Unclouded Summer (21 page)

It was a long, a six-page letter, he left it open to reread next morning.

It was in a mood of steady but serious resolve that he reread it. He was not a child. He could guess at the manifold consequences of an elopement. “Disgrace our name.” If anything could disgrace that name, this would. There could be no question here of a quiet, hushed-up divorce. It would be a scandal right enough. What a titbit for the gossip columns. Titled wife of a British diplomat, unknown American painter; his being five years younger would give the story an added relish. On account of the scandal, their marriage, his and Judy's, would start under the worst auspices. Wherever they went there would be a nudging of elbows, a raising of eyebrows; there would be awkward moments, the wondering whether or not to recognize old friends.

Nor had he any doubts of the practical problems which would be raised. Judy had, he imagined, no money of her own. Her father was living on the Charlton estate, on the Charlton bounty. That was a responsibility that would now devolve on him; it would not be a light responsibility. They would be poor to start with, he and Judy. Marriage to him would mean Judy's transference to a humbler, to a much smaller way of life. It would not be forever. It might not be for long. But at first certainly she would miss many aspects of her old life. She would be in the swim of things no longer: “behind the scenes” no longer. He, coming into her world from the outside, knowing the things which her world contained and his did not, could appreciate more clearly than she could, what she would lo^e by joining her life to his. It was not just a question of money, money mattered indeed less in that world than in many others. It was a question of being exiled from a whole cycle of stimulating contacts. Judy would lose much by which she set high store.

What else could he do, however, but write this letter, but offer her the choice of a life shared with him? It was all he had to offer. There was one thing he could not do, go down to Charlton.

“Will Father be very upset over a divorce, do you think?”

It was of Julia that he asked that question, on the morning before he sailed. He had come down from Connecticut by
the early train; he was embarking that afternoon. It was the first time that he had seen Julia since the morning of his arrival, five months ago. She was to have a baby in the early May. It was to see her doctor that she had come into town unexpectedly that October morning, She had wintered in the South.

She had passed the “ugly stage,” and now looked very beautiful very much at peace as she lay out on her long chair in a loose jade green tunic, a glass of orange juice beside her, transparent; an ethereal quality. There was an otherworldliness about her, as though she had withdrawn from normal life but by the very fact of the withdrawal was enabled to see more clearly into its heart.

Outside it was cold and bleak, rain mingling with the wind; but here in this warmed room, with irises and jonquils in yellow and blue profusion, it was easy to believe that spring was on its way.

Julia shrugged as he set his question.

“You know what Father is. He fusses over any change of plan. There's never been a divorce in the family before. He's not really shocked by it as Grandfather used to be. But he's got an idea that it's something that happens in other families but not in ours. He'll get used to the idea in time.”

“Mother'll be unhappy.”

“She will, on religious grounds. But all the same …” Julia paused. She looked at him thoughtfully. “In the last analysis you know it's Mother and Father who matter least, only three people really matter. You and Judy and her husband. He nodded. Of course he had thought about Sir Henry. Sir Henry had befriended him, honored him, entertained him. In return for that he was ruining the last years of Sir Henry's life, taking the sunlight from them. Yes, he had thought of that. From one angle his behavior was inexcusable. Wasn't there though another angle?

Judy had talked of what she owed her husband, but did not Sir Henry on his side owe her just as much? She had given him her best years. He – a man in late middle age – had been given for the second time in life what a man was entitled to only once, in youth – a young woman's love. And at what cost after all to Judy had he been given it? Sir Henry was thirty-five years older. Did he realize how empty a life would be left for her when he was dead? They had no children. Was that of choice? And if so, was it of his choice or of hers; his selfishness or her reluctance to complicate his life, so as not
to deprive him of her full attention? Hadn't Judy been sacrificed for him over these last years? Was he really owed so much?

“He's well over sixty,” Francis said. “A good many men find themselves widowers at that age. They don't have a bad time. And he's got so much. His house, his position, a good deal of money.”

