“Yes, I suppose I am happy. I have enough to live on, I have my
friends—I travel about, and see places and people.”
“Have you ever regretted that you didn’t marry Charles?”
“Regretted! Good Lord, no! The very opposite. I didn’t love him in that
way, and we’d both have been wretched. Poor old dear! I’m glad I’d
strength enough to spare him that, though I spared him nothing else....”
“Do you ever see him now?”
“Sometimes. He’s married, you know—a very young thing, who doesn’t like
me too much. I didn’t expect him to marry, but I believe he’s happy. I
hear that Julian is happy, too—he has two little boys and a baby girl.
So I haven’t really done either of my men much harm.”
“No—it’s you who’ve suffered the harm. Why haven’t you married again,
Mary? I’ve always expected you to.”
Her sister shook her head.
“I can’t—there’s something in me lacking for that. I can’t explain, and
it sounds an extraordinary thing to say, but I feel as if I’d left it
with Julian. I don’t mean that I still love him or any nonsense like
that—I hadn’t loved him for a year before I left him ... but somehow one
doesn’t get rid of a husband as easily as the divorce-courts and the
newspapers seem to suppose.”
“If you’d married again you’d have forgotten Julian.”
“No, I shouldn’t, and I should have made another man unhappy—because of
what’s lacking in me. I know there are lots of women who can go from the
church to the divorce court and from the divorce court to the
registrar’s, and leave nothing behind them in any of these places. But
I’m not like that—I left my love with Julian and my pride with Charles.
Sometimes I feel that if only I’d had the strength to stick to Julian a
little longer, we’d have weathered things through—I’d have got back what
I’d lost, and all this wouldn’t have happened. But it’s waste of time to
think of that now.... Don’t worry about me, Jen. I’m happy in my own
way—though it may not be yours, or many women’s, for that matter. I’ve
just managed to be strong enough not to spoil Charles’s life—not to drag
him down—so I’ve got one good memory.... And I’m free—that means more to
me than perhaps you can realise—and I enjoy life as a spectator. I’ve
suffered enough as an actor on the stage, and now I’m just beginning to
feel comfortable in the stalls.”
“Don’t,” said Jenny.
She could not bear any more—this was worse than Gervase. To have spent
all the treasure of life on dust and wind was even worse than to give up
that treasure unspent. She found the tears running out of her eyes as
she put her arms round Mary—softness of furs and sweetness of violets,
and in the midst of them a sister who was half doll and half ghost.
§ 15
Towards the end of March, Peter’s daughter was born. He bore the
disappointment better than anyone had expected. But lately it had not
seemed to him to matter very much whether the child were a boy or a
girl. His horizons were closing in upon him—they had even shut out his
own inheritance, with the new powers and freedoms it would bring, and he
could not look so far ahead as the prospects of his heir. Even Gervase’s
defection had not stirred him long. In his first shock of outrage and
disgust he had motored over to Thunders Abbey and tried to persuade his
brother to come back with him, but finding him obdurate, his emotions
had collapsed into a contempt which was queerly mixed with envy. If
Gervase preferred these debased states of life—first in a garage and
then in a monastery—to the decencies of his position as an Alard, then
let him have what he wanted. It was something to know what one wanted
and take it unafraid. Gervase might be a traitor, but he was not a fool.
So Peter heard unmoved Dr. Mount’s announcement that a little girl had
been born, and only a trifle less unmoved received the woolly bundle of
his little daughter into his arms. He did not, as some men, awake to a
new sense of fatherhood at the touch of his first-born. His failure as a
husband seemed to affect him as a father. He did not ask himself what he
would have felt if the child had been a boy. The only question in his
heart was what he would have felt if it had been Stella’s child ... but
that was a useless question.
Vera was secretly glad to have a girl. She had always wanted a daughter,
and lately, as her mind had detached itself more and more from her
husband’s wishes, the want had become anxious. A boy she always pictured
as a second Peter—heavy, obstinate, his heart set on things she did not
care about—but a girl would be a companion, and her own. There would be,
she felt, some chance of her growing up like her mother and sharing her
mother’s adventures in intellect and beauty; also, in that new
florescence of her race which had accompanied her pregnancy, she felt
that her daughter would be truly a daughter of Abraham, whereas her son
would be born into a public-school tradition and the heirship of a big
estate—a child of the Goyim. So she stretched out her arms gladly when
the baby girl was put into them, and as she looked down into the
mysterious, ancient little face of the newborn, her heart leapt with joy
and pride to see the tokens of her blood already discernible, not so
much in its later Hebraic characteristics as in some general oriental
quality, older than Abraham.
