“Hello, there’s Willie and Connie.”
It is indeed; coming towards them, also arm in arm. They must have left little Oscar with his nurse back in Kensington. Arthur now feels even prouder of his performance with the bat. Then he becomes aware of something. Willie and Connie are not slowing their pace, and Connie has started looking away, as if the back of the pavilion had become something of irreducible interest. Willie at least does not appear to be denying their existence; but as the couples pass, he raises an eyebrow at his brother-in-law, at Jean, and at their linked arms.
Arthur’s bowling after the change of innings is faster and wilder than usual. He takes only a single wicket, thanks to an over-greedy swipe at one of his long-hops. When he is sent to field in the deep, he keeps turning to look for Jean, but she must have moved. He cannot spot Willie and Connie either. His throwing-in causes more alarm to the wicketkeeper than usual, and has him scuttling in all directions.
Afterwards, it is clear that Jean has left. He is now in a state of pure rage. He wants to take a cab straight to Jean’s flat, lead her out on to the pavement, put her arm through his, and walk her past Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. And with him still in his cricket clothes. And shouting, “I am Arthur Conan Doyle and I am proud to love this woman, Jean Leckie.” He visualizes the scene. When he stops doing so, he thinks he is running mad.
Rage and madness subside, leaving him with a steady, inflexible anger. He takes a shower-bath and changes, all the while swearing internally at Willie Hornung. How dare that asthmatic short-sighted part-time spin bowler raise his bloody eyebrow. At
him.
At
Jean.
Hornung, the journalist, the writer of no-account stories about the Australian outback. Totally unheard of until he purloined—with permission—the idea of Holmes and Watson; turned them upside down and made them into a pair of criminals. Arthur let him do it. Even provided the name of his so-called hero, Raffles, as in
The Doings of Raffles Haw.
Allowed the damned book to be dedicated to him. “To A.C.D., this form of flattery.”
Gave him more than his best idea, gave him his wife. Literally: walked her up the aisle and handed her over to him. Made them an allowance to get started on. All right, made Connie an allowance, but Willie Hornung didn’t say it was a stain on his honour as a man to accept such help, didn’t say he’d go out and work harder to keep his young wife, oh no, none of that. And he thinks that gives him the right to raise a priggish eyebrow.
Arthur takes a cab straight from Lord’s to Kensington West. Number Nine, Pitt Street. His anger begins to subside as they cross the Harrow Road. In his head he can hear Jean telling him it was all her fault, she was the one who put her arm through his. He knows exactly the tone of self-reproach she will use, and how it will probably drive her into a wretched migraine. All that matters, he tells himself, is to minimize her suffering. His every instinct and his very manliness demand that he break down Hornung’s door, drag him on to the pavement, and beat him about the brains with a cricket bat. Yet by the time the cab draws up he knows how he must behave.
He is quite calm as Willie Hornung admits him. “I have come to see Constance,” he says. Hornung is at least sensible enough not to go in for any damn-fool bluster, or insist on being present himself. Arthur goes upstairs to Connie’s sitting room. He explains to her, in straightforward terms, as he has never done—never needed to do—before. About what Touie’s illness entails. About his sudden love, his utter love, for Jean. About how that love will remain platonic. Yet how a large side of his life, so long unoccupied, has now been filled. About the strain and depression they both suffer from intermittently. About how Connie only saw them together, obviously in love, because they let their guard down; and how it is a torment never to be able to show their love in front of others. How every smile, every laugh has to be measured and rationed, every companion tested. How Arthur does not think he can survive if his family, who are as dear to him as the world itself, does not understand his plight and support him.
He is playing at Lord’s again tomorrow, and he asks, no, he entreats Connie to come, and this time meet Jean properly. It is the only way. What happened today must be set aside, put behind them at once, else it will fester. She will come tomorrow, and have lunch with Jean and know her better. Won’t she?
Connie agrees. Willie, as he lets him out, says, “Arthur, I’m prepared to back your dealings with any woman at sight and without question.” In the cab, Arthur feels as if something terrible has just been averted. He is quite weary, and a little light-headed. He knows he can count on Connie, as he can on all his family. And he is a little ashamed of what he caught himself thinking about Willie Hornung. This damn temper of his is not getting any better. He puts it down to being half Irish. The Scottish half of him has the devil of a job keeping the upper hand.