He didn't see that Sir Henry need be an object for all that pity. He had his children and his grandchildren: his clubs, his many friends, his many interests; surely he could occupy as well as most the
mauvais quart d'heure
before the close.

“Judy'll feel badly about him, though.”

“I know she will.”

But there was a snag to everything, or rather there was an obverse side to everything. Judy would feel badly about Sir Henry, certainly. But suppose she were to remain his wife. How dreary the last thirty years of her life might be, an ageing woman without the background of her husband's prominence and prestige, counting for less and less each year. What might not happen under those conditions to one who had been nicknamed flibbertigibbet? Judy, if any woman, would need the steadying hand of a husband during those years hard for any woman when her youth was slipping: a husband moreover who had known her when she was young, in whose continued love for her her youth would be incorporate.

Was not Judy's last half of life a heavier stake than the ten years which surely Sir Henry could fill in easily? Phrases out of her letters to him ran through his memory. He remembered the things that she had said in that cool dark café in the Rue de Poilu. “I've been so miserable. I've been robbed of youth. I've had no personal life, no life of my own.” Without him, her last years, her last twenty years, might well be pitiful.

Julia nodded as he explained. “That's very true, you may be right. But there's you, yourself. I'm wondering how you feel. If I were for instance to hear this minute that Max had been killed in a motor smash, I wouldn't know how to go on living. I'd feel that my life was over. We're so interknit that I couldn't go on without him. I should, of course. I'd probably remarry some day. But at the time when that message came, I shouldn't know how I was to go on living. Would you feel that way about Judy?”

He hesitated. And as he hesitated, she went on: “No, that's scarcely a fair question. I'll put it differently. I'll ask you this.
What answer are you really hoping for? Would you feel that your life was ruined, or at any rate the next few years of it completely spoiled if there was a message for you at Southampton saying that she could not join you?”

Again he hesitated. Would he feel that his life were ruined: or would he if he were honest himself admit that he would be relieved? Never to see Judy again, how tame and savorless, how purposeless life would be. But against that were the scandal of a divorce, the innumerable awkward situations that would arise, the inevitable sense of guilt. He was in a mess: there was no denying it. Was he not poised between two evils, uncertain which the lesser was?

She smiled at his hesitation. “If you can't answer that question right off the reel, are you absolutely certain that you are wise to go? Isn't that one of the things the movies teach us, that a hero should be absolutely certain that he does want the girl?”

He shook his head. “There's only one thing in the world that matters to me – Judy, and what Judy thinks of me. I couldn't have a moment's happiness, a moment's peace of mind if I did anything that Judy would despise me for. She would despise me if I didn't go. I've promised her. She's trusted me. Whatever happens I must stand right with her.”

“I see, so that's it. Well that does make sense.”

A minute later they went in to lunch. It was a simple meal – grilled sole, salad, and a layer cake – served in a small dining annex off the sitting room. It was very simple but very cosy. The glass-topped table, the Lalque glassware, the starched monogrammed napery, the green and gold edging to the place plates were a welcome change after the rough oak, the cut glass and the heavy silver of his parents' house. It was all very gay and modern, reminding him of the South of France. Life had gone very pleasantly for Julia, to have fallen in love with someone as marriageable as Max, to be able to face the future with such easy confidence, their assets mounting faster than their responsibilities.

How differently had the cards been dealt to him.

He was travelling by a small ship, a German one. She did not dock at Southampton. She merely anchored in the Solent to put off passengers. A crowd gathered round the purser's office when the immigration authorities came aboard. Francis elbowed his way through them to the desk.

“Any letters or telegrams for me, Mr. Francis Oliver?”

The purser shuffled through the mail. “Mr. Oliver … Mr. Oliver … Yes, here's one.”

Francis' heart gave a thud. So she had written then. What was it to say? Was it a goodbye letter? Or was it the acceptance of his ultimatum? Was it the end of one life, the beginning of another? All my life, I'll be remembering this moment, he thought as he stretched out his hand to take the letter.

