking curves; the whole outline smooth and very firm in spite of its slenderness. Her voice vibrated gaily, excitedly. She was happy.
‘We took off our shoes and stockings,’ she called, ‘and waded down till we found this pool. Martin said he thought he remembered a place where it got deeper, and he was right, wasn’t he? It’s not very deep, but still you can swim round. The water’s full of tiny trout. I’ve been watching them. Martin’s bathing a little further down in another pool. I’ve left my clothes under that bush. You leave yours there too and come on in.’
Judith stripped and waded out to join her.
‘This is the sort of bathing I love,’ she went on. ‘Nothing on and not very much water. You know, it’s funny, I never could learn to swim properly; I don’t know why. The boys used to laugh at me so because I always sank and had to be rescued. I gave it up in the end.’
It was the first time since childhood, thought Judith, that they two had been alone together. How deep was the difference in them? Mariella, naked, with her childish curly head and her unself-conscious body looked much the same now as she had looked that evening long ago when Judith had stayed the night with her, and they had had their evening bath together. And yet, a little while ago, it had seemed so certain that Mariella was profoundly changed: in the set of her face especially,—in the grown-up expression of reserve and sadness,—the whole look of a woman whose countenance has started to assume the cast it will wear in middle age. But now, alight and laughing in sun and water, it had once more the blank clearness and candour of her childhood.
Mariella splashed the water, hummed a little tuneless tune, laughed when a stone gave way beneath her foot and threw her headlong into the stream; and the bathing days with Jennifer returned to Judith with a pang. The body beside her now was like Jennifer’s in height, strength, firmness of mould: and yet how unlike! This body seemed as unimpassioned as the water which held it; and Jennifer’s had held in every curve a mystery which compelled the eyes and the imagination.
‘I really wish I’d brought Peter,’ said Mariella, stooping down to peer into the water. ‘He’d have been so excited about these little fishes. Martin and I have just made him a little aquarium and he’s so thrilled with it.’
‘What fun, Mariella! It must be fun having him to play with. He’s such a good age now.’
‘Well, he really likes playing by himself best,’ she said, looking faintly troubled. ‘He’s such a quiet queer little boy.’
‘Well, that’s much better for him than always having to be amused, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is!’ She cheered up. ‘He—I s’pose it’s him being an only child and me being fairly busy—and then I do think it’s much better for a child to learn to play by himself, don’t you?’ She echoed Judith’s words complacently, as if they sprang from her own original and profound conviction.
After a pause she went on reflectively:
‘That governess of his is a very strict person. She says she must have entire charge of him.’
‘She’s new, isn’t she?’
‘Quite new.’ Then gravely, like a child pretending to be grown up: ‘I thought perhaps I might sack her. I’m not altogether satisfied with her.’
She seemed to be waiting to be encouraged in her desperate plan.
‘But why, Mariella?’
She hesitated, flushing.
‘Well, she’s so frightfully superior,’ she said at last, looking apologetic, a little sheepish. ‘I do hate bossy people, do you?’ Her eyes sought Judith’s with a flicker of appeal.
‘Well, that’s what it is,’ she said with relief.
Judith took her arm and patted it, saying laughingly: ‘Mariella, you’re afraid of her, I do believe! You know you’d never dare sack her. Shall I come and do it for you?’
‘Well’—Mariella dropped her voice and said in an embarrassed confiding way, ‘She simply doesn’t take any notice of me—absolutely none. His own mother! I really sometimes wonder if.... Do you suppose——’ She stopped, and a faint flush suffused her whole face.
‘What, Mariella?’ said Judith softly.
‘Well, I sometimes wonder if Julian could possibly have told her I—I don’t know how to look after him.’
She stooped again over the water, and her curls fell forward, hiding her face.
‘Oh no, Mariella! He couldn’t.... He’d never do a thing like that.’
But was it not more than possible?
‘Well p’raps not.... But he might, you know....’ She picked pebbles out of the water, her face still hidden. ‘He never did think I was much good at looking after Peter. You see, the thing is I ought to be very grateful to him really....’
‘Why, Mariella?’ asked Judith. To herself she said: ‘In another minute I shall get to know Mariella:’ and she almost held her breath to listen, waiting for the moment of revelation, and fearful lest a word or movement of hers should alarm the speaker, close her lips suddenly, and for ever.
