Catherine was safe at Chickover; for that much she was thankful. But,
apart from safety, what a strange, different place it now seemed to her.
Each night throughout that week as she undressed, she had a fresh set of
reflections to occupy her mind. It was a queer week. It had an
atmosphere of its own. In this developing dampness--for so at last it
presented itself to her imagination--she felt as if her wings, supposing
she had any, hung more and more stiffly at her side. As the solemn days
trudged one by one heavily past she had a curious sensation of ebbing
vitality. Life was going out of her. Mists were closing in on her. The
house was so quiet that it made her feel deaf. After dark there were so
few lights that it made her feel blind. Oh yes, she was safe,--safe from
that mad young man; but there were other things here--strange,
uncomfortable things. There was this depressing feeling of a slow,
creeping, choking, wet fog gradually enveloping her.
On Monday night as she undressed she didn’t think like this, she hadn’t
got as far. All she did on Monday night was to go over the events of the
day with mild wonder. She had said a great many prayers that day; for
not only had there been family prayers before breakfast and the last
thing at night, but Stephen had asked her after tea whether she
wouldn’t like to go with him to evening service.
A host’s suggestions are commands. When he invites, one must needs
accept. Indeed, she had accepted with the propitiatory alacrity common
in guests when their hosts invite, aware that he was doing his best,
with the means at his disposal, to entertain her, and anxious to show
herself grateful. Where other hosts take their guests to look at ruins,
or similar unusual sights, Stephen took his to church.
‘Oh--delightful,’ she had exclaimed on his proposing it; and only
afterwards reflected that this was perhaps not quite the right word.
Virginia didn’t go with them, because so much kneeling and standing
mightn’t be good for her, and she and Stephen set out after tea in the
windy dusk by themselves, Stephen carrying the lantern that would be lit
for their walk home in the dark. Catherine, accordingly, had had two
<i>tête-à-tête</i> talks with Stephen that day, but as she was walking rather
fast during them, and there was a high wind into the bargain, flicking
her blood, she had had no trouble in keeping awake. Also there was the
hope of the quiet relaxing in church at the end, with no need to make
any effort for a while, to support her.
But there in the pew that used to be hers, sitting in it established and
spread out, was Stephen’s mother; and Stephen’s mother was of those who
are articulate in church, who like to set an example of distinctness in
prayer and praise, and look round at people who merely mumble.
Catherine, who was a mumbler, had had to speak up and sing up. There was
no help for it. One of Mrs. Colquhoun’s looks was enough, and she found
herself docilely doing, as she so often in life had found herself
docilely doing, what was expected of her.
Afterwards she and Mrs. Colquhoun had waited together in the porch for
Stephen to come out of his vestry, the while exchanging pleasant speech,
and then they had all three gone on together to a meeting in the
schoolroom--Catherine hadn’t known there was to be a meeting as well as
the service--at which Stephen was giving an address.
‘Would you care to come round to the schoolroom?’ he had asked her on
joining his two mothers in the porch, buttoning his coat as he spoke,
for it was flapping wildly in the wind. ‘I am giving an address.’
At this point Catherine had felt a little overwhelmed by his
hospitality; but, unable to refuse, had continued to accept.
He gave an informing address. She hadn’t known till she heard it that
they were at the beginning of the week before the week that ends in
Easter, the busiest fortnight of the clerical year, and she now
discovered that there were to be daily morning and evening services,
several sermons, and many meetings, between that day and the following
Sunday.
Would she have to come to them all? she asked herself, as she sat with
Mrs. Colquhoun, after having been stopped several times on her way to
her seat by old friends in the parish, people she had known for years;
and always <i>tête-à-tête</i> with Stephen during the walk there and back,
and always under Mrs. Colquhoun’s supervision in the pew?
Up on the platform, in front of an enormous blackboard, stood Stephen,
giving his address. He told his parishioners they were entering the
very most solemn time of the whole year, and exceptional opportunities
were being offered of observing it. He read out a list of the
opportunities, and ended by exhorting those present to love one another
and, during this holy season, to watch without ceasing and pray. Yes,
she would have to come to them all. A guest is a helpless creature; a
mother-in-law guest is a very helpless creature; an uninvited
mother-in-law guest is a thing bound hand and foot.