No, Willie is a fine fellow, who will back him without question. Willie has a good, sharp brain, and is a very decent wicketkeeper. He may dislike golf, but at least gives the best reason Arthur has yet heard for such a prejudice: “I consider it unsportsmanlike to hit a sitting ball.” That was good. And the one about the sprinter’s error. And the one Arthur has spread most widely, which is Willie’s assessment of his brother-in-law’s consulting detective: “Though he might be more humble, there is no police like Holmes.” No police like Holmes! Arthur throws himself back against the seat at the memory of the line.
The next morning, as he is preparing to leave for Lord’s, a telegram is delivered. Constance Hornung must excuse herself from their lunch engagement today because she has a toothache and is obliged to go to the dentist.
He sends a note to Jean, his apologies to Lord’s—“urgent family business” for once is no euphemism—and takes a cab to Pitt Street. They will be expecting him. They know he is not the man for intrigue or diplomatic silence. You look a fellow in the eye, you speak the truth, and you take the consequences: such is the Doyle creed. Women are allowed different rules, of course—or rather, women seem to have developed different rules for themselves regardless; but even so, he does not think much of emergency dental treatment as an excuse. Its very transparency gets Arthur’s dander up. Perhaps she knows this; perhaps it is designed as the plainest rebuke, like that turned-away head of hers. Connie, to her credit, does not palter any more than he does.
He knows he must keep his temper. What matters is first of all Jean, and then the unity of the family. He wonders if Connie has changed Hornung’s mind, or Hornung Connie’s. “I’m prepared to back your dealings with any woman at sight and without question.” Nothing equivocal there. But neither had there been about Connie’s apparent understanding of his situation. In advance, he searches for reasons. Perhaps Connie has become a respectable married woman rather more quickly than he would have thought possible; perhaps she has always been jealous that Lottie is his favourite sister. As for Hornung: doubtless he is envious of his brother-in-law’s fame; or maybe the success of
Raffles
has gone to his head. Something has sparked this sudden display of independence and rebellion. Well, Arthur will soon find out.
“Connie is upstairs, resting,” says Hornung as he opens the door. Plain enough. So it will be man to man, which is how Arthur prefers it.
Little Willie Hornung is the same height as Arthur, a fact he occasionally forgets. And Hornung in his own house is different from the Hornung of Arthur’s furious re-creation; also different from the flattering, eager-to-please Willie who darted across the tennis court at West Norwood and brought
bons mots
to the table by way of ingratiation. In the front sitting room he indicates a leather armchair, waits for Arthur to be seated, and then remains standing himself. As he speaks, he begins to prance around the room. Nerves, doubtless, but it has the effect of a prosecuting counsel showing off to a non-existent jury.
“Arthur, this is not going to be easy. Connie has told me what you said to her last night, and we have discussed the matter.”
“And you have changed your minds. Or you have changed her mind. Or she yours. Yesterday you said you would back me without question.”
“I know what I said. And it is not a matter of my changing Connie’s mind, or her changing mine. We have discussed it, and we are agreed.”
“I congratulate you.”
“Arthur, let me put it this way. Yesterday we spoke to you with our hearts. You know how Connie loves you, how she always has. You know my enormous admiration for you, how proud I am to say that Arthur Conan Doyle is my brother-in-law. That’s why we went to Lord’s yesterday, to watch you with pride, to support you.”
“Which you have decided no longer to do.”
“But today we are thinking, and speaking, with our heads.”
“And what do your two heads tell you?” Arthur reins his anger back to mere sarcasm. It is the best he can do. He sits four-square in his chair and watches Willie dance and shuffle in front of him, as he dances and shuffles his argument.
“Our heads—our two heads—tell us what our eyes see and our consciences dictate. Your behaviour is . . . compromising.”
“To whom?”
“To your family. To your wife. To your . . . lady-friend. To yourself.”
“You do not wish to include the Marylebone Cricket Club as well? And the readers of my books? And the staff of Gamages emporium?”
“Arthur, if you cannot see it, others must point it out to you.”
“Which you seem to be relishing. I thought I had merely acquired a brother-in-law. I did not realize the family had acquired a conscience. I was not aware we needed one. You should get yourself a priest’s robe.”
