Kitabı oku: «The Country House», sayfa 17

CHAPTER VIII
ACUTE ATTACK OF ‘PENDYCITIS’

Mrs. Pendyce felt very faint when she hurried away from Chelsea. She had passed through hours of great emotion, and eaten nothing.

Like sunset clouds or the colours in mother-o’-pearl, so, it is written, shall be the moods of men – interwoven as the threads of an embroidery, less certain than an April day, yet with a rhythm of their own that never fails, and no one can quite scan.

A single cup of tea on her way home, and her spirit revived. It seemed suddenly as if there had been a great ado about nothing! As if someone had known how stupid men could be, and been playing a fantasia on that stupidity. But this gaiety of spirit soon died away, confronted by the problem of what she should do next.

She reached her hotel without making a decision. She sat down in the reading-room to write to Gregory, and while she sat there with her pen in her hand a dreadful temptation came over her to say bitter things to him, because by not seeing people as they were he had brought all this upon them. But she had so little practice in saying bitter things that she could not think of any that were nice enough, and in the end she was obliged to leave them out. After finishing and sending off the note she felt better. And it came to her suddenly that, if she packed at once, there was just time to catch the 5.55 to Worsted Skeynes.

As in leaving her home, so in returning, she followed her instinct, and her instinct told her to avoid unnecessary fuss and suffering.

The decrepit station fly, mouldy and smelling of stables, bore her almost lovingly towards the Hall. Its old driver, clean-faced, cheery, somewhat like a bird, drove her almost furiously, for, though he knew nothing, he felt that two whole days and half a day were quite long enough for her to be away. At the lodge gate old Roy, the Skye, was seated on his haunches, and the sight of him set Mrs. Pendyce trembling as though till then she had not realised that she was coming home.

Home! The long narrow lane without a turning, the mists and stillness, the driving rain and hot bright afternoons; the scents of wood smoke and hay and the scent of her flowers; the Squire’s voice, the dry rattle of grass-cutters, the barking of dogs, and distant hum of threshing; and Sunday sounds – church bells and rooks, and Mr. Barter’s preaching; the tastes, too, of the very dishes! And all these scents and sounds and tastes, and the feel of the air to her cheeks, seemed to have been for ever in the past, and to be going on for ever in the time to come.

She turned red and white by turns, and felt neither joy nor sadness, for in a wave the old life came over her. She went at once to the study to wait for her husband to come in. At the hoarse sound he made, her heart beat fast, while old Roy and the spaniel John growled gently at each other.

“John,” she murmured, “aren’t you glad to see me, dear?”

The spaniel John, without moving, beat his tail against his master’s foot.

The Squire raised his head at last.

“Well, Margery?” was all he said.

It shot through her mind that he looked older, and very tired!

The dinner-gong began to sound, and as though attracted by its long monotonous beating, a swallow flew in at one of the narrow windows and fluttered round the room. Mrs. Pendyce’s eyes followed its flight.

The Squire stepped forward suddenly and took her hand.

“Don’t run away from me again, Margery!” he said; and stooping down, he kissed it.

At this action, so unlike her husband, Mrs. Pendyce blushed like a girl. Her eyes above his grey and close-cropped head seemed grateful that he did not reproach her, glad of that caress.

“I have some news to tell you, Horace. Helen Bellew has given George up!”

The Squire dropped her hand.

“And quite time too,” he said. “I dare say George has refused to take his dismissal. He’s as obstinate as a mule.”

“I found him in a dreadful state.”

Mr. Pendyce asked uneasily:

“What? What’s that?”

“He looked so desperate.”

“Desperate?” said the Squire, with a sort of startled anger.

Mrs. Pendyce went on:

“It was dreadful to see his face. I was with him this afternoon – ”

The Squire said suddenly:

“He’s not ill, is he?”

“No, not ill. Oh, Horace, don’t you understand? I was afraid he might do something rash. He was so – miserable.”

The Squire began to walk up and down.

“Is he – is he safe now?” he burst out.