Soberly, when the meeting was over, she walked out of the stuffy
schoolroom with its smell of slates, into the great wind-swept cleanness
of the night. It was nearly half-past seven, and she and Stephen were
unable therefore to accept Mrs. Colquhoun’s invitation to go into the
Rectory and rest. She had had, however, to promise to look in the next
day but one--‘That is, dear Mrs. Cumfrit,’ Mrs. Colquhoun had said,
suggesting the next day but one as a test of the length of her visit,
‘if you will still be here. You will? Delightful.’
As she undressed on Monday night and thought of her day, her feeling,
though she regarded its contents since Stephen’s arrival with surprise,
was still that she was thankful to be there. It was sweet to be with
Virginia, sweet and natural to be able, in moments of stress, to take
refuge in her old home, in her Virginia’s home. And Stephen, though he
took his duties as host too seriously, was such a good man; and Virginia
was evidently supremely happy in her undemonstrative little way. If only
she could manage, when Stephen talked, to keep awake better.... What was
it about him, whom she so much respected, that sent her to sleep? But
really, after the silliness of her recent experiences in London, it was
like getting into a bath to come into this pure place--a big, cool,
clean, peaceful bath.
Thus did Catherine think on Monday night in her bedroom; and, while she
was doing so, Stephen was saying to Virginia: ‘What, my love, makes your
mother so drowsy? This afternoon--and again this evening----’
‘Don’t people always get drowsy when they get old?’ Virginia asked in
reply.
‘Ah,’ said Stephen thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I suppose they do.’ Then,
remembering that Catherine was a year younger than himself, he added,
‘Women, of course, age more rapidly than men. A man your mother’s age
would still be----’
‘A boy,’ interrupted Virginia, laying her face against his.
‘Well, not quite,’ said Stephen smiling, ‘but certainly in the prime of
life.’
‘Of course,’ said Virginia, rubbing her cheek softly up and down. ‘A boy
in the prime of life.’
‘Yes--had he had the happiness of marrying you.’
‘Darling.’
‘My blessed child.’
On Tuesday evening, once more in her room preparing for bed, with
another day past and over to reflect upon, her thoughts were different,
or, rather, they were maturing. She continued to feel that Virginia’s
home was her natural refuge, and she still told herself she was glad she
was in it, but she had begun to be aware of awkwardnesses. Little ones.
Perhaps inseparable from the situation.
If Christopher had forced her down to Chickover in a year’s time instead
of now, these awkwardnesses would probably not have occurred. But the
servants, indoors and out, hadn’t had time to forget her, and they
showed a flattering but embarrassing pleasure at her reappearance. She
had had no idea that they had liked her as much as all that. She
couldn’t imagine why they should. It was awkward, because they conveyed,
most unfortunately, by their manner that they still looked upon her as
their real mistress. This was very silly and tiresome of them. She must
draw into her shell. But naturally on coming across a familiar face she
had been pleased, and had greeted it amiably, for of those who were
still there she knew all the history, and for years they had looked
after her, and she them. Naturally on meeting them she had inquired
after their family affairs. Their response, however, had been too warm.
It amounted to a criticism of the new <i>régime</i>.
Out in the garden, for instance, the gardeners that day had seemed to
come and garden wherever she happened to be walking, and then of
course--how natural it all was--she had talked to them of the last
autumn bulbs which had been planted under her directions, and had gone
round with them looking at the results, at the crocuses in full glory,
the daffodils beginning their beauty, and the tulips still stuck neatly
in their buds; and she had become absorbed, as people who are interested
in such things do become absorbed, in the conversation.
Stephen, passing through on his way to some work in the parish, had
found her like this, poring over a border, deep in talk with the head
gardener, and hadn’t liked it. She saw by his face he hadn’t liked it.
He had merely raised his hat and gone by without a word. She must be
cooler to the gardeners. But as though it mattered--as though it
mattered. <i>Little children, love one another....</i> She sighed as she
thought what a very happy world it would be if they really did.
Then there was Ellen, the under-housemaid, now promoted to be head, and
one of the few indoor servants left. In the old days a model of reserve,
Ellen now positively burst with talk. She was always hovering round her,
always bringing her hot water, and clean towels, and more
flowers--watching for her to come upstairs, wanting to know what she
could do next. That morning, when she came back from church, Ellen was
there in her room poking the fire into a blaze, and had insisted that
her stockings must be damp after the muddy walk, and had knelt down and
taken them off.
Catherine, amused at her care for her, had said, ‘Ellen, I believe you
quite like me.’
And Ellen, turning red, had exclaimed, ‘Oh, ma’am!’
