§ 16
On the last day of the old year Mary Pembroke came down to Conster Manor, arriving expensively with a great deal of luggage. Her beauty was altogether of a more sophisticated kind than Jenny’s and more exotic than Doris’s—which, though at thirty-eight extinct in the realm of nature, still lived in the realm of art. Mary was thirty-one, tall and supple, with an arresting fineness about her, and a vibrant, ardent quality.
The family was a little restless as they surrounded her in the drawing-room at tea. She had that same element of unexpectedness as Gervase, but with the difference that Gervase was as yet raw and young and under control. Mary gave an impression of being more grown up than anyone, even than Lady Alard and Sir John; life with her was altogether a more acute affair.
Only Lady Alard enquired after the absent Julian.
“I wonder he didn’t come down with you,” she murmured. “I sent him a very special invitation.”
“Bah!” said Sir John.
“Why do you say ‘Bah,’ dear?”
“Doris, tell your mother why I said ‘Bah.’”
“Oh, Father, how do I know?”
“You must be very stupid, then. I give leave to any one of you to explain why I said ‘Bah,’” and Sir John stumped out of the room.
“Really, your father is impossible,” sighed Lady Alard.
Mary did not talk much—her tongue skimmed the surface of Christmas: the dances they had been to, the people they had had to dinner. She looked fagged and anxious—strung. At her first opportunity she went upstairs to take off her travelling clothes and dress for dinner. Of dressing and undressing Mary made always a lovely ceremony—very different from Jenny’s hasty scuffle and Doris’s veiled mysteries. She lingered over it as over a thing she loved; and Jenny loved to watch her—all the careful, charming details, the graceful acts and poses, the sweet scents. Mary moved like the priest of her own beauty, with her dressing table for altar and her maid for acolyte—the latter an olive-skinned French girl, who with a topknot of black hair gave a touch of chinoiserie to the proceedings.
When Mary had slipped off her travelling dress, and wrapped in a Mandarin’s coat of black and rose and gold, had let Gisèle unpin her hair, she sent the girl away.
“Je prendrai mon bain à sept heures—vous reviendrez.”
She leaned back in her armchair, her delicate bare ankles crossed, her feet in their brocade mules resting on the fender, and gazed into the fire. Jenny moved about the room for a few moments, looking at brushes and boxes and jars. She had always been more Mary’s friend than Doris, whose attitude had that peculiar savour of the elder, unmarried sister towards the younger married one. But Jenny with Mary was not the same as Jenny with Gervase—her youth easily took colour from its surroundings, and with Mary she was less frank, more hushed, more unquiet. When she had done looking at her things, she came and sat down opposite her on the other side of the fire.
“Well—how’s life?” asked Mary.
“Oh, pretty dull.”
“What, no excitements? How’s Jim?”
“Oh, just the same as usual. He hangs about, but he knows it’s no good, and so do I—and he knows that I know it’s no good, and I know that he knows that I know—” and Jenny laughed wryly.
“Hasn’t he any prospects?”
“None whatever—at least none that are called prospects in our set, though I expect they’d sound pretty fine to anyone else. He’ll have Cock Marling when his father dies.”
“You shouldn’t have fallen in love with a landed proprietor, Jen.”
“Oh, well, it’s done now and I can’t help it.”
“You don’t sound infatuated.”
“I’m not, but I’m in love right enough. It’s all the hanging about and uncertainty that makes me sound bored—in self-defence one has to grow a thick skin.”
Mary did not speak for a moment but seemed to slip through the firelight into a dream.
“Yes,” she said at last—“a thick skin or a hard heart. If the average woman’s heart could be looked at under a microscope I expect it would be seen to be covered with little spikes and scales and callouses—a regular hard heart. Or perhaps it would be inflamed and tender ... I believe inflammation is a defence, against disease—or poison. But after all, nothing’s much good—the enemy always gets his knife in somehow.”