Mrs. Pendyce sat down rather suddenly in the nearest chair.

“Yes,” she said with difficulty, “I – I think so.”

“Think! What’s the good of that? What – Are you feeling faint, Margery?”

Mrs. Pendyce, who had closed her eyes, said:

“No dear, it’s all right.”

Mr. Pendyce came close, and since air and quiet were essential to her at that moment, he bent over and tried by every means in his power to rouse her; and she, who longed to be let alone, sympathised with him, for she knew that it was natural that he should do this. In spite of his efforts the feeling of faintness passed, and, taking his hand, she stroked it gratefully.

“What is to be done now, Horace?”

“Done!” cried the Squire. “Good God! how should I know? Here you are in this state, all because of that d – d fellow Bellew and his d – d wife! What you want is some dinner.”

So saying, he put his arm around her, and half leading, half carrying, took her to her room.

They did not talk much at dinner, and of indifferent things, of Mrs. Barter, Peacock, the roses, and Beldame’s hock. Only once they came too near to that which instinct told them to avoid, for the Squire said suddenly:

“I suppose you saw that woman?”

And Mrs. Pendyce murmured:

“Yes.”

She soon went to her room, and had barely got into bed when he appeared, saying as though ashamed:

“I’m very early.”

She lay awake, and every now and then the Squire would ask her, “Are you asleep, Margery?” hoping that she might have dropped off, for he himself could not sleep. And she knew that he meant to be nice to her, and she knew, too, that as he lay awake, turning from side to side, he was thinking like herself: ‘What’s to be done next?’ And that his fancy, too, was haunted by a ghost, high-shouldered, with little burning eyes, red hair, and white freckled face. For, save that George was miserable, nothing was altered, and the cloud of vengeance still hung over Worsted Skeynes. Like some weary lesson she rehearsed her thoughts: ‘Now Horace can answer that letter of Captain Bellow’s, can tell him that George will not – indeed, cannot – see her again. He must answer it. But will he?’

She groped after the secret springs of her husband’s character, turning and turning and trying to understand, that she might know the best way of approaching him. And she could not feel sure, for behind all the little outside points of his nature, that she thought so “funny,” yet could comprehend, there was something which seemed to her as unknown, as impenetrable as the dark, a sort of thickness of soul, a sort of hardness, a sort of barbaric-what? And as when in working at her embroidery the point of her needle would often come to a stop against stiff buckram, so now was the point of her soul brought to a stop against the soul of her husband. ‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘Horace feels like that with me.’ She need not so have thought, for the Squire never worked embroideries, nor did the needle of his soul make voyages of discovery.

By lunch-time the next day she had not dared to say a word. ‘If I say nothing,’ she thought, ‘he may write it of his own accord.’

Without attracting his attention, therefore, she watched every movement of his morning. She saw him sitting at his bureau with a creased and crumpled letter, and knew it was Bellew’s; and she hovered about, coming softly in and out, doing little things here and there and in the hall, outside. But the Squire gave no sign, motionless as the spaniel John couched along the ground with his nose between his paws.

After lunch she could bear it no longer.

“What do you think ought to be done now, Horace?”

The Squire looked at her fixedly.

“If you imagine,” he said at last, “that I’ll have anything to do with that fellow Bellew, you’re very much mistaken.”

Mrs. Pendyce was arranging a vase of flowers, and her hand shook so that some of the water was spilled over the cloth. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed it up.

“You never answered his letter, dear,” she said.

The Squire put his back against the sideboard; his stiff figure, with lean neck and angry eyes, whose pupils were mere pin-points, had a certain dignity.

“Nothing shall induce me!” he said, and his voice was harsh and strong, as though he spoke for something bigger than himself. “I’ve thought it over all the morning, and I’m d – d if I do! The man is a ruffian. I won’t knuckle under to him!”

Mrs. Pendyce clasped her hands.

“Oh, Horace,” she said; “but for the sake of us all! Only just give him that assurance.”

“And let him crow over me!” cried the Squire. “By Jove, no!”

