The Passionate Year (22 page)

After the rest of the party had gone away he went into the library for a
cigarette. Helen had gone up to bed; it was past two o’clock, but he felt
very wakeful and disturbed. The morning-room adjoined the library, and as he
sat smoking by the remains of the fire, he heard conversation. He heard his
father’s gruff voice saying: “God knows, Fanny, I don’t.”

A remark apposite to a great many subjects, he reflected, with a
half-smile. He had no intention to eavesdrop, but he did not see why he
should move away merely because they were talking so loudly about some
probably unimportant topic that their voices carried into the next room.

Then he heard his mother say: “I think she means well, Charles. Probably
she’s not used to the kind of life here.”

His father replied: “Oh, I could tell if it was just that. What I think is
that she’s a silly little empty-headed piece of goods, an’ I’d like to know
what the devil that fool of a boy sees in her!”

The blood rushed to his cheeks and temples; he gripped the arms of his
chair, listening intently now to every word, with no thought of the right or
wrong of it.

The conversation went on.

“She’s more intelligent when you get her alone, Charles. And I’m rather
afraid you frighten her too.”

“Frighten her be damned. If she’d any guts in her she’d like me. The right
sort of women always do like me.”

“Perhaps she does like you. That wouldn’t stop her from being frightened
of you, would it? I’m frightened of you myself, sometimes.”

“Don’t say damsilly things to me, Fanny. All I say is, I’m not a snob, an’
I’ve always felt I’d let all my lads choose for themselves absolutely in a
matter like marriage. But I’ve always hoped and trusted that they’d marry
somebody worth marryin’. I told the boy the other night—if he’d married
a dustman’s daughter I’d have welcomed her if she’d been pretty or clever or
smart or something or other about her.”

“But Charles, she
is
pretty.”

“Think so? Not my style, anyway. An’ what’s prettiness when there’s
nothing else? I like a girl with her wits about her, smart business-like sort
o’ girl, pretty if you like-all the better if she is—but a girl that
needn’t depend on her looks. Why, I’d rather the lad have married my typist
than that silly little thing! Fact, I’ve a few factory girls I’d rather have
had for a daughter-in-law than the one I’ve got!”

“Well, it’s no good troubling about it, Charles. He’s done it now, and if
he can put up with her I think we ought to. She’s fond enough of him, I
should think.”

“Good God, she ought to be! Probably she’s got enough sense to know what’s
a bargain, anyway.”

“I think you’re a bit too severe, Charles. After all, we’ve only seen her
for a week.”

“Well, Fanny, answer me a straight question—are
you
really
pleased with her?”

“No, I can’t say I am, but I realise we’ve got to make the best of her.
After all, men do make silly mistakes, don’t they?”

“Over women they do, that’s a fact…You know, it’s just struck
me—that old chap Ervine’s played a dam’ smart game.”

“What do you mean?”

“I bet he put her on to it. I thought I was getting somethin’ out of him
when I had that talk over the ‘phone, but I’ll acknowledge he’s gone one
better on me. Smart man, Ervine. I like a smart man, even if it’s me he puts
it across. I like him better than his daughter.”

“I should hate him. I think the whole business is dreadful. Perfectly
dreadful…Did you tell Rogers he could go to bed?…I said breakfast at
nine-thirty…yes, ten if you like…”

The voices trailed off into the distance.

He crept up the stairs carefully, trying not to let them
creak. At the landing outside his room he paused, looking out of the window.
It was a night full of beautiful moonlight, and on the new clock-tower over
the garage the weather-vane glinted like a silver arrow. Snow lay in patches
against the walls, and the pools amidst the cobble-stones in the courtyard
were filmed over with thin ice. As he looked out upon the scene the clock
chimed the quarter.

He took a few paces back and turned the handle of the door. He felt
frightened to enter. What should he say to her? Would she be in bed and
asleep? Would she be pretending to be asleep? Should he say nothing at all,
but wait till morning, when he had thought it all over?

He switched on the light and saw that she was in bed. He saw her golden
hair straggling forlornly over the pillow. Something in that touched him, and
suspicion, always on guard against the softness of his heart, struck at him
with a sudden stab. She had plotted. She was a schemer. The forlorn spread of
her hair over the pillow was part of the duplicity of her.