She turned away her eyes from Jenny, and the younger sister felt abashed—and just because she was abashed and awkward and shy, for that very reason, she blurted out——
“How’s Julian?”
“Oh, quite well, thank you. I persuaded him not to come down because he and father always get on so badly.”
“It’s a pity they do.”
“A very great pity. But I can’t help it. I did my best to persuade him to advance the money, but he’s not a man who’ll lend without good security, even to a relation. I’m sorry, because if he would stand by the family, I shouldn’t feel I’d been quite such a fool to marry him.”
Though the fiction of Mary being happily married was kept up only by Lady Alard, it gave Jenny a faint shock to hear her sister speak openly of failure. Her feelings of awkwardness and shyness returned, and a deep colour stained her cheeks. What should you say?—should you take any notice?... It was your sister.
“Mary, have you ... are you ... I mean, is it really quite hopeless?”
“Oh, quite,” said Mary.
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know—I haven’t thought.”
Jenny crossed and uncrossed her large feet—she looked at her sister’s little mules, motionless upon the fender.
“Is he—I mean, does he—treat you badly?”
Mary laughed.
“Oh, no—husbands in our class don’t as a rule, unless they’re qualifying for statutory cruelty. Julian isn’t cruel—he’s very kind—indeed probably most people would say he was a model husband. I simply can’t endure him, that’s all.”
“Incompatibility of temperament.”
“That’s a very fine name for it, but I daresay it’s the right one. Julian and I are two different sorts of people, and we’ve found it out—at least I have. Also he’s disappointed because we’ve been married seven years and I haven’t had a child—and he lets me see he’s disappointed. And now he’s begun to be jealous—that’s put the lid on.”
She leaned back in her chair, her hands folded on her lap, without movement and yet, it seemed, without rest. Her body was alert and strung, and her motionlessness was that of a taut bowstring or a watching animal. As Jenny’s eyes swept over her, taking in both her vitality and her immaculacy, a new conjecture seized her, a sudden question.
“Mary—are you ... are you in love?—with someone else, I mean.”
“No—what makes you think so?”
“It’s how you look.”
“Jen, you’re not old enough yet to know how a woman looks when she’s in love. Your own face in the glass won’t tell you.”
“It’s not your face—it’s the way you behave—the way you dress. You seem to worship yourself....”
“So you think I must be in love—you can’t conceive that my efforts to be beautiful should be inspired by anything but the wish to please some man! Jen, you’re like all men, but, I’d hoped, only a few women—you can’t imagine a woman wanting to be beautiful for her own sake. Oh, my dear, it’s just because I’m not in love that I must please myself. If I was in love I shouldn’t bother half so much—I’d know I pleased somebody else, which one can do with much less trouble than one can please oneself. I shouldn’t bother about my own exactions any more. The day you see me with untidy hair and an unpowdered skin you’ll know I’m in love with somebody who loves me, and haven’t got to please myself any more.”
“But, Mary ... there’s Charles. Don’t you love Charles?”
“No, I don’t. I know it’s very silly of me not to love the man my husband’s jealous of, but such is the fact. Nobody but Julian would have made a row about Charles—he’s just a pleasant, well-bred, oldish man, who’s simple enough to be restful. He’s more than twenty years older than I am, which I know isn’t everything, but counts for a good deal. I liked going about with him because he’s so remote from all the fatigue and fret and worry of that side of life. It was almost like going about with another woman, except that one had the advantage of a man’s protection and point of view.”
“Does he love you?”
“I don’t think so for a moment. In fact I’m quite sure he doesn’t. He likes taking out a pretty woman, and we’ve enough differences to make us interesting to each other, but there the matter ends. As it happens, I’m much too fond of him to fall in love with him. It’s not a thing I’d ever do with a man I liked as a friend. I know what love is, you see, and not so long ago.”
“Who was that?”
“Julian,” said Mary dryly.
A feeling of panic and hopelessness came over Jenny.
“Oh, God ... then one can never know.”