The excessive devotion in her voice was another criticism of the
existing <i>régime</i>. It was a warning to Catherine that she must not
encourage this. Servants were like children--the past was always rosy to
them, what they had had was always so much better than what they were
having. She must furbish up her tact, and steer a little more carefully
among these unexpected shallows. She sighed faintly. Tact was so tiring.
Still, she was thankful, she told herself, to be there.
And while she was thinking this, Stephen was saying to Virginia: ‘We
must make allowances.’
He had just been describing what he had seen in the garden. ‘No one,’ he
had finished thoughtfully--‘no one would have supposed, from their
general appearance and expression, that your mother was not the mistress
and Burroughs her servant. Burroughs, indeed, might easily have been
mistaken for a particularly devoted servant. I was sorry, my darling,
because of you. I was, I confess, jealous on my Virginia’s behalf.’
‘And there’s Ellen, too,’ said Virginia, her brow puckered. ‘She’s
always in mother’s room.’
At this fresh example of injudiciousness Stephen was silent. He couldn’t
help thinking that perfect tact would have avoided, especially under the
peculiar and delicate circumstances, long and frequent conversations
with some one else’s servants. He didn’t say so to Virginia, for had he
not often, and with sincerity, praised precisely this in his
mother-in-law, her perfect tact? She appeared after all not to possess
it in quite the quantity he had believed, but that was no reason for
hurting his Virginia’s feelings by pointing it out. Virginia loved her
mother; and perhaps the lapse was temporary.
‘We must make allowances,’ he repeated presently.
‘Yes,’ said Virginia, who would have given much not to have been put by
her mother in a position in which allowances had to be made. After
having been so proud and happy in the knowledge that Stephen considered
her mother flawless as a mother-in-law, was it not hard?
On Wednesday night, when Catherine went to bed, her reflections were
definitely darker. This was the day she had, at Mrs. Colquhoun’s
invitation, looked in at the Rectory after lunch, bearing with her a
message from Virginia to the effect that she hoped her mother-in-law
would come back with her mother to tea.
Mrs. Colquhoun had refused.
‘No, no, dear Mrs. Cumfrit,’ she had said. ‘We must take care of our
little girl. She mustn’t be overtired. Too many people to pour out for
aren’t at all good for her just now.’
‘But there wouldn’t be anybody but us,’ Catherine had said. ‘And
Virginia says she hasn’t seen you for ages.’
‘Yes. Not since the day you arrived. It does seem a long while to me
too, but believe me it wouldn’t be fair to the child to have all of us
there at once.’
She had then busily talked of other matters, entertaining her visitor
with tales of her simple but full life, explaining how she didn’t know,
owing to never being idle a moment, what loneliness meant, and couldn’t
understand why women should ever want to be anywhere but in their own
homes.
‘At our age one wants just one’s own home, doesn’t one, dear Mrs.
Cumfrit. However small it is, however modest, it is <i>home</i>. Don’t you
too feel how, as one gets older, one’s own little daily round, one’s own
little common task, gone cheerfully, done thoroughly, become more and
more satisfying and beautiful?’
Catherine said she did.
Mrs. Colquhoun begged her to take some refreshment after her walk,
declaring that after a certain age it was one’s duty not to overtax the
body.
‘We grandmothers----’ she said, smiling.
Catherine endeavoured to respond to Mrs. Colquhoun’s playfulness, by
more on the same lines of her own.
‘Oh, but we mustn’t count our grandchildren before they’re hatched,’ she
had said with answering smiles.
And Mrs. Colquhoun had seemed a little shocked at that. The word
hatched, perhaps ... in connection with Stephen’s child.
‘Dear Mrs. Cumfrit----’ she had murmured, in the tone of one
overlooking a lapse.
But it wasn’t her visit to Mrs. Colquhoun that was making her undress so
thoughtfully on Wednesday night, but the fact, most disagreeable to have
to admit, that she was tired of Stephen. From the beginning of the
<i>tête-à-tête</i> walks she had been afraid that presently she might get a
little tired of him, and now, after the tenth of them, the thing she
feared had happened.
This dejected her, for it was her earnest wish not to get tired of
Stephen. He was her Virginia’s loved husband, he was her host; and she
wished to feel nothing towards him but the warmest affectionate
interest. If she saw less of him, she reflected as she slowly, and with
the movements of fatigue, got ready for bed, it would be easier. Wisdom
dictated that Stephen should be eked out; but how could one eke out a
host so persistent in doing his duty? It was difficult. It was very,
very difficult.
