A SICK MAN’S FANCY
From the day that Gilbert was brought back to England, some weeks later,
Claudia’s life became one of deadly rustic monotony. Neeburg had not been
surprised at the seizure. Cardiac trouble not infrequently followed on
neglected influenza, he said, and combined with his nervous breakdown
was, though not actually dangerous to his life, serious enough to make,
for a time, a complete invalid of him. He was kept lying in his bed until
he was well enough to be moved from Le Touquet, and then, in answer
to his mother’s entreaties—she still seemed vaguely to hold Claudia
responsible—he went down to his old home at Wynnstay.
It was out of the question for him to continue living in London for some
time to come, and Neeburg approved of the air of Wynnstay, which was pure
and bracing. It was situated on the Sussex Downs, and from the topmost
windows a glittering streak, which was the sea in the distance, could be
glimpsed.
Life had not been any too cheery during those last weeks at Le Touquet,
but at Wynnstay Claudia felt as though she were in prison.
It was _his_ home, and Claudia was made to feel that though the wife of
the sick man, she was an outsider. Gilbert’s moroseness had increased,
and rank bitterness was in his heart. Sometimes Claudia fancied that he
looked at her with furious envy in his eyes as she came with her springy
steps across the lawn to where he was stretched out under a big tree. He
did not wish to see any of their friends—was it the same reason, envy of
their health?—so that very few people came to the house. Sometimes Lady
Currey made it plain that instead of tramping along the country lanes,
which was her one solace—there were no golf-links near—Claudia ought to
appear in the sedate, sunless drawing-room with its cabinets of valuable
china, and make small talk for the wife of the vicar and the sister of
the curate, and listen to genteel opinions on a variety of subjects—no
one could say even the biggest were shirked—of which the exponents knew
less than nothing.
Sometimes Claudia felt she was shriveling into a polite, well-bred mummy.
Gilbert expected her to write all his letters for him—he still kept in
touch with his office—so that he resented her wishing to go up to town
even for the day. She knew it was unreasonable, but after a while she
ceased to care very much.
Lady Currey had always disliked Patricia, whom privately she
characterized as “a loud, indecently large hoyden,” and she made this so
plain that Claudia could not urge Pat to come down to visit her. Indeed,
with the Currey family she had no rights at all, either to personal
friends or opinions. Any views which she was sometimes exasperated into
expressing were generally received in chilly silence.
Sick people are notoriously capricious in their likes and dislikes,
and Gilbert seemed to have taken a dislike to Colin. They had been
together quite amiably at Le Touquet, but once at Wynnstay, Gilbert
never suggested that he should come down, and once, when Colin motored
down, received him in such an indifferent manner that no one could have
misunderstood. Then, at the beginning of July Colin had gone up to
Lancashire to pursue some investigations on the Child Labour problem
for Sir Michael Carton, and since then Claudia had only had letters from
him. The letters were always charming, unobtrusively encouraging and
subtly sympathetic, telling her something of his work and discussing
the books in the Currey library, which helped to while away her time,
but she missed him. She wondered why he and Pat did not announce their
engagement, and therefore she was not in the least surprised when she got
the following letter from Pat one morning in August:
“I _must_ see you, old girl, so I’m coming down for the
week-end, and, like the improper female your mother-in-law
thinks me (Oh! what would she think of a really improper
female? But there, I suppose really improper females can’t
afford to behave improperly, they have to prune and prism), I
have taken rooms at the Three Compasses Inn in the village.
They’ve got a ducky room—it looks out on the duck-pond and they
will quack me a matutinal lay—which I investigated last time I
came down to see you for the day. Socky shall chase the ducks,
and I’ll eat any he kills, or send them, with his compliments,
to Lady Currey. But I must see you. I’ve been keeping a secret
from you for some time, and I’m nearly dead of spontaneous
combustion. Perhaps it’s too late and you’ll only find a coat
and skirt—the other lingerie oddments would, I’m sure, be
combusted, too—when you meet the 1.15 train. It’s a _great,
great secret_, but everything is settled now. Colin will come
down for the day on Sunday and help to eat one of the ducks.
Now curiosity shall smoulder in thee!
“Have you heard that Frank Hamilton has married a study in
yellow?—yellow in her pockets and yellow in her face—called
Maria Jacobs, and she has taken a house in Belgrave Square?
Rhoda, who knows all things indecent, says he made her settle
a large sum of money on him and then announced his intention
of travelling in the East—without her. She herself—Rhoda, I
mean—is very annoyed. With great difficulty she got hold of a
new man—vastly rich—who met her husband and became interested
in his plays. He is putting up the money for a show in the
autumn, and Rhoda hasn’t got a look-in. Funny world, isn’t it?
“Wave a Union Jack on the platform on Saturday, and I will fall
out on top of Socky.
“Thine,
“PAT.”