‘Well, he’s very helpful about Peter.’ Still she picked pebbles from the stream and threw them away again. She went on as if with an effort: ‘The thing is, you see, he got that governess for Peter, interviewed her and everything. Isn’t he funny? He said poor old Pinkey—you remember her—wasn’t good for him and he must have somebody more suitable for his nervous temperament. I’m afraid he has got a very nervous temperament. I s’pose it’s being musical.... He took simply terrific trouble to find that governess. I daresay she does manage nervous children well. Peter seems very cheerful with her I must say.... And he doesn’t wake up with one of his screaming fits nearly so often.... So I can’t say anything, can I? Julian always will think he knows best. He always was an awful boss, wasn’t he?’ She raised her face to smile with a suspicion of roguishness.
‘Yes, always, Mariella.’ Judith smiled back, eager to encourage Mariella with a sense of shared amusement.
The stratagem was successful. Mariella swam a few strokes to the bank, sat down there, splashing the water with her feet, and said, more cheerfully: ‘Of course it’s very nice he takes such an interest.’
Judith came and sat beside her on the bank, and continued: ‘Where shall you send Peter to school?’
Her face clouded over again, troubled and alarmed.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t thought. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. He’s so delicate and ... I suppose Julian will see about it.... I think he’s got some plans.... Of course Peter isn’t quite like other children because he’s so musical, Julian says....’
There was a long silence. The sun had dried their wet bodies, and they leisurely dressed again and continued to sit on the bank side by side, watching the flow of the water. The faintest ruffle of breeze had sprung up, and the sculptured fern cascades were coming to life, stirring now and then. The golden light on the beeches had become richer and more tender.
‘It must be very interesting to have a child,’ said Judith at last.
‘Oh, do you think so? Do you want one?’
Judith nodded.
‘I never wanted one.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I always thought puppies so much nicer than babies.’
‘But what did you feel when your baby was born, Mariella?’
‘I can’t remember.’ Her lip quivered. ‘I didn’t feel much. I was awfully ill and—there seemed so many bothers going on. I didn’t see him for quite a long time and then—Oh, I don’t know! He was such an ugly miserable little baby and I simply couldn’t believe he was mine. It didn’t seem as if it could possibly be true that I had a baby. I just kept on thinking: What on earth am I to do with him? Then the doctor told me he might not live. And then I s’pose I suddenly wanted him to live.’
‘Yes. You loved him.’
‘I s’pose so.... I began to think of names for him.... And I thought after all it might be nice if he grew up and—and stopped being pale and thin. But he never has. Still we’re all more or less pasty faced, aren’t we? Then there was Julian ... and I thought—Oh, I don’t know.... Poor Grannie was dying and I took him to see her. She was so happy because he’d been born; because you know she absolutely adored——’ She stopped, her high unnatural little narrative voice failing abruptly.
The simplicity, the pathos, the unreality of her life!... Judith felt the tears burn her lids as she remembered that strange marriage, the deaths of Charlie and of the grandmother—the only woman who had ever in all her life protected, cared for and advised her—and realized in what child-like bewilderment and dismay she had borne her child.
She had never talked at such length or with so obvious a satisfaction in talking. For once, Mariella had things she needed to say.
Judith put a hand lightly on hers as it lay on the grass. It quivered a moment, startled, then lay still, and Mariella turned her amazing eyes full on Judith. Sun and sky were mirrored in them so that they swam with more than their usual blind radiance, but the expression of her lips was tremulously pleased and grateful. Soon she sighed and said:
‘I s’pose he’d have adored Peter too. He and Julian were like that about children. I s’pose he’d have done everything for him. He was looking forward awfully.... It’s a pity really Peter’s not more like him—in looks I mean—not in——’ She checked herself.
Mariella was talking of Charlie: in a small, shy but unreluctant voice, she was talking of him: she was preparing to say the things which it had seemed never could be said. In another few moments it would be possible to say gently: ‘Mariella, why did you marry him?’
She leaned her cheek on her elbow and continued:
‘I don’t really understand children.’
‘But later on, Mariella, when he’s older you’ll be so happy with him,—doing things together. You’ll be such a marvellously young mother for him.’
‘Oh, later on!’ was all she said; and added: ‘I don’t believe boys care much anyway about their mothers being young.’
If Julian had heard her say that, so shrewdly, would he not have been disconcerted?
Judith turned to her, opened her mouth to speak.
But then, as on another occasion, Martin burst in upon the pregnant moment—coming round the corner with a loud ‘Hullo!’—fresh, pink and cheerful from his bathe; and Mariella rose from Judith’s side, her lips lifted lightly to smile him an agreeable welcome, her whole customary manner enfolding her in one instant.
