Venus Over Lannery (9 page)

“No!” he said. “I can't afford the passage, or the time.”

They laughed, and it seemed to be agreed between them that this little weakness of Eric's should be treated as a sentimental joke; and from time to time in the weeks that followed she enquired after it. “How's the little indisposition, my poor Eric? Better, I hope”; and Eric would reply: “Thank you, Daphne, no better, I'm afraid.”

“O, Eric, but you
must
try,” she said one day.

“You really want me to, Daphne?”

Her eyes danced. “But of course I do,” she said; and “Of course I don't,” said her eyes.

Eric's little weakness, always implicit and often discussed, had brought a new piquancy to their relationship; but on Eric it imposed a repression which soon began to be very irksome. The little joke which Daphne refused to treat as anything more than a joke, was not a joke for him. His desire for Joan had been thwarted and now his desire for Daphne was being thwarted. The marvellous feeling of release which his friendship with Daphne had brought had petered out; the old sense of unfulfilment had returned and he resolved to shake off this tiresome obsession for Daphne.

He was leaving London for a month on business. These periodic auditing jobs, during which he stayed in second-rate hotels in the Midlands, were always pretty dreary, and to spend the time in falling
out of love as well would make this one even drearier than usual, but it was a favourable opportunity and he determined to take it. Not that he contemplated abandoning Daphne: that, he told himself, was quite unnecessary. He had, in the end, found it necessary to keep away from Joan, but his love for Joan was something quite different from his love for Daphne. He would see Daphne as usual when he got back, and they would write to one another, of course, while he was away, but he would resolutely choke off these tiresome sentimental feelings about her. It was a matter of habit: he would set himself, during this month of absence, to give up the habit of being in love with Daphne, just as, he told himself without much conviction, one might give up the habit of cigarette-smoking. What was the good of going on? She herself had urged him to cure himself; she had assured him that she really wanted him to. He was only making himself miserable by persisting, and if he allowed himself to drift further he would be more miserable still.

And so, from the moment he left London, he began sternly to practise his discipline. It was made easier for him by the fact that he was kept late at work, as always on these tours. He seldom got back to his hotel before half-past eight, and then, after a late supper, he plunged into a novel until bedtime. All thoughts of Daphne, except when he received her letters and answered them, were sternly suppressed. Meanwhile, on Daphne's side, the little joke was kept going. Her letters came regularly every other
day—short, amusing little letters which were his one pleasure in the drab life he was leading. Each had its comic reference to his “ailment,” his “regrettable infirmity,” his “poor heart disease.” Eric, in his replies, said nothing of his state, and at last, a fortnight after their parting, her reference became more pointed. “I do hope,” she wrote, “that the little indisposition is benefiting by the change of air.” To this Eric replied: “Thanks for kind enquiries after my health. The indisposition is much better. Seriously, you'll be glad to hear that I am determined to come home cured.”

For nearly a week he received no reply. Then she wrote: “You're rather an old turncoat, aren't you, Eric? Just when I was beginning to feel really touched by your constancy, you calmly write and assure me that your feelings have altered.”

Eric sat at his breakfast with the letter spread out before him. A strong, full tide of satisfaction flowed through him. It seemed to fill not only his mind but his body, to spread like a renewal of health through every nerve and muscle and vein. The drab hotel dining-room had become all at once a charming place. He had come down to breakfast with little appetite, but now he was gloriously hungry. He gulped down his tea and poured out another cup, took another roll and helped himself to more marmalade. How many more days? Six! And then he would be returning to London. They would dine together the same night. He hoped to God Juliet would be out with her young man that evening, so
that they could eat at the flat. He finished his breakfast and hurried off to write her a quick note before he went out to work. “So glad,” he wrote, “to hear you were so sorry to hear I was so well. But don't worry: a severe relapse has set in.” That was just the sort of letter that would appeal to Daphne. Six days! It was a long time. How would he have the patience to get through it? But he was happy now, the days of dreary self-denial were over; he felt as if he had been restored to life. He read Daphne's letter over and over in the course of the day. It made him no promise, but it stated clearly enough that she no longer wanted him to check his love for her, that she was beginning to feel really touched. That was good enough. Yes, he had been right before when he had believed her eyes rather than her words.

