The day before the reports occurred in the press, a man of his appearance had enquired at Cook’s in Ludgate Circus about the exchange rates for French money. The Channel boats had been watched in consequence; but he must have taken warning and altered his plans.
“He’s ineffectual even in his sinning,” said Barrington. “Why couldn’t the fool have skipped the country earlier and saved us the humiliation of a trial?”
The Sandport Real Estate Concern had gone into bankruptcy. Its affairs would not bear inspection. Mr. Playfair had vanished with all the odds and ends that Ocky had spared. Both of them were badly wanted. So Jehane’s scornful loyalty in stopping on at Madeira Lodge, that her husband’s retreat might be covered, no longer served any good purpose. Moreover, every thing in the house was seized by creditors—even her own possessions were no longer hers because they had passed as Ocky’s. She and her children found themselves penniless.
Her father, when applied to, presented her with a list of the sums he had already advanced, unbeknown to her. He laid pedantic emphasis on his early objections to the hurry of her second marriage. She had always been wayward. He offered to take Glory and Riska to live with him for a time, but couldn’t put up with the younger children. Her independence had been her undoing; it must be her making now. She must work. The first Homeric scholar in Europe couldn’t afford to have his peace of mind disturbed. He was sorry.
Against her will Jehane was forced to accept the charity of the man whom she both loved and hated. She came to him a fortnight before Christmas with her four children—it was the first Christmas she had spent at Topbury since her engagement to the unfortunate Mr. Waffles.
Barrington’s relations with ‘Jehane were painfully strained. He hated the intrusion of her sordid problems on the sheltered quiet of his family. He was aware that she had grown careless of refinement in the vulgarity of her experience. She was no longer the Oxford don’s daughter, soft in speech and lively eyed, but a woman inclined to be loud-voiced and nagging. He blamed her, was sorry for her and wanted to be kind to her; but it was difficult to be kind to Jehane when her feelings were raw and wounded. She refused pity and was as hurt by the comfort which he permitted her to share as if it were something of which he had robbed her. She spoke continually of “my poor children,” betraying jealousy for the lot of Kay and Peter.
An additional cause of grievance was found in Eustace; he was an amiable mild boy, dull and fond of being petted, the miniature of his father. Barrington knew he was unjust, but his repulsion was physical: he could not restrain his dislike of the child whose sole offence was his strong resemblance to the man who had caused this misery. Jehane was cut to the quick; being forced to be humble, she sulked.
Nan tried to play the part of peacemaker. She was proud of the nobility of her husband; she understood his occasional flashes of temper. He was overburdened; he was doing far more for Jehane than she had any right to expect. He had made himself responsible for all the swindles in which his name had been employed as an inducement. To fulfil these obligations he was sacrificing many of his art-treasures; even the landscape by Cuyp was threatened.
And she also understood Jehane’s predicament. She was too gentle to resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from girlhood, she marveled at her friend’s fortitude—that she could still lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington’s back was turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness.
And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying her head on Nan’s shoulder, confessed her folly.