There were all sorts of ways in which she might get to know. Barbara
might tell her. The two were as thick as thieves. And if the child
turned jealous and hysterical--She had never liked Elise. Or she might
tell Ralph Bevan and he might tell Fanny, or he might tell somebody who
would tell her. There were always plenty of people about who considered
it their duty to report these things.
Of course, if he threw himself on Barbara's mercy, and exacted a promise
from her not to tell, he knew she would keep it. But supposing all the
time she hadn't seen or suspected anything? Supposing her calm manner
came from a mind innocent of all seeing and suspecting? Then he would
have given himself away for nothing.
Besides, even if Barbara never said anything, there was Elise. No
knowing what Elise might do or say in her vulgar fury. She might tell
Toby or Markham, and the two might make themselves damnably unpleasant.
The story would be all over the county in no time.
And there were the servants. Supposing one of the women took it into her
head to give notice on account of "goings on?"
He couldn't live in peace so long as all or any of these things were
possible.
The only thing was to be beforehand with Barbara and Bevan and Elise and
Toby and Markham and the servants; to tell Fanny himself before any of
them could get in first. The more he thought about it the more he was
persuaded that this was the only right, the only straightforward and
manly thing to do; at the same time it occurred to him that by
suppressing a few unimportant details he could really give a very
satisfactory account of the whole affair. It would not be necessary, for
instance, to tell Fanny what his intentions had been, if indeed he had
ever had any. For, as he went again and again over the whole stupid
business, his intentions--those that related to the little house in
Cheltenham or St. John's Wood--tended to sink back into the dream state
from which they had arisen, clearing his conscience more and more from
any actual offence. He had, in fact, nothing to account for but his
attitude, the rather compromising attitude in which Barbara had found
him. And that could be very easily explained away. Fanny was not one of
those exacting, jealous women; she would be ready to accept a reasonable
explanation of anything. And you could always appease her by a little
attention.
So on Friday afternoon Mr. Waddington himself drove the car down to Wyck
Station and met Fanny on the platform. He made tea for her himself and
waited on her, moving assiduously, and smiling an affectionate yet
rather conscious smile. He was impelled to these acts spontaneously,
because of that gentleness and tenderness towards Fanny which the bare
thought of Elise was always enough to inspire him with.
Thus, by sticking close to Fanny all the evening he contrived that
Barbara should have no opportunity of saying anything to her. And in the
last hour before bed-time, when they were alone together in the
drawing-room, he began.
He closed the door carefully behind Barbara and came back to his place,
scowling like one overpowered by anxious thought. He exaggerated this
expression on purpose, so that Fanny should notice it and give him his
opening, which she did.
"Well, old thing, what are _you_ looking so glum about?"
"Do I look glum?"
"Dismal. What is it?"
He stood upright before the chinmeypiece, his conscience sustained by
this posture of rectitude.
"I'm not quite easy about Barbara," he said.
"Barbara? What on earth has _she_ been doing?"
"She's been doing nothing. It's--it's rather what she may do if you
don't stop her."
"I don't want to stop her," said Fanny, "if you're thinking of Ralph
Bevan."
"Ralph Bevan? I certainly am not thinking of him. Neither is she."
"Well then, what?"
"I was thinking of myself."
"My dear, you surely don't imagine that Barbara's thinking of you?"
"Not--not in the way you imply. The fact is, I was let in for a--a
rather unpleasant scene the other day with Mrs. Levitt."
"I always thought," said Fanny, "that woman would let you in for
something. Well?"
"Well, I hardly know how to tell you about it, my dear."
"Why, was it as bad as all that? Perhaps I'd better not know."
"I want you to know. I'm trying to tell you--because of Barbara."
"I can't see where Barbara comes in."
"She came into the library while it was happening--"
Fanny laughed and it disconcerted him.
"While what was happening?" she said. "You'd better tell me straight
out. I don't suppose it was anything like as bad as you think it was."
"I'm only afraid of what Barbara might think."
"Oh, you can trust Barbara not to think things. She never does."
Dear Fanny. He would have found his job of explaining atrociously
difficult with any other woman. Any other woman would have entangled him
tighter and tighter; but he could see that Fanny was trying to get it
straight, to help him out with all his honour and self-respect and
dignity intact. Every turn she gave to the conversation favoured him.
"My dear, I'm afraid she saw something that I must say was open to
misinterpretation. It wasn't my fault, but--"
No. The better he remembered it the more clearly he saw it was Elise's
fault, not his. And he could see that Fanny thought it was Elise's
fault. This suggested the next step in the course that was only not
perjury because it was so purely instinctive, the subterfuge of
terrified vanity. It seemed to him that he had no plan; that he followed
Fanny.
"Upon my word I'd tell you straight out, Fanny, only I don't like to
give the poor woman away."
"Mrs. Levitt?" said Fanny. "You needn't mind. You may be quite sure that
she'll give _you_ away if you don't."
She was giving him a clear lead.