“There’s nothing of the Goy about her, is there?” she said to her
mother, who had come to be with her in her confinement.
“No, indeed, there’s not. She takes after us. It’s curious how they
nearly always do in a mixed marriage.”
But, in the midst of her own gratification, Vera was glad to find that
her husband was not bitterly disappointed. Poor old Peter! He had been
estranged from her, she knew, and had wanted to marry the Mount woman,
but she could forgive him in the triumph of her recovery. She had the
child, and was rapidly getting well. When she was herself again she
would win him back. She knew how ... it never failed.
In her presence Peter made his disappointment seem even less than it
really was. The sight of her lying there in loveliness both opulent and
exhausted—knowing vaguely what she had suffered and accepted—stirred in
him a strange, admiring pity which forbade an unthankful word. He bore
no resentment against her now. It was not her fault that she stood
between him and Stella. Probably he had treated her badly—she might have
suffered nearly as much as he.... And he was glad she had her reward.
But even when looking tenderly down on her, speaking tenderly to her, he
could not picture himself going on with their marriage again. When his
family and acquaintance tried to cheer him up for the disappointment of
having a girl, they always said, “But it’s only the first, Peter...”
“The first never really matters....” and all the time he was feeling
that there could not be another. It was a preposterous feeling, he knew,
for, after Gervase’s defection, it was imperative that he should have an
heir; and men are not like women in these things. He had never had
Stella—he could never have Stella. Why should he feel this aversion from
doing his duty as a husband and an Alard? He did not know—but he felt
it, almost to shrinking. He felt that his marriage was at an end—broken
and yet binding—for Stella could not take him after divorce any more
than she could take him without it. And everyone said “It’s only the
first”.... “It’s just as well for the girl to come first—to be the
oldest.”...
A few days after the baby’s birth Vera had a letter from Jenny,
congratulating her and sending her love to Peter. She did not ask her
brother to come over and see her, but Peter guessed what was behind her
message. In the loneliness of those first days when the house seemed
full of women and affairs from which he was shut out, he had a longing
to go over to Fourhouses, and see Jenny and be friends again. But he was
held back, partly by a feeling of awkwardness, a sense of the
explanations and reproaches his visit would involve, partly by a
remaining stiffness against her treachery, and most of all by a dull
stirring sense of envy—the same as, though more accountable than, the
envy he had felt for Gervase. Here again was someone who knew what she
wanted and had got it, whom the family had not bound fast and swallowed
up—and the worst of it all was that, unlike Gervase, she had got what
Peter wanted, too. In vain he told himself that she could never be happy
with Godfrey, could never adapt herself to the life she had chosen, that
her plunge would be no more justified than his withdrawal. He dared not
go near Fourhouses all the same.
§ 16
The hopes on which the baby’s birth seemed to have fallen heaviest were
Sir John’s. The old man had had none of Peter’s uncertainty or anxiety
before the event—he had felt sure the child would be a boy. The news
that it was a girl had been a terrible shock, and though it had not, as
was feared at first, brought on another seizure, it was soon seen to
have increased the nervous unsteadiness of his constitution. He alone,
of all the Alards, did not join in the cry of “This is the first.” First
or last, it was probably the only grandchild he would live to see, and
he expressed his disappointment with the candid selfishness of old age.
“Here have I been waiting for a boy—counting on a boy—and it’s a girl
after all. What good’s a girl to us? We’ve got plenty of girls—or those
who were once girls”—and he glared at Doris—“all they do is either to
disgrace us in the divorce-courts, marry the sweep, or turn into
bad-tempered old maids. We’ve got enough girls. It’s a boy we want—with
that Gervase gone off to be a monk. I’ve been badly served by my
children.”
“But, Father, it wasn’t Peter’s fault,” urged Doris unskilfully.
“Wasn’t it, Ma’am? You _do_ know a lot—more than an unmarried woman
ought to know about such things. I believe you even know that the baby
wasn’t found under a gooseberry bush.”
“Oh, Father, don’t talk in such a dreadful way—He’s really getting quite
awful,” she said as she let Peter out—“I sometimes think there’s
something wrong with his brain.”
“There probably is,” said Peter.