When the day of return came at last, he half hoped, though the arrangement was that he should go straight to her flat, that he would find her waiting on the platform at Euston. But that was expecting too much: she was not there. But when he reached the flat he found that she had been preparing a marvellous supper. The moment he had touched the bell, the door had flown open and the welcome she gave him was as gleeful as ever. He was not surprised that she made no reference to her letter or his reply.

“By the by,” she said as they sat down to supper, “I'm going away for the week-end.”

His face fell. “This week-end? But that's tomorrow.”

She nodded.

“Where to?”

“To Lannery. To your aunt's.”

His face lit up again. “Good! I'll come too.”

“But have you been invited?”

“I'm never invited,” he said; “I go when I like. I just send Aunt Emily a post-card or a wire. What time could you start? Twelve-thirty? I'll drive you down, of course, and we'll have lunch on the way, and tea on the way, and get there in time for dinner.”

It had been settled that, to save time, Eric should not call for Daphne at her flat, but that they should meet at the garage where he kept his car. But when Eric arrived, punctually at half-past twelve, Daphne was not there. When he had waited for half an hour he rang up her flat. It was Juliet who replied. Yes, Daphne was there: she had just come in.

“Just come in?” he said.

“Yes, she started to meet you and then came back. She says she doesn't want to go.”

Eric felt himself turn suddenly cold. “Doesn't want to go? Is anything wrong?”

“I think she's just being rather silly,” came the reply.

Eric was trembling with agitation. “I'll drive round,” he said with sudden decision. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

As he drove to the flat his mind seethed with disquieting conjectures. What had happened? Had Roy appeared on the scene again? It must be that: what else could it be? He ran up the stairs and rang
the bell, sick with apprehension. The door was opened almost immediately by Daphne, hatted, coated, smiling, with a small suit-case in her hand. He gaped at her incredulously. “Then you're coming?” he stammered.

“Yes,” she said. “Come along; it must be horribly late”; and she ran past him and down the stairs, leaving him to shut the door. In a moment they were in the car and had started.

“But what on earth occurred, Daphne?” he asked, as they waíted for a traffic signal.

She knit her brows. “I felt, you know . . .” she began. Then she abandoned the attempt. “I can't explain. Something just came over me.”

That was all the explanation she ever gave. Whatever it had been, it was gone, it seemed, for she was as lively as ever. They had sandwiches and a glass of sherry as soon as they had got clear of London, and then stopped for tea at a pleasant little hotel when they were already more than half-way on their journey. The small lounge was empty: its bright fire was very welcome after the chill of the early spring afternoon, and they lingered on after their tea was finished, chattering, and smoking cigarettes. It seemed to Eric, after those minutes of brief but horrible foreboding in the morning, that Daphne had been miraculously restored to him. He was in a mood of happy irresponsibility and he was in no hurry to reach Lannery. Ah! if only they could stay where they were. How much more delightful that would be! Daphne, as if in answer to his thoughts,

asked if they ought not to be getting on. But why shouldn't they stay there? Would she, he wondered. His heart began to beat thickly, but he controlled his emotion and replied: “Getting on? I should say
not.”

“But isn't it getting late?”

“Yes,” he said, “and chilly. Wouldn't it be much nicer to stay here?”

She was genuinely surprised. “And not go to Lannery?”

“Well,” he said, “have engine trouble and be delayed till tomorrow?”

She examined his face with shining eyes. “Eric,” she said, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“Of course I am,” he replied in a tone that hovered between jest and earnest.

Daphne stood up and went towards the door. “Come along,” she said, “or we shall be late.”

He hurried after her, flushed and excited. “But, Daphne! Wait! Listen!”

She opened the door. “We haven't paid, remember! I'll wait for you in the car.”

An hour later they drew up at the Drydens' front door. “There they are, across the lawn,” said Daphne. “There are several of them. I see your aunt, and there's that dry old stick, Mr. What's-hisname, the one Mrs. Dryden calls George.”

“Elsdon? Good!” said Eric. “I'm glad he's here.”

