And underneath she read in Mariella’s childlike hand:
Dear Julian,
I think this is the first letter I have ever written to you. I’ve
often wanted to write to you when I couldn’t bear it any longer.
I’ve often nearly started and then I haven’t dared. I don’t know
why I do now except that Martin dying does make me feel rather
desperate. I’ve nobody now and he was allways nice to me. I think
he guessed a little but never said. I could allways rely on him. I
didn’t think unhappiness could ever last like this. I’ve had it for
years and I’ve allways thought, well it must get better soon,
something nice would happen, but it seems to get worse and worse
and I must just get used to it now. Don’t you think there must be a
Devil to account for all the damned misery in the world, I do. What
am I to do with myself, I haven’t got anybody. If I beleived in God
ever listening to us and minding what happened to us Id say it was
him telling me to write to you, because it came to me last night
all in a flash I must do it, I should be sort of saved if I did. I
was deciding to kill myself but once Ive written all this out I
dont think Ill want to. Ill go away and never see any of you again
but Ill go on living.
What Im writing to you about is this. Will you take Peter and look
after him--you will do it better than me, and you love him and you
have always thought I didn’t know how to look after him. I expect
its true. I feel very helpless and worried about him. I hated it
when he was born, I didnt want him. I never ought to have married
Charlie, you told me so, and then to have the baby--it meant I
could never forget the awfull mistake and poor Charlie, and I
wanted to forget him. I thought I could never love Peter--I _hated_
him at first--me to have a baby of all things, but after a bit I
began to love him, he was so sweet, and instead of making me
remember miserable things he seemed to be going to make up for
everything and I thought perhaps I should be happy after all,
bringing him up. And then that day you came back on leave and saw
him when he was a baby I saw how you looked at him and I knew you
were going to love him too. And I thought, if he cares for Peter
perhaps he will like me better, but instead of that you seemed to
dislike me more. I understand why of course. You couldn’t help
loving him for himself and because he was Charlies, but because he
was mine too you couldn’t help allways remembering the gastly
quarell whenever you saw him with me. Thats why you wanted to have
him to yourself away from me and allways told everybody I couldn’t
look after him and oughtnt to have had a baby. You did tell
everybody didn’t you? Poor little Peter I suppose it was true
because bit by bit I got jealous of him. Oh what a devil I felt
being jealous of my own son. And I adored him too but I couldnt
bear to see you with him and you trying to take him away from me
and him getting to love you better than me. I used to go away and
as for crying, I’ve cried enough in the last few years to make up
for all the years of my life when I never cried. I didn’t cry at
all when poor Charlie was killed, I suppose I was numb and then
there was this horror of the baby coming. I felt turned into stone.
And then began the time I thought you would marry Judith. I know
you were in love with her, I suppose you still are, she is so
pretty and clever as well. I was allways very fond of Judith, she
was sweet to me, and I used to think Id try hard not to mind if you
married her because it was so suitable and shed make you happy if
she loved you. But I dont think she will love you, it wasnt you she
wanted. It is awfull to think she has your love and doesnt want it.