When he began he had really had some thoughts of owning, somewhere about
this point, that he had lost his head; but when it came to the point he
saw that this admission was unnecessarily quixotic, and that he would
be far safer if he suggested that Elise had lost hers. In fact, it was
Fanny who had suggested it in the first place. It might not be
altogether a fair imputation, but, hang it all, it was the only one that
would really appease Fanny, and he had Fanny to think of and not Elise.
He owed it her. For her sake he must give up the personal luxury of
truthtelling. The thing would go no further with Fanny, and it was only
what Fanny had believed herself in any case and always would believe.
Elise would be no worse off as far as Fanny was concerned. So he fairly
let himself go.
"There's no knowing what she may do," he said. "She was in a thoroughly
hysterical state. She'd come to me with her usual troubles--not able to
pay her rent, and so on--and in talking she became very much upset and
er--er--lost her head and took me completely by surprise."
"That," he thought, "she certainly did."
"You mean you lost yours too?" said Fanny mildly.
"I did nothing of the sort. But I was rather alarmed. Before you could
say 'knife' she'd gone off into a violent fit of hysterics, and I was
just trying to bring her round when Barbara came in." His explanation
was so much more plausible than the reality that he almost believed it
himself. "I think," he said, pensively, "she _must_ have seen me
bending over her."
"And she didn't offer to help?"
"No; she rushed in and she rushed out again. She may not have seen
anything; but in case she did, I wish, my dear, you'd explain."
"I think I'd better not," said Fanny, "in case she didn't."
"No. But it worries me every time I think of it. She came right into the
room. Besides," he said, "we've got to think of Mrs. Levitt."
"Mrs. Levitt?"
"Yes. Put yourself in her place. She wouldn't like it supposed that I
was making love to her. She might consider the whole thing made her look
as ridiculous as it made me."
"I'd forgotten Mrs. Levitt's point of view. You rather gave me to
understand that was what she wanted."
"I never said anything of the sort." Seeing that the explanation was
going so well he could afford to be magnanimous.
"I must have imagined it," said Fanny. "She recovered, I suppose, and
you got rid of her?"
"Yes, I got rid of her all right."
"Well," said Fanny, gathering herself up to go to bed, "I shouldn't
worry any more about it. I'll make it straight with Barbara."
She went up to Barbara's bedroom, where Barbara, still dressed, sat
reading over the fire.
"Come in, you darling," Barbara said. She got up and crouched on the
hearthrug, leaving her chair for Fanny.
Fanny came in and sat down.
"Barbara," she said, "what's all this about Horatio and Mrs. Levitt?"
"I don't know," said Barbara flatly, with sudden presence of mind.
"I said you didn't. But the poor old thing goes on and on about it. He
thinks you saw something the other day. Something you didn't understand.
Did you?"
Barbara said nothing. She stared away from Fanny.
"Did you?"
"Of course I didn't."
"Of course you did. He says you must have seen. And it's worrying him no
end."
"I saw something. But he needn't worry. I understood all right"
"What did you see?"
"Nothing. Nothing that mattered."
"It matters most awfully to me."
"I don't think it need," said Barbara.
"But it _does_. In a sense I don't mind what he does, and in a sense I
do. I still care enough for that."
"I don't think there was anything you need mind so awfully."
"Yes, but there _was_ something. He said there was. He was afraid you'd
misunderstand it. He said he was bending over her when you came in."
"Well, he _was_ bending a bit."
"What was _she_ doing?"
"She was laughing."
"In hysterics?"
She saw it all.
"I suppose you might call it hysterics. They weren't nice hysterics,
though. She isn't a nice woman."
"No. But he was making love to her, and she was laughing at him. She was
nice enough for that."
"If that's nice."
"Why, what else could the poor woman do if she's honest?"
"Oh, she's honest enough in _that_ way," said Barbara.
"And he couldn't see it. He's so intent on his own beautiful
Postlethwaite nose, he can't see anything that goes on under it....
Still, honest or not honest, she's a beast, Barbara. When they'd been
such pals and he'd helped her, to have gone and rounded on the poor
thing like that. She might just as well have pulled his Postlethwaite
nose. It couldn't have hurt more."
"Oh, I think he'll get over it."
"I mean it couldn't have hurt _me_ more."
"She _is_ a beast," said Barbara. "I bet you anything you like it's her
fault. She drove him to it."
"No, Barbara, it was _my_ fault. _I_ drove him. I'm always laughing at
him, and he can't bear being laughed at. It makes him feel all stuffy
and middle-aged. He only goes in for passion because it makes him feel
young."
"It isn't really passion," said Barbara.
"No, you wise thing, it isn't. If it was I could forgive him. I could
forgive it if he really felt young. It's this ghastly affectation I
can't stand.... But it's my fault, Barbara, my fault. I should have kept
him young...."
They sat silent, Barbara at Fanny's feet. Presently Fanny drew the
girl's head down into her lap.
"You'll never be old, Barbara," she said. "And Ralph won't."
"What made you think of Ralph, Fanny?"
"Horatio, of course."