“But, Horace, I thought that was what you wanted George to do. You wrote to him and asked him to promise.”

The Squire answered:

“You know nothing about it, Margery; you know nothing about me. D’you think I’m going to tell him that his wife has thrown my son over – let him keep me gasping like a fish all this time, and then get the best of it in the end? Not if I have to leave the county – not if I – ”

But, as though he had imagined the most bitter fate of all, he stopped.

Mrs. Pendyce, putting her hands on the lapels of his coat, stood with her head bent. The colour had gushed into her cheeks, her eyes were bright with tears. And there came from her in her emotion a warmth and fragrance, a charm, as though she were again young, like the portrait under which they stood.

“Not if I ask you, Horace?”

The Squire’s face was suffused with dusky colour; he clenched his hands and seemed to sway and hesitate.

“No, Margery,” he said hoarsely; “it’s – it’s – I can’t!”

And, breaking away from her, he left the room.

Mrs. Pendyce looked after him; her fingers, from which he had torn his coat, began twining the one with the other.

CHAPTER IX
BELLEW BOWS TO A LADY

There was silence at the Firs, and in that silent house, where only five rooms were used, an old manservant sat in his pantry on a wooden chair, reading from an article out of Rural Life. There was no one to disturb him, for the master was asleep, and the housekeeper had not yet come to cook the dinner. He read slowly, through spectacles, engraving the words for ever on the tablets of his mind. He read about the construction and habits of the owl: “In the tawny, or brown, owl there is a manubrial process; the furcula, far from being joined to the keel of the sternum, consists of two stylets, which do not even meet; while the posterior margin of the sternum presents two pairs of projections, with corresponding fissures between.” The old manservant paused, resting his blinking eyes on the pale sunlight through the bars of his narrow window, so that a little bird on the window-sill looked at him and instantly flew away.

The old manservant read on again: “The pterylological characters of Photodilus seem not to have been investigated, but it has been found to want the tarsal loop, as well as the manubrial process, while its clavicles are not joined in a furcula, nor do they meet the keel, and the posterior margin of the sternum has processes and fissures like the tawny section.” Again he paused, and his gaze was satisfied and bland.

Up in the little smoking-room in a leather chair his master sat asleep. In front of him were stretched his legs in dusty riding-boots. His lips were closed, but through a little hole at one corner came a tiny puffing sound. On the floor by his side was an empty glass, between his feet a Spanish bulldog. On a shelf above his head reposed some frayed and yellow novels with sporting titles, written by persons in their inattentive moments. Over the chimneypiece presided the portrait of Mr. Jorrocks persuading his horse to cross a stream.

And the face of Jaspar Bellew asleep was the face of a man who has ridden far, to get away from himself, and to-morrow will have to ride far again. His sandy eyebrows twitched with his dreams against the dead-white, freckled skin above high cheekbones, and two hard ridges were fixed between his brows; now and then over the sleeping face came the look of one riding at a gate.

In the stables behind the house she who had carried him on his ride, having rummaged out her last grains of corn, lifted her nose and poked it through the bars of her loosebox to see what he was doing who had not carried her master that sweltering afternoon, and seeing that he was awake, she snorted lightly, to tell him there was thunder in the air. All else in the stables was deadly quiet; the shrubberies around were still; and in the hushed house the master slept.

But on the edge of his wooden chair in the silence of his pantry the old manservant read, “This bird is a voracious feeder,” and he paused, blinking his eyes and nervously puckering his lips, for he had partially understood…

Mrs. Pendyce was crossing the fields. She had on her prettiest frock, of smoky-grey crepe, and she looked a little anxiously at the sky. Gathered in the west a coming storm was chasing the whitened sunlight. Against its purple the trees stood blackish-green. Everything was very still, not even the poplars stirred, yet the purple grew with sinister, unmoving speed. Mrs. Pendyce hurried, grasping her skirts in both her hands, and she noticed that the cattle were all grouped under the hedge.