The waste, I cant bear it! If only all the people with unwanted
love could hand it on to the people whod die for it and there were
none of these gastly gaps--everybody loving someone who loves
another person. It seems so funny it never struck you I was the one
who could make you happy, that Id always love you and look after
you, but of course its silly to talk like that. I know Im stupid. I
never read books or had any education. I have always exasperated
you but I think if youd loved me I might have been different. Id
have lerned from you, Id have done anything to please you. I know I
could have. But it never seemed worth while making an effort. I was
allways your but and you expected me to be a fool. Its terrible how
I iritate you. Why did I marry Charlie. He begged me and begged me
and Id allways been so used to giving way to him. Besides I was so
young then I couldnt beleive things wouldn’t come right if I wanted
them to be. I thought if I went and announced to you I was going to
marry Charlie youd realise I wasnt a baby any more, that I was
grown up, and youd say no, I must marry you not Charlie. And then
your fury when he told you and the revalation of how contemtable
you thought me. I think you were jealous too, because Charlie had
done a thing without telling you and of course youd got him out of
so many scrapes you couldnt bear him turning to someone else,
especially a person like me who I suppose you thought too stupid to
mannage him at all. Poor Charlie I know you loved him and tried to
be like a father to him but honestly I dont believe you mannaged
him quite the right way. I suppose it was my damned pride that
made me go through with marrying him. When he came and told me hed
sworn never to speak to you again, his only brother, I felt it was
all my fault and I couldnt desert him. I couldnt help loving him in
a way, he was very lovable and he did depend on me so. I vowed to
myself I’d stop him drinking etc, and then perhaps youd be grateful
to me and thered be a reconcilliation. Poor Charlie, perhaps it was
best he died, he was so weak. It was funny how he fell in love with
me when he grew up. Somebody in my life has loved me anyhow. He
really did. He longed so to have a son before he died too. Poor
Grannie, she thought it was so wrong cousins marrying, but Charlie
said no, he knew wed have wonderful children.
Prehaps Peter will be wonderful. Hes got his music, and he hasnt
got Charlies wild histerrical temper. Hes a very good unselfish
little boy, very afectionate. Will you please take him and bring
him up. You will do it better than me. I couldnt write like this if
I hadnt quite given up hope of you ever turning to me. When Martin
died I thought perhaps it might bring us closer, you were the one
person I wanted to see, it would have been such a comfort. But no,
my last hope is gone. I must think only of Peter now. I dont see
how I can do it, the one thing Ive got, but I know its best. Ill
know hes getting the best chance, which will be a great weight off
my mind. I know you dont want to send him to school till hes much
older, Im glad because hes rather dellicate and not a bit like
other little boys--you mannage all the money, so youll know how
much there is for him. Quite enough I think. Prehaps you will let
me have him now and then for little visits, and when he grows up
prehaps Ill be able to explain to him--if Im alive. I dont really
think I shall be. I promise Ill never intrefere or bother you, but
please you must remember its not because I dont love Peter Im
giving him to you, _but_ _because I love you_ and wish he was
yours. It will be wonderful doing something for you. Itll make me
allmost happy. Dont let him quite forget me, but I know he really
loves you better than anyone. Oh before he was born I used to think
if this was only Julians baby how happy Id be--I love you so much I
would love to have your children and sufer pain for you--even
though Ive never wanted children for myself. I know people allways
say I am so cold and dull and sexless, so I am to everyone else
because ever since I was very young you have absorped me intirely.
To you I would have been more like a flame, to burn you up. But you
were allways so cold and uninterested, you never thought I was
atractive to look at even.
Oh, I shiver when I think of having produced Peter perhaps only to
be as unhappy as me or to die young like Charlie and Martin. But if
you look after him hes more likely to be alright. Please if you
marry get someone who will be nice to him. Oh this is awfull. What
am I doing. Please take him soon. Dont write me an answer but just
say if you will take him and when and I will send him with the
governess, but you will sack her wont you and educate him yourself.
I never did like her. Well I have written it all, I feel very
exhausted but Im glad its written. I shant ever need to pretend
again, the strain was awfull. I dont quite know what I shall do. I
think I shall sell the house. I couldn’t bear to live in it ever
again after all thats happened. It was an unlucky house so I dont
want to keep it on for Peter. I dare say I shall go on with this
vet business, or anyway looking after dogs somehow. Im not stupid
with animals if I am with peeple.
Oh, darling Martin, it is terrible without him. Why wasnt I with
him in the sailing boat, it would have saved so much trouble. Do
you really think we never meet the poeple we love again. I know
youll say never, so dont answer. _Sometimes_ I feel it must be
alright, I feel allmost a certainty this isnt the end.
I shant read this over. Ive written in such a hurry I expect its
full of spelling mistakes etc., and youll laugh when you read it. I
cant help it.
You mustnt dispise me for telling you I love you.
Good-bye from
MARIELLA.
Beneath her signature came Julian’s pencil again: ‘I have sent for
Peter.’