The envelope bore the seal of the Savoy Hotel. At the sight of it, his heart seemed to miss a beat. She was there already then, there and waiting for him. Feverishly he tore the letter open, to pause, puzzled. It was typewritten.

“Dear Sir,

We shall be delighted to reserve you accommodation as requested for the night of March the 25th.”

He stared at it, then pushed his way back to the purser's desk.

“Isn't there anything else for me, Francis Oliver?”

Again the purser shuffled through the “O's.”

“No, sir, I'm sorry. Nothing more here for you.”

She had not written. But then why should she? Unless it were in renunciation. It was only if she had not been coming to join him in London, that she would have written. The fact that she had not written proved that she would be there to meet him. It must be so. Yes, of course it must. Unless, that was to say, she had written to the hotel. She might have done that, mightn't she, to make sure? Had he asked her to write to him at Southampton? He couldn't remember. He didn't think he had. Wouldn't she be likelier to write to him at the hotel? The fact that there was no letter here meant nothing. He'd have to wait another three hours to get his answer.

Only some twenty passengers were disembarking. No special
train was being run for them. He got through the customs quickly.

“When does the first train leave for London?” he asked the porter.

“There's one at 11:15. You could catch that, sir, if you hurried.”

“Let's hurry, then.”

As they passed through the station yard, however, a uniformed chauffeur came across to them. “Would you be Mr. Oliver, sir? Oh, good, sir. I was afraid that I might have missed you. I had a breakdown on the way. Her Ladyship's sent the car to meet you.”

“What Ladyship? What car?”

“Lady Marriott, sir. You're coming to Charlton, aren't you?”

Francis stared at him. It was the last thing he had expected. “Didn't Her Ladyship send me any message?”

“No, sir. Just gave me a description so that I could spot you. That's the car there, porter, the dark blue Daimler.”

The porter started to wheel his barrow across the yard. But Francis stopped him. “No. Steady. Wait a moment.”

The porter checked.

“Do you want something different done with your luggage, sir? Do you want some of it sent through to London?”

Francis hesitated. He had been taken off his guard. He had fancied himself to be prepared for every eventuality. But he had not banked on this. To be met by a chauffeur, in a car; for Judy not to have come herself, to have sent no message, either to the ship or by the chauffeur. Hadn't she got his letter? Was something wrong?

“Is Her Ladyship all right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, perfectly, sir. And about these trunks?”

But still he hesitated. I oughtn't to go, he thought. I ought to make some excuse. Go through to London. Write to her from the Savoy. Insist that she joins me there. Yes, but suppose that she had never got his letter. Mightn't he by not going through to Charlton now, put her in a false position, wake a suspicion in Sir Henry's mind, ruining possibly her whole life for her? If on the other hand she had had his letter and yet had sent the car, there must be some special reason for it that he could not guess at. Had he any right, now that she had sent the car, not to go by it? Was he not, to that extent, under an obligation to her?

“O.K.,” he said, “put all the luggage on. How far is it to Charlton?”

“An hour's drive, sir. But we're picking Sir Henry up at Basingstoke. He had to spend last night in London.”

It was a chill, bleak day. There was not a break in the clouds and rain was spattering against the windshield. They drove down a road lined with small two-storied, semi-detached villas. Each pair of houses was identical. Even the gardens behind their low privet hedges were set out in the same way, a lawn with flower beds on either side, and in most of the lawns, a circular central bed of rosebushes.

“How far is it to Basingstoke?” he asked.

“Three-quarters of an hour, sir.”

He sat back in the car. He felt lost, unsure of himself, ill at ease. He had been taken off his guard. He had had to take a snap decision. Had he taken a wrong decision? He did not know. There was no means of knowing. He had not the information on which he could have based a correct decision. He had sworn not to go to Charlton. And here he was on his way to Charlton. He had sworn never to be Sir Henry's guest: and here he was going to meet Sir Henry, to see him before he had a talk with Judy, before he had had a word from Judy.