‘What dreadful-looking clouds!’ she thought. ‘I wonder if I shall get to the Firs before it comes?’ But though her frock made her hasten, her heart made her stand still, it fluttered so, and was so full. Suppose he were not sober! She remembered those little burning eyes, which had frightened her so the night he dined at Worsted Skeynes and fell out of his dogcart afterwards. A kind of legendary malevolence clung about his image.

‘Suppose he is horrid to me!’ she thought.

She could not go back now; but she wished – how she wished! – that it were over. A heat-drop splashed her glove. She crossed the lane and opened the Firs gate. Throwing frightened glances at the sky, she hastened down the drive. The purple was couched like a pall on the treetops, and these had begun to sway and moan as though struggling and weeping at their fate. Some splashes of warm rain were falling. A streak of lightning tore the firmament. Mrs. Pendyce rushed into the porch covering her ears with her hands.

‘How long will it last?’ she thought. ‘I’m so frightened!’…

A very old manservant, whose face was all puckers, opened the door suddenly to peer out at the storm, but seeing Mrs. Pendyce, he peered at her instead.

“Is Captain Bellew at home?”

“Yes, ma’am. The Captain’s in the study. We don’t use the drawing-room now. Nasty storm coming on, ma’am – nasty storm. Will you please to sit down a minute, while I let the Captain know?”

The hall was low and dark; the whole house was low and dark, and smelled a little of woodrot. Mrs. Pendyce did not sit down, but stood under an arrangement of three foxes’ heads, supporting two hunting-crops, with their lashes hanging down. And the heads of those animals suggested to her the thought: ‘Poor man! He must be very lonely here.’

She started. Something was rubbing against her knees: it was only an enormous bulldog. She stooped down to pat it, and having once begun, found it impossible to leave off, for when she took her hand away the creature pressed against her, and she was afraid for her frock.

“Poor old boy – poor old boy!” she kept on murmuring. “Did he want a little attention?”

A voice behind her said:

“Get out, Sam! Sorry to have kept you waiting. Won’t you come in here?”

Mrs. Pendyce, blushing and turning pale by turns, passed into a low, small, panelled room, smelling of cigars and spirits. Through the window, which was cut up into little panes, she could see the rain driving past, the shrubs bent and dripping from the downpour.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Mrs. Pendyce sat down. She had clasped her hands together; she now raised her eyes and looked timidly at her host.

She saw a thin, high-shouldered figure, with bowed legs a little apart, rumpled sandy hair, a pale, freckled face, and little dark blinking eyes.

“Sorry the room’s in such a mess. Don’t often have the pleasure of seeing a lady. I was asleep; generally am at this time of year!”

The bristly red moustache was contorted as though his lips were smiling.

Mrs. Pendyce murmured vaguely.

It seemed to her that nothing of this was real, but all some horrid dream. A clap of thunder made her cover her ears.

Bellew walked to the window, glanced at the sky, and came back to the hearth. His little burning eyes seemed to look her through and through. ‘If I don’t speak at once,’ she thought, ‘I never shall speak at all.’

“I’ve come,” she began, and with those words she lost her fright; her voice, that had been so uncertain hitherto, regained its trick of speech; her eyes, all pupil, stared dark and gentle at this man who had them all in his power – “I’ve come to tell you something, Captain Bellew!”

The figure by the hearth bowed, and her fright, like some evil bird, came guttering down on her again. It was dreadful, it was barbarous that she, that anyone, should have to speak of such things; it was barbarous that men and women should so misunderstand each other, and have so little sympathy and consideration; it was barbarous that she, Margery Pendyce, should have to talk on this subject that must give them both such pain. It was all so mean and gross and common! She took out her handkerchief and passed it over her lips.

“Please forgive me for speaking. Your wife has given my son up, Captain Bellew!”

Bellew did not move.

“She does not love him; she told me so herself! He will never see her again!”

How hateful, how horrible, how odious!

And still Bellew did not speak, but stood devouring her with his little eyes; and how long this went on she could not tell.

He turned his back suddenly, and leaned against the mantelpiece.