Indeed, of late Sir John had grown alarmingly eccentric. His love of
rule had passed beyond the administration of his estate, and showed
itself in a dozen ways of petty dominion. He seemed resolved to avenge
his authority over the three rebellious children on the two who had
remained obedient. Not only did he put up a forest of forbidding notices
over his estate, to keep out the general public, which had hitherto had
free entrance to most of his fields and woods, but he forbade his own
children to use certain paths. He would not let Peter come by the field
way from Starvecrow, but insisted on his going round by the road. He
would stop Doris on the threshold of an afternoon’s calling, and compel
her to sit and read to him, by choice books which he calculated to
offend her old-maidish susceptibilities. He found Doris better game than
Peter, for whereas the son remained silent under his kicks, Doris never
failed to give him all the fun he wanted in the way of protests,
arguments, laments and tears. But from both he obtained obedience,
through their dread of exciting him and bringing on another stroke.
His warfare was less open with his wife. He attacked her indirectly
through the servants, who were always giving notice owing to his
intimidation. Even Wills had once distantly informed his mistress that
since Sir John did not seem to appreciate his services he might soon
have to consider the advisability of transferring them elsewhere.
Appleby had actually given notice, after a mysterious motor drive, from
which Sir John had returned on foot—but had been persuaded by Peter to
reconsider it and stay on. The female staff was in a state of perpetual
motion. No cook would stand her master’s comments on her performances,
no housemaid endure his constant bullying and bell-ringing. He had
perversely moved into a top-floor bedroom, so as to be out of reach of
his wife and Speller, who disliked stairs. Here he would make tea at
five o’clock every morning with water from his hot-water bottle boiled
up on a spirit lamp. This procedure filled Lady Alard with a peculiar
horror when she discovered it; indeed, from her remarks it would appear
that all her husband’s other misdoings were negligible in comparison.
§ 17
A few days before Easter, Peter came suddenly to Fourhouses. He came
early in the afternoon, and gave no explanation either of his coming or
of his staying away. Jenny was upstairs, helping her mother-in-law turn
out the conjugal bedroom, when she heard the sound of hoofs in the yard.
She ran to the window, thinking it was Ben come home unexpectedly from
an errand to Wickham Farm, but had no time to be disappointed in the
rush of her surprise at seeing Peter.
“There’s Peter—my brother—come at last!” she cried to Mrs. Godfrey, and,
tearing off her dusting cap, she ran downstairs, still in her gingham
overall. She wanted to open the door to him herself.
He could not have expected her to do this, for he was staring
uninterestedly at his boots. Her gingham skirts evidently suggested a
servant to him, for he lifted his eyes slowly, then seemed surprised to
see her standing all bright and blowzed before him.
“Jenny!”
“Hullo, Peter! So you’ve come to see me at last.”
He mumbled something about having been passing through Icklesham.
“Won’t you come in?—the man’ll take your horse. Hi! Homard—take Mr.
Alard’s horse round to the stable.”
“I can’t stop long,” said Peter awkwardly.
“But you must, after all this time—come in.”
She had meant to ask him why he had kept away so long and why he had
come now; but when she found herself alone with him in the kitchen, she
suddenly changed her mind, and decided to let things be. He probably had
no reasonable explanation to offer, and unless she meant to keep the
breach unhealed, she had better treat this visit as if there was nothing
to explain about it.
“How’s Vera?” she asked.
“She’s getting on splendidly, thanks.”
“And the baby?”
“That’s getting on too.”
“Do tell me about it—is it like her or like you?”
“It’s like her—a regular little Yid.”
“Never mind—she will probably grow up very beautiful.”
Peter mumbled inaudibly.
Jenny looked at him critically. He seemed heavier and stupider than
usual. He gave her the impression of a man worn out.
“You don’t look well.... Are you worried? I do hope you aren’t
dreadfully disappointed the baby’s a girl.”
“It doesn’t really matter.”
“Of course not. The first one never does. You’re sure to have others ...
boys.”
Peter did not answer, and Jenny felt a little annoyed with him. If this
was the way he behaved at home she was sorry for Vera. It was curious
how nervy these stolid men often were....
“How are Father and Mother?” she asked, to change the subject—“I suppose
you go up to Conster every day.”
“Twice most days. They’re not up to much—at least Father isn’t. He’s had
some pretty good shocks lately, you know. He was dreadfully upset the
baby’s being a girl—and that fool Gervase’s business was a terrible blow
for him.”
“It was a blow for me too. I did my best to put him off it, but it was
no use. My only comfort is that apparently it’ll be some time before
he’s really let in for it. He may come to his senses before then.”
“I don’t think so. He’s as obstinate as the devil.”
“What—have _you_ tried arguing with him?”
“Yes—when I heard what he’d done, I drove over to Thunders Abbey or
whatever it’s called, and did my level best to bring him back with me.
But it was all no good—you might as well try to argue with a dead owl.”
