Dark Hester/Chapter 4

BUT why had it been Hester to come with the news? Why not Clive? This question, which had lain latent in Monica’s mind during Hester’s visit, rose to assail her during the long night, as she lay awake and listened to the rain. Such news as that should have been brought by Clive. He had sold the little Chelsea house that she had given him. She had given it to him;—not to Hester. It was their transaction, his and hers; not hers and Hester’s; and it could be only Hester who had made it so; thrusting herself, with her bland assurance, between them.

‘She is straight,’ that phrase of Celia’s returned to her pleadingly while her thoughts burned and brooded on her wound. But was Hester straight? Was there not some surreptitious motive smouldering under the fair appearance of her? She was hounded by the memory of her walking away in the garden below the flat, leading Clive out of her life, her hand stayed on the hem of his coat. Now she was leading him back, a trophy; placing him there, tormentingly near but never to be reached except on Hester’s terms. And Hester ​seemed to smile ominously behind him and to say: ‘Hate me as much as you like:—but touch me at your peril.’

‘But I don’t hate you; you are straight; you mean to be kind; I don’t hate you,’ she felt herself repeating exorcisingly. And at last a merciful cloud covered her mind and she fell asleep.

On waking she found herself thinking of Celia. Her thoughts of Hester had run themselves dry and the obsessions of the night survived only in her sense of weight and weariness. It was Celia she must think of now, and Celia could hardly rejoice at the news she had to tell her. It was news that had best be broken carefully. So, after her orders were given, her letters written, she put on her hat and coat and took a stick and went out, remembering as she always remembered on starting on a walk, that Jeremy was not here to share it.

The rain had ceased but the day was blanketed in a thick mist that might, later on, lift and reveal a summer sky. Monica’s spirits revived a little as she walked, her feet slipping in mud, the hedgerow trees pattering down drops on her shoulders. The weight was there, and the sense of it was like a tendency to sickness underlying her vigour, but she had an eye for what the day could give and found a ​certain charm in the restricted world, seeing herself as a Noah’s Ark figure set on her little circle of green, the circle moving with her as she went. There was beauty, too; the glossy branches of the oaks above were like those she had seen carved in deep relief on a dark, mysteriously lovely old door in Bourges; in Norah’s field an arabesque of hens were scattered like a spray of white chrysanthemums in a Chinese picture, and at the door the old-fashioned little banksia rose, sweet and apricot coloured, reminded her of her girlhood; one hardly ever saw these roses nowadays, and she nipped one off, shook out the rain that clogged its tiny petals and, while she waited for Bowditt, bent her face absently to its fragrance, a deep, almost a crafty fragrance, overwhelming her in memories of Aunt Janet and of Lockers, the old Sussex house under the Downs where she and her brothers and sisters, she and Clive, had spent so many happy holidays.

She saw Clive and Celia, the slender boy and girl—Celia, too, was related to Aunt Janet—playing tennis on the lawn while the downs grew grave and purple above the garden and Aunt Janet’s white cap appeared at the French window summoning them all in to dress for dinner. The roses grew against the wall round the window and she herself ​was sitting there on the gravel path, her book on her knee, her thoughts busy with ways and means, a harassed but happy woman. Little Jemima, Jeremy’s mother, sat beside her, watching the players with a dog’s disinterested melancholy. Monica was far, far away, deep in the fragrance of the banksia rose when Bowditt came to let her in. Bowditt had been Celia’s nurse, then her maid, and now with the aid of a village girl she ran the little house for the two friends. She was a gaunt, sad-eyed woman and Monica always felt that she held her in some way responsible for the devastation of her young mistress’s life. All the same, under the resentment, if that it were, she knew that she could rely upon a fundamental sympathy in Bowditt, for she and Bowditt both cherished Celia.

‘Is Miss Celia in the drawing-room?’ she asked.

‘She’s gone out, to Chelmsford, with Captain Ingpen,’ said Bowditt surprisingly and with evident satisfaction. ‘Captain Ingpen said he would do some shopping for us, and Miss Norah thought the drive would do Miss Celia good.’

Monica now observed the various masculine belongings that altered the aspect of the apple-green little entry. A faded silk scarf, russet striped with grey, lay on the table beside the salver of visiting ​cards; golf clubs leant beside the umbrella-stand, and a curious square box, with brass corners and a brass handle in the lid, stood near the foot of the stairs. She even savoured a new odour on the air; leather? tweed? tobacco? and something added;—or was it merely her fancy that added it?—something faintly yet sharply reminiscent of years ago in India; an aromatic, bitter whiff. She had hated India; she turned her thoughts away from it now as the pain of an old self-reproach visited her heart. She had been the romance, the delight of her young husband’s life, yet she knew that she had not made him happy during the two years they had spent together. She had loved Charlie, but she had hated India and hated his acceptance of the life she found so unbearable in its formulas of empty gaiety, its heavy idle days and convivial nights. It had revealed her to herself as a rebel, a bohemian. In her girlhood’s home they had questioned everything; in Charlie’s India they questioned nothing.