“I do not need a priest’s robe to tell me that if you stroll around Lord’s with a grin on your face and a woman who is not your wife on your arm, you compromise that wife and your behaviour reflects upon your family.”
“Touie will always be shielded from pain and dishonour. That is my first principle. It will remain so.”
“Who else saw you yesterday apart from us? And what might they conclude?”
“And what did you conclude, you and Constance?”
“That you were extremely reckless. That you did the reputation of the woman on your arm no good. That you compromised your wife. And your family.”
“You are a sudden expert on my family for such a johnny-come-lately.”
“Perhaps because I see more clearly.”
“Perhaps because you have less loyalty. Hornung, I do not pretend the situation is not difficult, damned difficult. There’s no denying it. At times it is intolerable. I do not need to rehearse what I said to Connie yesterday. I am doing the best I can, we both are, Jean and I. Our . . . alliance has been accepted, has been approved by the Mam, by Jean’s parents, by Touie’s mother, by my brother and sisters. Until yesterday, by you. When have I ever failed in loyalty to any member of my family? And when before have I appealed to them?”
“And if your wife heard of yesterday’s behaviour?”
“She will not. She cannot.”
“Arthur. There is always gossip. There is always the tattle of maids and servants. People write anonymous letters. Journalists drop hints in newspapers.”
“Then I shall sue. Or, more likely, I shall knock the fellow down.”
“Which would be a further act of recklessness. Besides, you cannot knock down an anonymous letter.”
“Hornung, this conversation is fruitless. Evidently you grant yourself a higher sense of honour than you do me. If a vacancy occurs as head of the family, I shall consider your application.”
“
Quis custodiet,
Arthur? Who tells the head of the family he is at fault?”
“Hornung, for the last time. I shall state the matter plainly. I am a man of honour. My name, and the family’s name, mean everything to me. Jean Leckie is a woman of the utmost honour, and the utmost virtue. The relationship is platonic. It always will be. I shall remain Touie’s husband, and treat her with honour, until the coffin lid closes over one or the other of us.”
Arthur is used to making definitive statements which conclude discussions. He thinks he has made another, but Hornung is still shuffling about like a batsman at the crease.
“It seems to me,” he replies, “that you attach too much importance to whether these relations are platonic or not. I can’t see that it makes much difference. What is the difference?”
Arthur stands up. “What is the difference?” he bellows. He does not care if his sister is resting, if little Oscar Arthur is taking a nap, if the servant has her ear to the door. “It’s all the difference in the world! It’s the difference between innocence and guilt, that’s what it is.”
“I disagree, Arthur. There is what you think and what the world thinks. There is what you believe and what the world believes. There is what you know and what the world knows. Honour is not just a matter of internal good feeling, but also of external behaviour.”
“I will not be lectured on the subject of honour,” Arthur roars. “I will not. I will not. And especially not by a man who writes a thief for a hero.”
He takes his hat from the peg and crushes it down to his ears. Well, that is that, he decides, that is that. The world is either for you or against you. And it makes things clearer, at least, to see how a prissy prosecuting counsel goes about his business.
Despite this disapproval—or perhaps to prove it misconceived—Arthur begins, very cautiously, to introduce Jean into the social life of Undershaw. He has made the acquaintance in London of a charming family called the Leckies, who have a country place in Crowborough; Malcolm Leckie, the son, is a splendid fellow with a sister called—what is it now? And so Jean’s name appears in the Undershaw visitors’ book, always beside that of her brother or one of her parents. Arthur cannot claim to be entirely at his ease when uttering sentences such as, “Malcolm Leckie said he might motor over with his sister,” but they are sentences that have to be uttered if he is not to go mad. And on these occasions—a large lunch party, a tennis afternoon—he is never entirely sure his behaviour is natural. Has he been over-attentive to Touie, and did she notice? Was he too stiffly correct with Jean, and might she have taken offence? But the problem is his to be borne. Touie never gives an indication that she finds anything amiss. And Jean—bless her—behaves with an ease and decorum which reassures him that nothing will go wrong. She never seeks him out in private, never slips a lover’s note into his hand. At times, it is true, he thinks she is making a show of flirting with him. But when he considers it afterwards, he decides that she is deliberately behaving as she would do if they knew one another no better than they were pretending to. Perhaps the best way to show a wife that you have no designs on her husband is to flirt with him in front of her. If so, that is remarkably clever thinking.