“Good Lord!—you went over to Thunders, and tried to bring him back! Poor
old Peter! But do tell me how he is, and what he’s doing. What sort of
place is it?”
“Oh a great big barrack, spoiling the country for miles round. But
they’ve got some fine land and absolutely all the latest ideas in
farming—motor traction and chemical fertilisation and all that.”
“And was Gervase working on the farm?”
“No, Brother Joseph—that’s what the fool’s called now—Brother Joseph,
when I saw him, was scrubbing out the kitchen passage on his hands and
knees like a scullery maid. A dignified occupation for an Alard!”
“Poor old Gervase, how he’d hate that! But he’ll be all the more likely
to come to his senses and give it up, especially when he’s got over his
disappointment about Stella. I feel it’s really that which was at the
bottom of it all.”
Peter did not speak for a moment. He leaned back in his wooden armchair,
staring at the fire, which was leaping ruddily into the chimney’s
cavern.
“Do you mind if I light my pipe?” he asked after a bit.
“Of course not—do. I’m glad you’re going to stay.”
He took matches and his tobacco pouch out of his pocket, and she noticed
suddenly that his hands were shaking. For the first time a dreadful
suspicion seized her. His heaviness—his nerviness—his queer, lost
manner ... was it possible, she wondered, that Peter _drank_?
“Have you heard when the Mounts are leaving?” she asked him, stifling
her thoughts.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Stella was here three days ago, and she said that they’ve at last
settled about the practice. She seemed to think they might be free to go
at the end of May.”
“Oh.”
“I expect Vera’s glad they didn’t go off in a hurry, and leave her with
a new man for the baby. Dr. Mount’s the best maternity doctor for miles
round.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
He was falling back into silence, and no remark of hers on any topic
seemed able to rouse him out of it, though she tried once or twice to
re-animate him on the subject of Gervase. He lounged opposite her in his
armchair, puffing at his pipe, and staring at the fire, now and then
painfully dragging out a “yes” or a “no.” She was beginning to feel
bored with him and to think about her work upstairs. Was this all he had
to say to her after three months’ estrangement?—an estrangement which he
had never troubled to explain. She had been weak with him—let him off
too easily—she ought to have “had things out with him” about her
marriage. She had a right to know his reasons for forgiving her just as
she had a right to know his reasons for shunning her.... He had treated
her inexplicably.
She was working herself up to wrath like this when Peter suddenly spoke
of his own accord.
“This place is like what Starvecrow used to be.”
“Used to be?—when?”
“Before Vera and I came to it—when the Greenings had it. Do you remember
the kitchen fireplace?—it was just like this.”
“Starvecrow is far grander than Fourhouses now. I’m just a plain
farmer’s wife, Peter—I’m never going to pretend to be anything else.”
“And Starvecrow was just a plain farm; but we’ve changed it into a
country house.”
“Mary’s been wanting me to do the same for Fourhouses, but I’ve told her
I’d be very sorry to. I like it best as it is.”
“So do I.”
“Then are you sorry you’ve altered Starvecrow?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s a lovely place, Peter. You’ve made a perfect little country
house out of it. I’m sure you wouldn’t be pleased to have it the
ramshackle old thing it used to be.”
“Yes, I should.”
“Well, Vera wouldn’t, anyhow. You and she are in a totally different
position from us. I’m not keeping Fourhouses as it is because I don’t
think it’s capable of improvement, but because I don’t want to put
myself outside my class and ape the county. You’re just the
opposite—you’ve got appearances to keep up; it would never do if you
lived in the funny hole Starvecrow used to be in the Greenings’ time.”
“I loved it then—it was just like this—the kitchen fire ... and the fire
in the office—it used to hum just like this—as if there was a kettle on
it. The place I’ve got now isn’t Starvecrow.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know—but it isn’t Starvecrow. I’ve spoilt Starvecrow. I’ve
changed it, I’ve spoilt it—Vera’s people have spoilt it with their
damned money. It isn’t Starvecrow. Do you remember how the orchard used
to come right up to the side wall? They’ve cut it down and changed it
into a garden. The orchard’s beyond the garden—then it doesn’t look so
much like a farm. A country house doesn’t have an orchard just outside
the drawing-room windows....”
He had left his chair, and was pacing up and down the room. His manner
seemed stranger than ever, and Jenny felt a little frightened.
“I’m glad you don’t want me to change Fourhouses,” she said
soothingly—“I must tell Mary what you’ve said.”
“But I do want you to change it,” he cried—“I can’t bear to see it as it
is—what Starvecrow used to be.”
“Don’t be silly, Peter. Starvecrow is much better now than it ever used
to be.”