‘Miss Norah’s uncle has come then?’ she said.

‘He came last night, Ma’am, unexpectedly. They had a wire from Dover to say. It wasn’t till Saturday they had been looking for him. You will see Miss Norah, Ma’am? She is just gathering the eggs.’

​‘Don’t call her. I will wait till she comes in,’ said Monica, and Bowditt showed her into the drawing-room.

Celia’s drawing-room was china-blue and white and grey, with touches of lemon colour in the Iceland poppies set upon the mantelpiece and of black in the cushions and picture frames. Monica went to the fireplace where, because of Celia, a little knot of flame glimmered pleasantly, and looked about her, seeing her own figure reflected in the old French mirror on the other side of the room, a thickened yet youthful form in pleated short grey skirt, short jacket, and black straw hat with a velvet bow. Her figure went with the room and it seemed to her that the room belonged more to her own past than to Celia’s. The mezzotints from Reynolds and Gainsborough had been given to Celia’s father and mother as a wedding-gift from her parents. She remembered the delicate Chippendale chairs in Celia’s grandmother’s drawing-room and playing as a child round the old Chesterfield, now covered in blue and white cretonne. This was the sort of room she understood and loved; that understood and loved her: here she was herself, her petals all unfolded.

Norah came trudging in almost at once, drawing off her muddy gloves, a pleasant-faced young wo​man, ruddy, with prominent teeth and blue eyes. She was the daughter of a country parson—as Hester was. Monica had never seen, or heard of Hester’s father since her relegating allusion to him on the day when the Registrar’s Office was announced; and the fact that Hester had cast him off did not make him seem more obscure.

‘Hello! How jolly of you to come! You have heard of our excitements. Celia carried off already.’

‘Just what Celia needs. She and your uncle have taken to each other, have they?’

‘I don’t know about that; but he doesn’t frighten her and that disposes him to kindness, I think. He rather frightens me.’

‘Is he old and sunburnt and crabbed? Has he always lived in India? I really know nothing about your uncle, Norah.’

‘He’s sunburned all right; extraordinarily brown; but not crabbed exactly, or old either; younger than you are I expect, Mrs. Wilmott. He is my mother’s youngest brother. Yes, he has spend most of his life in India; among queer warrior tribes in wild places.’

‘On the Afghan frontier? Soldiering, do you mean?’

‘Not soldiering so much as studying; discovering;​—their languages, customs, religions. He’s lived among them in disguise; seen the sheep sacrificed and worshipped it with them afterwards—or whatever it is they do. I really don’t know him a bit, but I know his life has been frightfully hairbreadth and exciting. And because of all his special knowledge he was very useful during the war. He is rather an impressive sort of person, but, if you ask me, he has a way of looking at us which makes me feel as if he saw me as a hen and Celia as a kitten.—Not but what he is kind enough to hens and kittens.’

Norah, laughing and good-humoured, was plumping up a cushion here, emptying an ash tray there. ‘See what a state he is getting our room into already,’ she said. ‘He took all the hot water in the bath this morning.’

‘How long will you have this inconsiderate person quartered upon you?’

‘Oh, he’s safely in London till the Manor Farm is ready for him. He’s going to make me useful and help him to furnish it I see. But that will be rather fun and he’s willing to be useful to us, too. It’s really very decent his offering to do our shopping this morning, and it s good for Celia to see outside people. It’s a quiet life here for her, isn’t it, after the life she was used to in London?’

​The allusion gave Monica her entry. ‘Yes, it is, but I always feel that Celia is far more country than I am. I am an old Cockney at heart and to me the quiet is almost suffocating sometimes.’

Norah’s face fell; she was aware of an approaching announcement. ‘Don’t tell me you are thinking of going back to London? I don’t see how Celia could get on without you and her music.’

‘Going back? No indeed. But London is coming to me. That’s my news, Norah. I wanted to tell you and Celia at once. Clive and Hester have been feeling that I must be lonely and they are coming down to be near me. They have bought The Crofts. They will be here in six weeks’ time.’

Norah, sitting on the sofa opposite, stared at her, and slowly the astonishment on her face gave way to reprobation.

‘They are coming to live here? All the year round?’

‘Yes. They are giving up London.’

Norah gazed heavily. ‘Why did they keep it dark?’

It was an unpleasant echo of her own thought, but Monica had her reply, and Hester’s, ready.

‘They wanted to be sure. And they wanted to surprise me. Hester told me only yesterday. You ​do see—don’t you, Norah—that it will be rather wonderful for me.’

‘Yes; of course it will,’ said Norah slowly. ‘It’s only about Celia that I am thinking.’