He hardened. He said, very quietly and calmly: “Are you awake, Helen?”

The hair moved and shook itself. “Kenneth!”

“I want to speak to you.”

“What is it, Kenneth?”

“Did you—?—Look here—” He paused. How could he put it to
her? If he said straight out: “Did you plot with your father to marry me?”
she would, of course, say no. He must be careful. He must try to trap her
without her being aware.

“Look here—did you know that it was due to my father’s influence
that I got Lavery’s?”

“No, was it? It was good of your father to help you, wasn’t it?”

Stupid little fool! he thought. (Good God, that was nearly what his father
had said she was!)

He said: “He meant it kindly, no doubt. But you didn’t know?”

“How should I know?”

“I thought perhaps your father might have told you.”

“I was never interested in his business.”

Pause. A sudden sharp wave of irritation made him continue:

“I say, Helen, you might remember whom you’re talking to when you’re at
dinner. The Lord Randolph you were saying the uncomplimentary things about
happens to be the cousin of the lady sitting on your left.”

“Really? Oh, I’m so sorry, Kenneth. I didn’t know. D’you think she’d be
offended?”

“I shouldn’t think she’d trouble very much about your opinion, but the
publicity which you gave to it would probably annoy her a little.”

She suddenly hid her head in her arms and burst into tears.

“Oh, Kenneth—let’s go away to-morrow! Let’s go back to Millstead!
Oh, I can’t bear this any more—I’ve been miserable ever since I came. I
told you it would all go wrong, Kenneth!-Kenneth, I
have
tried, but
it’s no good—I can’t be happy!—Take me away tomorrow, Kenneth.
Kenneth, if you don’t I shall run away myself—I simply can’t bear any
more of it. You’ve hated me ever since you came here, because I don’t make
you feel proud of me. Oh, I
wish
I did—I
do
wish I could!
But I’ve tried so many times-I’ve made myself sick with trying—and now
that I know it’s no good, let me go back to Millstead where I can give up
trying for a while. Kenneth, be kind to me-I can’t help it—I can’t help
not being all that you want me to be!”

She held out her arms for him to have taken hold of, but he stood
aside.

“I think perhaps a return to Millstead would be the best thing we could
do,” he said, calmly. “We certainly don’t seem to be having a very
exhilarating time here…Breakfast is at ten, I think. That means that the
car can take us down to catch the 11.50…I’d better ‘phone Burton in the
morning, then he can air the place for us. Would you like to dine at School
to-morrow? I was, thinking that probably your father would invite us if he
knew we were coming back so soon?”

It was in his mind that perhaps he could scheme some trap at the Head’s
dinner-table that would enmesh them both.

She said drearily: “Oh, I don’t mind, Kenneth. Just whatever you
want.”

“Very well,” he replied, and said no more.

He lay awake until he fancied it must be almost dawn, and all the time he
was acutely miserable. He was so achingly sorry for her, and yet the
suspicion in his mind fortified him against all kindly impulses. He felt that
he would never again weakly give way to her, because the thought of her
duplicity would give him strength, strength even against her tears and
misery. And yet there was one thing the thought of her duplicity did not give
him; it did not give him peace. It made him bitter, unrestful, angry with the
world.

And he decided, just before he went to sleep, that these new circumstances
that had arisen justified him in taking what attitude he liked towards Clare.
If he wanted to see her he would see her. He would no longer make sacrifices
of his friends for Helen’s sake.

“The worst term uv the three, sir, that’s my opinion,” said
Burton, pulling the curtains across the window at dusk.

“What makes you think that?” asked Speed, forcing himself to be
affable.

“Well, you see, sir, the winter term—or, prop’ly speakin’, sir, I
should say the Michaelmas term—isn’t so bad because there’s the
Christmas ‘olidays to look forward to. But the Lent Term always seems to me
to be ten times worse, because there’s nothin’ at the end of it to look
forward to. Is there now, sir?”

“There’s the Easter holidays and the spring weather.”

Burton grinned. “That’s if you’re an optimist, sir.”