7
In the early afternoon, the taxi drew up beneath the archway of College,
and she saw once more the red-tiled floor, the cold polished walls, the
official bleakness and decorous ugliness of the entrance hall.
The portress had been her special friend. She opened the door of the
lodge, expecting a joyful smile: but the elderly woman sitting at the
table was unfamiliar.
‘Is the portress out?’
‘I’m the portress, Miss.’
‘I don’t think I remember you.’
‘No, Miss. I only came this term.’
‘Ah, yes. How do you like it?’
‘Well it’s all a bit difficult to get into, Miss. Hard like.’
‘Yes. I found that. I used to be here.’
‘Oh yes, Miss.’
Her eyes looked bored behind her glasses. She was thinking there were
any amount of girls always coming and going. You couldn’t be expected to
take an interest....
Judith looked around her and was seized with panic. The whole place was
unfamiliar. Nothing recognized or greeted her.
A menace of footsteps drew near, resounding harshly on the tiles. A
group of girls in gym tunics passed and stared. They must be first-year
students. She could not remember one of them. She shrank from their
curious glances and went swiftly down the corridor to the foot of the
stairs.
A girl came running down, two steps at a time, saw her and paused,
smiling shyly.
‘Hullo, Judith!’
‘Hullo!’
What was her name? Joan something? You could never have exchanged more
than a few words with her. She was fair-haired, ordinary, rather
shapeless and untidy, like so many others; but her smile was reassuring.
‘Have you come up to stay?’ she said.
‘No. Just for the day ... to see one or two people. How are you getting
on?’
‘All right. How are you?’
‘Oh, all right.’
‘Well--I must fly. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
She was alone again.
She went up the shallow spiral staircase, and stood still at the top.
There was scarcely a sound: it was the usual afternoon hush. She crept
up to the mistress’s door and knocked; but there was no answer: then on
to one or two other rooms, where the grave faces of dons would look
quietly pleased to see her; but no reply came. Everyone must be out in
the well-remembered October weather.
There was still Miss Fisher’s door. She had sent a note to Miss Fisher,
her own don, saying she might come, to inquire about a possible job of
some sort, to discuss her prospects, and ask for a written testimonial:
so behind this door there would be someone who expected her.
But when she drew near she heard the sound of several voices raised as
if in argument, and another shiver of panic took her. She let her raised
hand drop to her side again and went quickly away; and the voices of a
great crowd of unknown people seemed to come after her, questioning her
intrusion, while she ran up the next flight of stairs.
Here was the familiar corridor and her own door, half-open, with a
strange name on it. There was nobody inside. She peeped in. Nothing,
nothing of her that remained. Instead of blue, purple and rose colour,
black and orange stripes everywhere; an array of unprepossessing
photographs on the mantelpiece, and some dirty pink plates and cups
strewn about.
Only the window remained unchanged, holding up its great autumnal
tree-tops to her gaze; but their unmoving pageant stared back and did
not greet her. She was dispossessed entirely.
There on the corner was Jennifer’s door fast-closed, and bearing an
unknown name. The sunshine sloped across to it in a dusty beam.
A maid came round the corner carrying a tray of crockery. She stopped,
blushing with delight. It was Rose, who had always been so pretty and
coy and smiling, and who had once brought a hot limp bunch of
wallflowers from her mother’s garden, and laid them on her table. She
was quite well thank you, and pleased to see you again. She and some of
the other girls were only saying the other day they quite missed you.
She wasn’t staying much longer now: she was leaving to get married.
Even Rose would soon be gone.
Now she must get out again as quickly as possible without being seen.
She had meant to pause again and listen at Miss Fisher’s door; but now
that was impossible. When now and then on her way down a footstep
started, coming closer, a voice was raised, her heart beat in a wild
terror of detection. Nobody must see her slinking out again from the
place where, in her presumptuous folly, she had returned unannounced,
expecting welcome. The place was terrible--a Dark Tower. She must
escape. How had she been deluded for three years into imagining it
friendly and secure--a permanent dwelling? In four months it had cast
her off for ever.