Mrs. Pendyce passed her hand over her brow to get rid of a feeling of unreality.

“That is all,” she said.

Her voice sounded to herself unlike her own.

‘If that is really all,’ she thought, ‘I suppose I must get up and go!’ And it flashed through her mind: ‘My poor dress will be ruined!’

Bellew turned round.

“Will you have some tea?”

Mrs. Pendyce smiled a pale little smile.

“No, thank you; I don’t think I could drink any tea.”

“I wrote a letter to your husband.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t answer it.”

“No.”

Mrs. Pendyce saw him staring at her, and a desperate struggle began within her. Should she not ask him to keep his promise, now that George – ? Was not that what she had come for? Ought she not – ought she not for all their sakes?

Bellew went up to the table, poured out some whisky, and drank it off.

“You don’t ask me to stop the proceedings,” he said.

Mrs. Pendyce’s lips were parted, but nothing came through those parted lips. Her eyes, black as sloes in her white face, never moved from his; she made no sound.

Bellew dashed his hand across his brow.

“Well, I will!” he said, “for your sake. There’s my hand on it. You’re the only lady I know!”

He gripped her gloved fingers, brushed past her, and she saw that she was alone.

She found her own way out, with the tears running down her face. Very gently she shut the hall door.

‘My poor dress!’ she thought. ‘I wonder if I might stand here a little? The rain looks nearly over!’

The purple cloud had passed, and sunk behind the house, and a bright white sky was pouring down a sparkling rain; a patch of deep blue showed behind the fir-trees in the drive. The thrushes were out already after worms. A squirrel scampering along a branch stopped and looked at Mrs. Pendyce, and Mrs. Pendyce looked absently at the squirrel from behind the little handkerchief with which she was drying her eyes.

‘That poor man!’ she thought ‘poor solitary creature! There’s the sun!’

And it seemed to her that it was the first time the sun had shone all this fine hot year. Gathering her dress in both hands, she stepped into the drive, and soon was back again in the fields.

Every green thing glittered, and the air was so rain-sweet that all the summer scents were gone, before the crystal scent of nothing. Mrs. Pendyce’s shoes were soon wet through.

‘How happy I am!’ she thought ‘how glad and happy I am!’

And the feeling, which was not as definite as this, possessed her to the exclusion of all other feelings in the rain-soaked fields.

The cloud that had hung over Worsted Skeynes so long had spent itself and gone. Every sound seemed to be music, every moving thing danced. She longed to get to her early roses, and see how the rain had treated them. She had a stile to cross, and when she was safely over she paused a minute to gather her skirts more firmly. It was a home-field she was in now, and right before her lay the country house. Long and low and white it stood in the glamourous evening haze, with two bright panes, where the sunlight fell, watching, like eyes, the confines of its acres; and behind it, to the left, broad, square, and grey among its elms, the village church. Around, above, beyond, was peace – the sleepy, misty peace of the English afternoon.

Mrs. Pendyce walked towards her garden. When she was near it, away to the right, she saw the Squire and Mr. Barter. They were standing together looking at a tree and – symbol of a subservient under-world – the spaniel John was seated on his tail, and he, too, was looking at the tree. The faces of the Rector and Mr. Pendyce were turned up at the same angle, and different as those faces and figures were in their eternal rivalry of type, a sort of essential likeness struck her with a feeling of surprise. It was as though a single spirit seeking for a body had met with these two shapes, and becoming confused, decided to inhabit both.

Mrs. Pendyce did not wave to them, but passed quickly, between the yew-trees, through the wicket-gate…

In her garden bright drops were falling one by one from every rose-leaf, and in the petals of each rose were jewels of water. A little down the path a weed caught her eye; she looked closer, and saw that there were several.

‘Oh,’ she thought, ‘how dreadfully they’ve let the weeds I must really speak to Jackman!’

A rose-tree, that she herself had planted, rustled close by, letting fall a shower of drops.

Mrs. Pendyce bent down, and took a white rose in her fingers. With her smiling lips she kissed its face. 1907.