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[333] 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[334] 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[335] 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.[336] 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[337] 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,[338] 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[339] 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[340] 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.”
[341]
“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.