Lady Currey did not like letters to be read at breakfast—she insisted
that Claudia should have the meal downstairs—so she had had to keep it
until she could stroll forth in the garden. Well, Pat’s secret wasn’t
such a great secret, after all. Claudia smiled as she wondered why it is
that couples in love never imagine that anyone else notices! She wished
Pat every happiness, every happiness——
She broke off a fragrant red rose and buried her face in it. It filled
her nostrils with the sweetness and fragrance of life. It meant beauty,
youth, happiness! Those things were for Pat, not for her. Then the rose
recalled her last meeting with Frank and the little dinner-table. He
was not finding youth and beauty with Maria Jacobs, he was finding what
apparently he had always wanted—money. Well, he had made no wound in her
heart, it had been mere physical attraction.
Then she heard Lady Currey speaking. “I think it is very dangerous to
inhale the perfume of flowers so near one’s nose. I read in a book once
that it may affect one’s brain. Besides, there are often earwigs and
things.”
Claudia held out the rich, red bud. “Isn’t it beautiful? Would you like
me to fill that empty rose-bowl for you?”
“John does not like the smell of flowers in the house. I always
have to see that there are scentless ones on the table, and
really”—plaintively—“it is quite difficult.”
Claudia looked at her. She was extraordinarily well preserved, even in
the bright morning light. There were no lines to tell her age or mark
character. But it was not a face that invited confidence, that would
attract a child or make a precious miniature in any man’s heart.
“And, of course, you always consider his wishes in every way, even small
ones?”
Lady Currey looked at the red rose laid lovingly—fearless of
earwigs—against the soft, creamy cheek. The months spent in the country
had, from a physical point of view, been greatly to Claudia’s advantage.
Forced to go to bed early and roam the country lanes and fields, she
looked the picture of health and strength. The face was now a little sad
in repose, too thoughtful for her age, the lips had a faint droop, she
did not laugh so readily and so gaily as before she was married; but no
one could look at her and not admire her glowing beauty, her lissome,
finely-moulded body instinct with vitality and magnetism. As she stood on
the lawn in her simple white linen frock with a big black velvet bow at
her throat, she made Lady Currey look like an expressionless china doll.
“Women were meant to study their husband’s wishes. I know, of course,
that modern women like yourself no longer practise that creed—a creed, I
may add, laid down in the Bible. I am told that women make a great point
of being independent. But have they gained man’s respect by it? I ask you
that. How do men speak of women nowadays? But lightly, I fear.”
“Did men ever respect women very much?” said Claudia gently, tucking
the rose into her white leather belt. “If men really respected women,
would it be necessary either loudly to demand independence or for them
to _study_ men’s wishes? Women have been in subjection for ages—not
satisfactory; it is now freedom and independence—not satisfactory.
Perhaps the third phase will be happier for both.... Colin Paton is
coming down for the day on Sunday. I suppose Gilbert would like to see
him?”
Claudia could not help noticing that Lady Currey looked at her rather
sharply. “Did _you_ ask him down?”
“No. As a matter of fact my sister is staying in the village for the
week-end, and he is coming down—for her.”
Lady Currey’s mouth dropped open a little and she stopped snipping at the
roses.
“Oh! is he? Then he doesn’t——? That will make a difference. Gilbert will
be certain to want to see him.”
Claudia’s curiosity was aroused. Lady Currey did not often cut her
sentences.
“‘That will make a difference’ ... why do you say that? What will make a
difference?”
“You mean me to deduce that he is—er—interested in your sister? Yes,
quite so. Of course, when people are ill they have curious ideas. I never
believed it possible myself. His mother is a good woman, I believe,
though she is not High Church, and I have always thought highly of Colin
Paton. Of course, as John says, it is a thousand pities that he has got
drawn into the net of these mad Socialists, and if I were his mother——”
“What fancy has Gilbert got into his head?” interrupted Claudia, looking
over to the other side of the lawn, where her husband was reading the
newspaper. He was now much better, and could walk half a mile or so.
“Oh, nothing much, only—he fancied—that you saw too much of Colin Paton.
He—he imagined Mr. Paton was in love with you, but I was sure he had too
much respect for himself to fall in love with a married woman.”
Claudia stared at the prim little face for a moment, and then she
commenced laughing. Gilbert jealous! Why, he had never troubled a scrap
about Frank Hamilton, he had never noticed Charles Littleton’s devotion,
nor any of the other men who were always making love to her. He had
chosen to be jealous of the one man—almost the only one—who had never
whispered amorously in her ear. It was too ludicrous! Yes, a sick man’s
fancies are odd.
“Poor Gilbert!” sighed Lady Currey. “But he is much better now. Dr.
Neeburg—I wish he had been an Englishman—said last week that he was doing
splendidly, and it is only a question of time. We shall soon have dear
Gilbert restored to health. By the by, what is this rumour I hear that
Lynch House at Rockingham has been taken by your brother?”
Rockingham was some four miles away across the downs, and Lynch House was
a big, rambling old house, with a huge, neglected garden. It had been
empty for some years.
“Yes, it is true. Jack has rented it for a time, and my sister-in-law is
being moved down for the rest of the summer.”
Lady Currey looked her strong disapproval. “What can a—a paralysed woman
and your brother want with such a big house? Why, it has quantities of
bedrooms! Surely, most unsuitable.”