Out again into the courtyard and quickly into the waiting taxi. Jennifer
would appreciate the grimness of the story when she told her. She sat
back weaving it into a dramatic recital for Jennifer’s sympathetic
ears.
The town lay shining and smiling secretly in the sunlight, windless, its
buildings, spires and streets caressed with a dusty golden light. Here,
too, all was quiet. They were playing games. Where had been so many
familiar faces, all seemed strange; and the few undergraduates she
passed looked commonplace, dingy even, and schoolboyish.
She hesitated on the threshold of a bookshop and then passed on. To be
recognised was now as great a dread as not to be recognised. What would
people think of her, wandering about alone? How should she explain her
presence to enquirers?
Trinity Great Court grieved in the sun for Martin. It had not yet quite
forgotten him. It did not like its handsome young men to die.
If only Jennifer would come soon she could clasp her hand and feel a
strange voluptuous stir at the heart of her sorrow; but to flit and
pause alone like this, obliterating herself with a sort of shame,
looking out for a chance familiar face and yet fearing to see one--this
was appalling. It happened to people revisiting their university with
twenty years between them and youth.
Tony must still be in Cambridge. He was a Fellow of his College now....
Suddenly conscious of his being very near, somewhere round the next
corner perhaps, she dived for shelter into the tea-shop.
The young waitress came towards her with a smile; at sight of the
pleasure and greeting in her face, Judith felt a weight lift.
‘Your usual table?’ she said in her soft voice.
‘Yes. I’m expecting my friend. You remember her.’
‘Yes, indeed I do. That’s nice.’
She led the way to the table in the corner, beneath the window, lingered
a little chatting, and then was called away.
Nearly four o’clock. Jennifer might be late: she always was.
The room was empty save for two women in the opposite corner, engrossed
in the usual whispered tea-shop confidences. What warmth and colour
Jennifer would bring with her when she came! Judith thought.
“I won’t look towards the door; I’ll look out of the window; and then
suddenly I’ll turn round and she’ll be there.”
Where she sat, the purple curtain obscured her conveniently from the
street; if she craned her neck forward a little she could just see round
the curtain and out of the window. Over the large shop-front directly
opposite, on the other side of the narrow street, the blue blind was
drawn down; and the plated glass made a dark mirror. Within its space
she watched a shadow-show of people passing to and fro.
The clocks chimed the hour.
The street was filling up now. It was amusing to keep one’s eyes fixed
on the blue blind, to see only an insubstantial noiseless world of human
forms, cars and motor-bicycles, and be blind to the confusion of human
and mechanical reality collecting outside. She would look only at the
blue blind and see Jennifer’s reflection approaching before she saw
herself. Her heart beat at the thought.
The room was filling up now. She tipped Jennifer’s chair against the
table, for fear it should be taken; resumed her watching.
The space of glass cleared suddenly, was empty of all its shapes. She
stared into the dim blank, waiting.
Then two shadows slid slowly in and paused. She watched them calmly,
knew them without shock of alarm or surprise. Roddy bent his head to
light his pipe. She knew the individual set of his feet, his long legs,
the slender rather round-shouldered line of his back. She could almost
discern his curious blunt profile, with its upward sweep of brow and
eye. Tony was with him. His short figure had its hands in its pockets,
its head raised towards Roddy, nodding slightly as if in earnest
conversation. The noise in the street seemed to die away, and in the
long hushed breathless space of a minute, Roddy lit his pipe, threw
away the match, passed a hand over his hair in a familiar gesture,
nodded and laughed, it seemed, looking down at Tony with that queer
half-turn of the head; and then moved on, slipped with his companion
towards the edge of the pane; and vanished.
He had come to see Tony then, just as if nothing had happened: as if he
had not searched the sea for dead Martin; as if there were no reason not
to go smoking, laughing, talking past the great court of Trinity.
Did he miss Martin? Had he put from him the memory of the tragedy with a
characteristic shrug of the shoulders? Did he ever think with momentary
discomfort of Judith?