He was an old man, deeply attached to the school and very reliable, but
prone to take odd liberties on the strength of age and service. Speed always
felt that in Burton’s eyes he was a youngster, hardly less a youngster than
one of the prefects, and that Burton considered himself as the central planet
of Lavery’s round which Speed revolved as merely a satellite. The situation
had amused him until now; but on this afternoon of the return from Beachings
Over a whole crowd of sinister suspicions assailed him. In Burton’s attitude
he seemed to detect a certain carefully-veiled mockery; was it possible that
Burton knew or guessed the secret of his appointment to Lavery’s? Was it also
possible that Burton had pierced through his marriage with Helen and had seen
the sinister scheme behind it?

He stared hard at Burton. The man was old in a rather theatrical way; he
clumped about exactly like the faithful retainer in the old-fashioned
melodrama; if you addressed him he would turn round, put one hand to his ear,
to leer at you, and say grotesquely: “Sir?” He was the terror of all the
housemaids, the pet of all the Junior boys, and a sort of communal butler and
valet to the prefects. And, beyond all doubt, he was one of the sights of
Lavery’s. For the moment Speed detested him.

“I say, Burton.”

The turn, the hand to ear, the leer, and the grotesque interrogative:
“Sir?”

“How long have you been at Millstead?”

“Fifty-one year, sir, come next July. I started when I was fourteen year
old, sir, peelin’ potaties in the old kitchins that used to be underneath
Milner’s. I come to Lavery’s when I was twenty-four as under-porter. I
remember old Mr. Hardacre that wuz ‘ousemaster before Mr. Lavery, Sir. Mr.
Lavery was ‘ousemaster for thirty-eight year, sir, an’ a very great friend of
mine. He came to see me only larst Toosday, sir, a-knockin’ at the pantry
door just like an old pal o’ mine might. He wuz wantin’ to know ‘ow the old
place was gettin’ on.”

Speed’s glance hardened. He could imagine Lavery and Burton having a
malicious conversation about himself.

Burton went on, grinning: “He was arskin’ after you, Mr. Speed. I told ‘im
you wuz away spendin’ the Christmas with Sir Charles and Lady Speed. An’ I
told him you wuz doin’ very well an’ bein’ very popular, if you’ll pard’n the
liberty I took.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Speed, rather coldly.

When Burton had gone out he poked up the fire and pondered. Now that he
was back at Millstead he wished he had stayed longer in Beachings Over.
Millstead was absolutely a dead place in vacation time, and in the Christmas
vacation nothing more dreary and uniformly depressing had ever come within
his experience. Dr. and Mrs. Ervine, so Potter informed him, had gone to town
for a few days and would not be back until after the New Year. None of the
other housemasters was in residence. The huge empty footer pitches, hardly
convalescent after the frays of the past term, were being marked off for
hockey by the groundsman; the chapel was undergoing a slothful scrubbing by a
platoon of chattering charwomen; the music-rooms were closed; the school
organ was in the hands of the repairers; the clock in the chapel belfry had
stopped, apparently because it was nobody’s business to wind it up during
vacation-time.

Perhaps it would freeze enough for skating on Dinglay Fen, was his most
rapturous hope. Helen was shopping in the village, and he expected her back
very soon. It was nearly dark now, but the groundsman was still busy. There
was something exquisitely forlorn in that patient transference from cricket
to footer, from footer to hockey, and then from hockey to cricket again,
which marked the passage of the years at Millstead. He wondered how long it
would all last. He wondered what sort of an upheaval would be required to
change it. Would famine or pestilence or war or revolution be enough?

Helen came in. It was curious that his suspicion of her, at first admitted
to be without confirmation, had now become almost a certainty; so that he no
longer felt inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, or even that there
was any doubt whose benefit he could give her.

While they were having tea he suddenly decided that he would go out that
evening alone and walk himself into a better humour. A half-whimsical
consciousness of his own condition made him rather more kind to her; he felt
sorry for anybody who had to put up with him in his present mood. He said: “I
think I’ll have a walk after tea, Helen. I’ll be back about eight. It’ll do
me good to take some exercise.”

She gave him a sudden, swift, challenging look, and he could see exactly
what was in her eyes. She thought he was going to see Clare.