They left the car at the front door and crossed the grass to join the group.

At eleven o'clock the elders made a move for bed and Joan went with them. When the rest had dispersed at the top of the stairs, Mrs. Dryden went with Joan to her room. “You're not looking at all well, my dear child,” she said when she had shut the door. “Can I do anything for you?”

Joan hesitated with downcast eyes. She seemed to be on the point of saying something and then to decide not to. “No, thank you, Mrs. Dryden. It's only that I'm . . .” Her lips trembled so that she could not finish.

“You're unhappy,” said Mrs. Dryden, putting an arm round the girl's shoulders.

Joan did not speak and Mrs. Dryden did not press her to do so. “Try to have a good sleep,” she said, “and remember that whenever you feel I can be of any help you must come to me.”

Joan's eyes filled with tears. “You're very kind,” she said. “I've been wanting to talk to you, but it's so hard to begin. Besides, isn't it too late?”

“Not for me, my dear,” said Mrs. Dryden. “If you would like to talk, don't let us bother about the
time. We'll settle ourselves on this sofa, here, and you shall tell me what the trouble is.”

“It's about Norman,” Joan began. “When I said he was prevented from coming, it wasn't quite true. I didn't tell him that he was invited. I wanted to come alone and have a talk with you.” Her lip trembled. “I've been very unhappy for a long time.”

Mrs. Dryden laid her hand on Joan's arm. “You ought to have come to me before. I shall be only too glad if I can be of any help. We old people, you know, feel so terribly useless.”

“I've wanted to, for months and months,” said Joan, “but I felt, somehow, that it wouldn't be quite fair to Norman. You see, it's partly my fault. I'm not the sort of wife he needs.”

“And what sort of wife does he need?” asked Mrs. Dryden a little grimly.

“He finds it dull at home. He's very sociable, you see. He likes to have people to dinner and go out to dinners and theatres and parties, and . . .”

“And you don't?”

“Not always. I like to be alone sometimes—alone with him, I mean.” She sighed wearily. “I often wish we had been poorer when we married: then it would have seemed natural to him to stay at home. He would have liked it, perhaps. But from the first we hardly ever had an evening alone together, and during the day, of course, he's at the office and I see nothing of him.” She raised tired eyes to Mrs. Dryden's. “I tried at first to ... to adapt myself, but I couldn't. It wore me out. And yet I'm not
unsociable, you know. I like meeting people: I've always loved my visits to you here, however many people there were. But all his friends are so terribly cheerful; not just happily cheerful, but ... I don't know ... they seem to be driving themselves on all the time. It made me feel that life was so terribly hollow and unreal, and our own life—Norman's and mine ... But we never even had the chance of starting a life of our own: there wasn't time. I used to try to persuade him to have an evening at home, and at first he would agree, but something almost always turned up to prevent it. He would come home, for instance, saying that he had met a friend who had insisted on our going round after dinner. When I asked him if he couldn't have refused, he was surprised. ‘But we're
doing
nothing,' he would say, ‘so why should I refuse? You can't just say you want to stay at home. That would sound ridiculous.' But sometimes I had to stay at home; I simply couldn't face another feverish evening; and then he would go alone. At first he was annoyed when I refused: then he began to take it for granted. ‘I suppose there's no hope of your coming,' he would say, and yet, when I did agree to go, he didn't seem pleased, and that made me feel that he would rather go without me. Of course it
was
partly my fault. I couldn't like his friends, try as I would. They weren't my sort and I saw clearly enough that they didn't like me. It's terrible, you know,” said the poor girl, “to spend evening after evening with people who don't like you. It was a relief, in a way, when they
gave up inviting me and began to ask Norman alone, but even then they came to our flat, of course. We generally had a party of some sort at least three times a week. If only I had had friends of my own in London it might have been different. Norman is so friendly and easy-going that I am sure he would have accepted my friends and even liked them as well as his own, and then I shouldn't have felt so out of it. But, you see, I had never lived in London till we married, so I had no friends of my own there except Cynthia and Edna, and that, of course, was rather a handicap. And then, some months ago, he began to ring me up from his office to tell me that they were working overtime or that he had a business engagement for dinner.”