“Fay has a little scheme in her head,” returned Claudia quietly. “She
wanted to be near me, that’s why she came to Rockingham, and she wants a
big house for her scheme.”
“Is she going to turn it into an hotel?” said her mother-in-law sharply,
looking her dislike of _any_ scheme The Girlie Girl might have.
“Yes, a first-class hotel, where the guests have no bills to pay. She’s
got the idea of having some of her old hard-working friends in the
profession down for a good holiday.”
She and Fay corresponded regularly. Sometimes it was rather difficult
to make out Fay’s scrawls, with their extraordinary phonetic spelling
and enormous dashes, but they had grown into the habit of talking their
thoughts aloud to one another. Claudia was often surprised how much Fay
comprehended of what she wrote her. There were things she said and wrote
to Fay that she would never have communicated to any other woman, not
even Pat, so that a strong link had been forged between them, a curious
bond which made life more possible for both of them. Claudia often forced
herself to be gay and cheery when she wrote to Fay, and she read between
the lines when Fay’s jokes rang a little false. Jack wrote and told her
that Fay was too stunning for words—high praise for him—and that she
didn’t often cry now, and since she had got the idea of being moved—it
was pathetically easy, seeing how small she was—and having some of her
pals down for a week or two at a time, to give them a good spree, she
chirped away like a sparrow about it all day long.
“H’m.” Lady Currey pursed up her small mouth. “Most unsuitable
neighbourhood for such people.”
“It’s a very beautiful, healthy neighbourhood, and I think it’s a
splendid notion of Fay’s. I’m proud of her idea.”
Lady Currey was crumpling up her eyebrows when Gilbert called out to
Claudia. He wanted a book fetched from the library. Claudia never
attempted to be too sympathetic with him, nor did she proffer any,
even friendly, caresses. Gilbert had made it so plain that he merely
considered her as a useful secretary. His father was getting old and
his son was sometimes impatient with his slow brain; his mother was—his
mother, but she could never be trusted to find a book or look anything up
for him. But Claudia was quick and practical, and he never had to explain
anything twice.
After she had fetched the book she lingered irresolutely by his chair.
His hair was going very grey, and his body had grown heavy and flabby,
but in the face he looked much healthier. His skin was a better
colour, and the circles round his eyes less pronounced. His nerves were
distinctly less ragged, he was beginning to sleep quite well, and the
cardiac symptoms had not shown themselves for some time.
“Gilbert,” she said, “Colin Paton is coming down on Sunday.... Why have
you not wanted to see him? He was awfully kind at Le Touquet. Have you
ever properly thanked him?”
He did not look up from the book, but she saw that he had been listening.
“Oh! I think I did. Besides, didn’t you thank him? You and he are great
friends.”
“Do you complain of that?” How beautiful the leaves of the copper beech
were under the sun. The grass at their feet was flecked by little jumping
shadows, as the slight wind ruffled the branches.
“No. I have every trust in Colin.”
Claudia gave a sharp exclamation, and threw up her head. “What do you
mean by that, Gilbert? Isn’t that an extraordinary statement to make
about your friend?”
He still kept the book open. She saw that it was a book on Trades Unions.
“Why do you pretend not to understand me?” he said coldly. “I have told
you I do not object to your friendship. Why do you pretend that you do
not know Colin is in love with you? I suppose he came to Le Touquet
partly to be with you. Wasn’t it he who suggested you should come?”
“No, it was Mr. Littleton.... You are absurdly mistaken. Why is it men
will never believe in a man-and-woman friendship? Colin is in love with
my sister.”
She expected to see him start, but he did not. He did, however, look at
her, with a curious, critical, upward gaze.
“Did he tell you so?”
“No, but—I know.”
“Really!” But the tone lacked conviction. He commenced to turn over the
pages of the book.
It was only a sick man’s fancy; it must be. And yet Gilbert had had no
other kind of irrational fancies. He had remained his old egotistical
self, multiplied by about four. Her voice was a little agitated as she
put her next question.
“Gilbert, I wish to know something. It is only fair you should answer it,
as you made—a statement. What gave you the idea that—that Colin cared
more for me than as a—friend?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I have been trained to observe men and women,
and my observations of Colin lately—I had nothing to do at Le Touquet
except watch such things, which, as a rule, do not interest me—coupled
with one or two facts, such as his going away as soon as our engagement
was announced, and that he has not married, have led me to think that, as
you put it, he cares more for you than as a friend.”
Claudia drew in her breath jerkily. “But it’s Pat, I tell you—Pat.”
“I am glad to hear it. I certainly thought he was in love with you. But
as he can marry Pat and he cannot marry you now, I am glad to hear it....
Claudia, will you go into the room where the periodicals are kept and see
if you can find a copy of the _Fortnightly_—some time last year—which has
an article entitled ‘Labour Unrest.’ I daresay you’ve heard my father is
having some trouble in Langton. The workers in the paper-mills have been
threatening to strike for some time, and we want to nip it in the bud. I
think the article was late last year, about October or November.”
Claudia moved across the lawn, her brain furiously and chaotically
working. She thought it was the heat of the sun that made her feel
confused and giddy, yet a moment before she had not felt it.