‘Well, I am too. Do you think, after all this time, that it will in any way be difficult for her?’

‘It’s bound to bring it all back, isn’t it,’ said Norah; ‘seeing him all the time and seeing that he has forgotten her, in every way; as only men can forget.—Forgive me, Mrs. Wilmott; I do like Clive most awfully; I always have, even when I saw that he was breaking Celia’s heart; but it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘He hasn’t forgotten, Norah, it’s only that marriage crowds friendships so completely out of a man’s life, and what I hope for now is that he will remember enough for things to be happy again. After all they were really like brother and sister;—he will remember back to that happy time.’

‘It would be frightfully hard lines if he remembered the time that wasn’t happy. It would be frightfully hard lines for Celia if he remembered enough to be sorry for her. Celia, though she looks such a wisp, is the bravest creature in the world and couldn’t help it if a microbe did get into her lungs.’

‘She’s so brave that no one could be sorry for her.—You mean it will be a strain for her—showing ​them that she is brave?’ Monica got up restlessly. ‘After all, Norah, nobody knew except you and me and Bowditt.’

‘Hester knew all right,’ said Norah with a short laugh. ‘And she knows that you wanted him to marry Celia and that you are sorry he didn’t.’

‘My dear Norah!’ Monica gazed at her. ‘Do I make it so plain?’ she asked.

‘How can you help making it plain? One only has to see them all together—with you. Hester isn’t our sort, is she?’

Monica walked to a window as she heard this question. ‘She’s my son’s wife. That’s all I have to remember,’ she said, standing there looking out and wondering, if Norah had seen, how much Clive must have seen.

‘Yes, she’s his wife and he’s devoted to her; but the queer thing is that if she’d been a man he wouldn’t have made a friend of her. Celia would have been a friend, always; but not Hester. That’s just the difference, isn’t it? That’s just where this queer falling in love comes in; but I can’t help feeling that it’s happier when a man falls in love with a friend; they do sometimes.’

‘I wonder.’ Monica stood looking out. ‘Perhaps difference and the surprise of difference are needed ​for falling in love. It’s a different kind of affinity.—Here they are, Norah.—Celia is looking amused—and surprised.’

‘Celia shan’t fall in love with Uncle Godfrey;—I can promise you that,’ said Norah; ‘and he won’t fall in love with her. It’s not her kind of difference that would attract him. He has no taste for paradise,’ and Norah laughed with a certain grimness as she followed Monica out into the hall.

A car, spattered with mud, stood before the door and a gaunt, heavily built man, with close-cropped hair, was holding out a hand for Celia to descend. No, Captain Ingpen had no taste for paradise, Monica in a swift glance at him agreed, feeling something a little brutal in his air of nonchalant kindness. Celia was more a disembodied spirit than a pretty woman and Captain Ingpen’s taste would be for pretty women. Again he recalled India and the men there, who were too stupid, or too busy, to care for anything but pretty women.

Celia might not be pretty in the Indian sense, but she was the loveliest creature, and all her little foibles were dear to Monica; her breathless way of laughing, her gay yet melancholy inconsequence, even her tendency to make rather pointless jokes when she was shy. There was something arctic in ​her tints—blue and white and gold—but she did not look ill, only fragile and flower-like; forget-me-nots and cowslips growing strangely in fields of Snow.

‘But Monica — you’re not going!’ she said, coming to embrace her friend. Celia’s devotion always gave Monica a sense of establishment, security, in a world of change. She had always been part of Celia’s world and Celia understood her, better, she sometimes suspected, than she understood herself; or perhaps it would be truer to say that she knew of herself the evil of which she was capable and Celia the good. It was reconstructing to be with anyone who saw the good—sometimes when one had forgotten it oneself—and her eyes dwelt fondly on the girl as she said: ‘I only ran in for a moment—I must be back by twelve; Mrs. Fellows is coming to see me about the nursing committee.—How well you look, my darling.—Did you enjoy your drive?’

‘Ever so much.—I never knew anyone drive so fast as Captain Ingpen. He was trying to frighten me, I believe;—but I wasn’t frightened. I liked it!’ laughed Celia. She was seldom shy nowadays and Monica sometimes grieved over this as a sign that girlhood was over.—She was not in the least shy now.

​‘This is Norah’s uncle,’ she said presenting him, and Monica found Captain Ingpen’s eyes on her; light yet hot blue eyes—burned looking, with a straight line of upper lid—that showed oddly in his dark face. His stare might express surprise, discomposure, or admiration, and since so many things to-day reminded her of the past, she now found Captain Ingpen’s eyes reminding her of pursuing suitors. Yes, it was unmistakable, though it had been so long since she had seen it, that arrested, appraising look in a man’s eye; a tribute to her sex that, she reflected ironically as she walked away, would never have been elicited had not her close little hat, her upturned collar, so framed her countenance as to lend it a misleadingly youthful aspect.