She sat a long time pensive by the fire, wondering how she was going to
bear any more of these walks to and from church. Good to have a refuge,
but sometimes its price....
And while she was sitting thus, Stephen in their bedroom was saying to
Virginia: ‘I miss our mother.’
‘Which one?’ asked Virginia, not at first quite following.
‘Ours,’ said Stephen. ‘She hasn’t been here since yours arrived. Have
you noticed that, darling?’
‘Indeed I have. And I miss her very much, too. I asked her to come to
tea this afternoon, but she didn’t. The message mother brought back
wasn’t very clear, I thought.’
There was a pause. Then Stephen said: ‘She is full of tact.’
‘Which one?’ asked Virginia again, who felt--and how mournfully--that he
could no longer mean her mother, but tried to hope he did.
‘Ours,’ said Stephen, stroking Virginia’s hair; and presently added, ‘We
must make allowances.’
Virginia sighed.
On Thursday night, when Catherine was once more going to bed, she sat
for a long while without undressing, staring into the fire. She was too
tired to undress. Her mind was as tired as her body. Her spirits were
low. For, while the night before she had been facing the fact that she
was tired of Stephen, to-night she was facing the much worse fact that
he was tired of her. She hadn’t been able to help noticing it. It had
become obvious on their twelfth walk; and it had added immensely to her
struggles.
For what can one say to somebody who, one feels in one’s bones, is tired
of one? How difficult, in such a case, is conversation. It had been
difficult enough before, but that day, on making her discovery, it had
become as good as impossible. Yet there were the conventions; and for
two grown-up people to walk together and not speak was absurd. They
simply had to. And as Catherine was more practised than Stephen in easy
talk, it was she who, struggling, had had to do more and more of it
until, as he grew ever dumber, she had to do it all.
In the house, too, the same thing had happened. The meals had been
almost monologues--Catherine’s--for the honest Virginia was incapable of
talking if she had nothing she wished to say, or, rather, nothing she
considered desirable should be said. They would have sat at the table in
dead silence but for Catherine’s efforts. As it was, she only succeeded
in extracting occasional words, mostly single, from the other two.
Well, it was evident that in ordinary cases, having tired one’s host,
one would go away. But was this quite an ordinary case? She couldn’t
think so. She couldn’t help remembering, though it was a thing she never
thought of, that she had made way without difficulty for Stephen to come
and live in this very house, giving him everything--why, with both hands
giving him everything--and she couldn’t help feeling that to be allowed
to stay in it for a few days, or even weeks, wasn’t so very much to want
of him. Not that he didn’t allow her to stay in it; he was still
assiduous in all politenesses, opening doors, and lighting candles, and
so on. It was only that she knew he was tired of her; tired to the point
of no longer being able to speak when she was there.
Catherine wasn’t very vain, but what vanity she had was ruffled. She
tried, however, to be fair. She had been tired of Stephen first, and had
thought it natural. Now that he, in his turn, was tired of her, why
should she mind? She did, however, mind. She had taken such pains to be
agreeable. She had walked backwards and forwards to church so
assiduously--walked miles and miles, if one counted all the times up.
And she had really tried very hard to talk on subjects that interested
him,--the parish, the plans, the services, even adventuring into the
region of religion. Why should he be tired of her? Why had this blight
descended on him? Why had he become speechless? Why?
As she sat by her fire on Thursday night she felt curiously down and
lonely. Stephen and Virginia, she had become conscious during the week,
were very much one, and a fear stole into her heart, a small flicker of
fear, gone as soon as come, that perhaps they were one too in this, and
that Virginia too might be....
No, she turned her head away and wouldn’t even look in the direction of
such a fear. But, sitting there in the night, with the big house with
all its passages and empty rooms on the other side of her door dark and
silent, the feeling came upon her that she was a ghost injudiciously
wandered back to its old haunts, to find, what it might have known, that
it no longer had part nor lot in them.
From this feeling too she turned away, and impatiently, for it was a
shame to feel like that when there was Virginia.
And while she sat looking at the fire, her hands hanging over the sides
of the chair, too weary to go to bed, Stephen in their room said to
Virginia: ‘What a very blessed thing it is, my darling, that each day
has to end, and that then there is night.’
And Virginia said, ‘Oh, Stephen--isn’t it!’