‘Hullo!’ she called back. ‘Did you have a nice bathe? We did, didn’t we, Judy?’ Empty little voice, with perhaps a trace of relief in it.... It was all over.
They went back to find Julian.
They slipped back towards home along the chalky roads in an evening heavy with dark shadows.
Martin drove in silence, and Judith sat beside him. Perhaps she would tell him to drive straight home without bothering to drop her; and then they might invite her to come in for a moment, and she would see Roddy—see for herself how ill he was.
Martin turned and looked at her suddenly, and said with a nervous twitch of his mouth:
‘It is such fun seeing you again.’
‘Such fun, Martin.’
‘At Cambridge——’ He stopped.
‘Yes, Martin?’
‘It was ghastly not seeing you oftener at Cambridge.’
‘I know, Martin. It seemed so difficult with those disgusting rules. It was hopeless trying to see one’s friends.’
‘It wasn’t my fault we didn’t meet oftener,’ he stammered out. ‘I wanted to. I thought you were fed up with me, so I kept away.’
‘What made you think such a silly thing, Martin?’
He hesitated, and flushed.
‘Because I—didn’t get on—with your friends.’
She sighed.
‘You mean Jennifer?’
‘Well—yes.’
‘You didn’t like her, did you?’
Jennifer had always been at her worst when Martin was there.
‘I—I couldn’t hit it off.... I—of course I could see she was—very nice ... I could understand why you—were so fond of her....’ He floundered on, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, his foot gradually forgetting to press the accelerator. ‘But you seemed—quite different when she was there ... at least you were different to me. It felt as if we were strangers.’
She sighed again, and said patiently:
‘I’m sorry, Martin.’
Impossible to try to explain to him. What he said was all so true. Let him think what he liked: she was not responsible to him for her behaviour, not obliged, as he seemed to think, to treat him with consideration. Dull, dull, tiresome Martin. No wonder he had roused a devil in Jennifer.
‘Oh!’ he said, overcome. ‘Good heavens, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I wasn’t meaning to accuse you.’
‘It sounded as if you were,’ she said in an aggrieved voice. It was an easy game, upsetting Martin.
‘Oh, Judy, you know I wasn’t,’ he said unhappily; and in his agitation he completely forgot to accelerate, and the car slowed down till she scarcely crawled.
‘Hey, sir!’ shouted Julian from the back. ‘May I ask what you are up to, sir? Does the road belong to you, sir, or does it not?’
Martin made a grimace over his shoulder and drove on.
‘All I meant,’ he said presently, very quietly, ‘was that I’d missed you awfully, and that I’m terribly glad I’ve—I’ve met you again.’
‘So am I, Martin. Honestly I am.’
She was remorseful.
‘I’m going away to-morrow—must get back to the farm.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wonder if—I’d awfully like you to meet my mother. Would it bore you frightfully to come and stay?’
‘It wouldn’t bore me one little bit. I’d love to meet your mother.’
‘Oh, good!’ He beamed. ‘I’d love to show you my home. It’s rather nice.’
Mariella leaned over his shoulder to say:
‘Drive straight to the station, Martin. Julian will miss his train if we don’t hurry.’
In another ten minutes they were at the station.
‘We’ll come and see you off, Julian,’ said Mariella.
‘I mustn’t wait,’ said Judith. ‘Mamma’s having supper early. I promised I’d be back. Good-bye and thank you all very very much. Good-bye, Julian.’
She held out her hand to him. He took it and elegantly kissed it.
‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Nous nous reverrons au mois d’Août. Sans faute, n’est ce pas?’
She nodded.
He gave her one searching look, waved his hand and disappeared into the booking-office.
Mariella, following him, turned back for a moment to say in a small voice:
‘Good-bye, Judith. I’ll see you again, shan’t I?’
Her face was for once without its little smile. It was composed and—yes—quite grown up: yes, it had turned into one of those unnumbered women’s faces, masked with a faint fixed perplexity and sadness: and, behind the mask, not alive at all.
She turned to Martin who still lingered beside her.
‘Then—if my mother writes to you?—’ he said.
‘Yes, Martin. I’ll come.’
‘You must come.’
‘I’d love to.’
To see one of the circle detached and against a separate background of home and parents would be interesting: though, alas, Martin’s father had died. It was he who had been brother to Mariella’s mother, and to the father of Julian and Charlie, and of Roddy. Martin’s mother was quite external.... Still, there might be portraits, photographs, all sorts of family things....