Tony would have him all to himself now: no Martin, no Judith to
interfere. He would be happy. They would come closer to each other; and
never again would Judith be able to step in between them; for there was
no more Judith. What were they talking of so earnestly--what, what? The
old yearning to know, to understand, returned for a moment, and was
followed by an utter blankness; and she knew that she had never known
Roddy. He had never been for her. He had not once, for a single hour,
become a part of real life. He had been a recurring dream, a figure seen
always with abnormal clarity and complete distortion. The dream had
obsessed her whole life with the problem of its significance, but now
she was rid of it.
She had tried to make a reality out of the unreality: she had had the
power to drag him once, reluctantly, from his path to meet her, to force
a convergence where none should ever have been; and then disaster had
resulted.
She seemed to wake up suddenly. Roddy, Roddy himself had been passing in
the street outside. She could have seen him, and, instead, her eyes had
not wavered from his reflection. A shadow laid on a screen and then
wiped off again: he had never been much more; it was fittingly symbolic
that she should have allowed him to pass thus for the last time from her
eyes. For it was certain that she would never see him again.
Half-past four. She would not watch the window for Jennifer any more.
For the first time it occurred to her that Jennifer might not come. She
beckoned to the waitress and ordered China tea and scone.
‘I won’t wait any longer for my friend. Something must have delayed
her.’
She sat on, crumbling the scone, sipping tea. She counted twenty-three
times over very slowly; and then looked at the door. Then she counted
again. She took an illustrated paper from the window-sill and studied
it. If she went straight through its pages without looking up, Jennifer
would come.
Quarter to five. Jennifer might have made a mistake about the tea-shop:
perhaps she was sitting waiting somewhere else. But that was impossible.
Perhaps she had confused the time, the date....
She took Jennifer’s letter from her bag. October 24th. Four o’clock.
“_Don’t wait for me after five._”
What was it that she had scratched out? She scrutinized the thick
erasure; but there was no clue.
The clocks struck five. When the last one had finished chiming she rose,
paid her bill and went out again into the happy-looking streets, where
there was nothing more now to fear or to desire.
* * * * *
The train steamed out of the station.
Farewell to Cambridge, to whom she was less than nothing. She had been
deluded into imagining that it bore her some affection. Under its
politeness, it had disliked and distrusted her and all other females;
and now it ignored her. It took its mists about it, folding within them
Roddy and Tony and all the other young men; and let her go.
Darkness fell, and the ploughed fields went wheeling and slipping by,
the smoke-white evening vapours laid low and heavy over their dim chill
violet expanses.
She was going home again to be alone. She smiled, thinking suddenly
that she might be considered an object for pity, so complete was her
loneliness.
One by one they had all gone from her: Jennifer the last to go. Perhaps
Jennifer had never for an instant meant to come back; or perhaps her
courage had failed her at the last moment. Wise Jennifer shed her past
as she went along; she refused to let it draw her back to face its old
coils and perplexities and be tangled in them once again. She did not
want to return to Judith and love her and be troubled by her once more;
or else return to find that all was different, that in this ten months’
interval life had separated them beyond hope of reunion. Yes, Jennifer
had escaped again. She had never intended to come back.
Yet it was impossible to feel self-pity. Perhaps it was the train’s
monotonous reiterated motion and murmur that benumbed the mind, soothing
it to a state that seemed like happiness.
When she reached home she would find that the cherry-tree in the garden
had been cut down. This morning she had seen the gardener start to lay
the axe to its dying trunk. Even the cherry-tree would be gone. Next
door the board would be up: For Sale. None of the children next door had
been for her. Yet she, from outside, had broken in among them and taken
them one by one for herself. She had been stronger than their combined
force, after all.
She was rid at last of the weakness, the futile obsession of dependence
on other people. She had nobody now except herself; and that was best.
This was to be happy--this emptiness, this light uncoloured state, this
no-thought and no-feeling.
She was a person whose whole past made one great circle, completed now
and ready to be discarded.
Soon she must begin to think: What next?
But not quite yet.