She detached her hand from his, and started to run.
The train was not even signalled yet. In five minutes she could be with Roddy. She would make some excuse—say she had left something. She could reckon on a clear quarter of an hour at least in which to see him, tell him she was sorry, tell him ... and quickly go away again.
She knocked on the sitting-room door.
‘Come in,’ said a cross voice.
‘Roddy,’ she said timidly, standing at the door. ‘I’ve come to see you. Just to ask how you are. Only for a minute. Am I disturbing you?’
‘Oh, come in, Judy.’ His voice was polite and surprised.
He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its own dark-blooded feverish pulse.
‘Nice of you to come, Judy.’ His voice made him utterly unapproachable. ‘How cool you look. Did you enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too hot to be comfortable anywhere.’
‘It was horrid without you, Roddy.’
‘Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was bland and cold.
‘Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Roddy—it was all spoilt for me when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’
‘Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own stupid fault.’
‘Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’
He laughed.
‘I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so concerned about me.’
He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sympathising with him.
‘Then there’s nothing I can do for you?’
‘Nothing at all, thank you, Judith.’
He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expression. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient gesture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and started to draw figures on the blotter.
‘You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You ought to rest.’
‘I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions still bore the impress of his body. ‘I got sick of it. I had some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done. I’m going away to-morrow or the day after.’
‘Back to Paris?’
‘No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled for a minute. ‘She thinks I need a holiday.’
To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like Martin: ‘I want you to meet her?’
She came and stood beside him.
‘Well, I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter wretchedness out of her voice. ‘I only came to see how you were.’
‘It was very sweet of you, Judy.’
His voice was all at once gentle and caressing. He took her hand up lightly, and played with the fingers; and she felt the old helplessness start to drown her.
‘Well, it’s good-bye, I suppose, Roddy,’ she said very low.
‘It looks like it, Judy.’
‘Always, always going away. Aren’t you?’
He smiled at her.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen more of you, Judy. We haven’t had any of our serious conversations this time, have we?’
Oh, the charming mockery and indifference!... She took her hand away and said briefly:
‘No, we haven’t.’
This time there would be nothing new and delightful to remember. Save for this present vain exchange of words, they had scarcely spoken to one another. The evening when they had all bathed together, the afternoon she had played tennis with them, neither eyes nor voices had encountered each other secretly, alone together. She had seen him watching her now and then: that was all.
‘Last time we met,’ he said, his eyes on her, ‘we had a very serious conversation.’
‘Ah, I thought you’d forgotten that.’
She felt herself tremble slightly.
‘No. No.’ His fixed gaze never wavered from her face; and she could not move. She looked down and saw, on the writing-table, a white square and the name Anthony Baring, Esq., on it. Roddy had a delicate and graceful hand-writing.
‘There’s the car,’ he whispered.
‘Oh, I must go.’
‘Come this way, through the garden door.’
He got up and put his arm round her and led her towards the door, clasping her close to him. The reddish light pressed, whispering and furtive.
‘You kissed me last time,’ he murmured. ‘Will you kiss me again?’
She swiftly kissed his cheek.
He laughed; then drew his breath in suddenly and stopped laughing. Down came his stranger’s face to hers. She felt his mouth hard, and her own terribly soft and yielding. The pressure of his lips was painful, alarming,—a contact never dreamed of. She drew back and saw, in the mirror opposite, her own white-faced reflection, one hand to its mouth.
‘To-night,’ he said very low, ‘shall I come and fetch you in the canoe? We’ll go down, down,—to the islands. Just us two. Shall I come?’
She nodded, speechless.
‘Late. Be waiting for me about eleven.’ He added, in his usual, careless voice: ‘Not unless it’s fine, of course. There may be a thunderstorm.’
She went out of the room, into gold deeps of light and the evening shadows.
She came back into her own garden. The sinking sun flooded the lawn. Its radiance was slit with long narrow shades, and the great chestnut trees piled themselves above it in massed somnolence. The roses were open to the very heart, fainting in their own fragrance; and around them the dim lavender-hedges still bore white butterflies upon their spear-tips. The weeping beech flowed downwards, a full green fountain, whispering silkily. Forms, lights, colours vibrated, burned, ached, leapt with excess of life. The house was wide open at every door and window; and Mamma, going up the steps with a basket of flowers, paused and drew up the striped Venetian blind.