Faster! Faster! (18 page)

“Sylvia will probably come and tell me about it.”

“As she knows she's been found out, she probably will”

Claudia turned towards the house.

After all, she thought, Copper knew nothing whatever about his daughter, nor was he capable of understanding the relationship between her and her mother.

Secure, at least, in her own comprehension and sympathy, Claudia went straight to Sylvia's room.

Her daughter was not yet out of bed. She lay, covered only by the sheet, her tousled auburn hair giving her a more than usually child-like aspect, her eyes meeting those of Claudia frankly and fully.

“Mother? Oh, has Grandmama told you?”

“No. Daddy has.”

Claudia sat down on the foot of the bed.

“Can you tell me about it, darling? It's just that you wanted a—a mild sort of adventure, isn't it?”

“Not exactly that,” said Sylvia slowly. “I'd like to tell you. Of course, I meant to anyway. I don't mean about last night, but the whole thing.”

“The whole thing,” echoed Claudia.

A cold dismay had begun to invade her. She realized that she was feeling slightly sick.

“Shall we talk after breakfast?” she suggested. “The gong is going to ring in a few minutes. I only wanted to be sure you were all right, darling.”

“Mummie, you're marvellous,” said Sylvia joyously. “Of course I'm all right.”

Damn that old woman, thought Quarrendon with angry futility.

He felt that, if it hadn't been for Mrs Peel, there need have been none of those private conversations that had now, he saw, become inevitable, and in which it would be almost impossible for any of the participants to convey their true meanings one to another.

Copper Winsloe, he realized with a certain surprise, would have understood without too many explanations that his rendezvous with Sylvia had not been of the kind that demands parental interference.

But Mrs Peel …

Andrew Quarrendon walked up and down the garden-paths, his head bent and his hands behind his back.

Breakfast would be very embarrassing, and there was nothing for it but to go in to breakfast and hope that Mrs Peel would have the good sense to take hers in her room.

She had.

Claudia, who was pale and looked very tired, displayed a sort of febrile animation in conducting the conversation and it seemed to Quarrendon that she was especially careful to address him,
frequently and with an air of rather special consideration.

She knows, he thought. She's showing me that she isn't angry.

Sylvia came in late. At the single look that she gave him—half ashamed, half mischievous and wholly radiant—he forgot everything else.

Sal Oliver asked whether the storm had done much harm to the garden, and when breakfast was over she went out with Copper.

Taffy and Maurice earnestly debated the items in the Bank Holiday programme of the
Radio Times.
Frances—the only person willing to listen to them—was assured that she would enjoy hearing an item from Normandy. It was, Maurice said, the best that could be had early in the morning. Frances amiably followed him to the library.

Quarrendon stood, uncertainly, in the hall.

Sylvia was close beside him.

“It's all right,” she murmured. “It's really only Grandmama. Mother will understand. You know I was going to tell her anyway.”

“I know. Sylvia, my sweet, I'm so ashamed. I've made things difficult for you.”

“It's all right,” she repeated. “I think I'll get it over quickly, and I'll come out to you in the garden. Will you wait near the stream?”

“I love you,” he whispered.

“So do I.”

“Sylvia, will you fetch me if I can do anything to make things easier?”

“Yes. But it'll be all right.”

He wandered wretchedly into the garden.

It was not Sylvia who came to find him half an hour later, but her mother.

Claudia advanced with her light, quick step, moving so swiftly and youthfully that it caused him a second of strange surprise when he saw the lines graven on either side of her mouth and the slight discolouration beneath her eyes.

“Will you come in?” she said directly. “I think you could help us. Sylvia and me, I mean.”

Quarrendon without speaking fell into step beside her.

“She tells me,” Claudia said, “that you and she have fallen in love with one another. I didn't know. I hadn't realized that at all. I thought you were attracted by her because of her looks and her youth. Even after last night I thought it was just that.”

“No,” said Quarrendon as Claudia paused, as though expecting him to say something. “No, it isn't just that.”

“Can you explain, a little bit?” Claudia asked gently. “You see, I don't think anything matters really, so long as we're honest about it. My husband, as you've probably guessed, takes a rather conventional view of these things, and as for my mother—” she laughed a little, “well, it's particularly unlucky that she should know anything about any of it. I don't mean, you know, that she suspects you of anything worse than what she probably calls ‘compromising a young girl'—but that's
quite enough to make her ask very seriously what your intentions are.”

“A question,” said Quarrendon gravely, “that you, at least, have the right to ask.”

“I'm afraid so,” she agreed. “However much I believe in letting my children live their own lives and buy their own experience, I've got to remember—we've both got to remember—that Sylvia is very young. You know that.”

“Yes,” he said.

He followed her up to the schoolroom, where Sylvia was.

She moved across to Quarrendon's side at once.

Something in the gesture caused him to put out his hand and clasp hers strongly.

“Mother's being marvellously understanding and kind,” Sylvia said. “Only she doesn't realize, exactly, that the thing that's happened to us, Andrew, is so important. The sort of thing that changes all one's life. She just thinks—don't you, Mummie—that it's something quite passing and —sort of trivial.”

“You've known Sylvia three days,” said Claudia, looking at Quarrendon.

It was not a reproach, but only a statement of fact.

“Yes,” he said. “But she's quite right. The thing that's happened to us
is
important,”

“Then,” Claudia said, “you want Sylvia to marry you?”

Before he could answer, Sylvia had begun to speak.

“That's just it, Mother. We're not sure we want
to get married at all, and anyway we don't want to be engaged and have a fuss and everybody knowing. This is something that only concerns Andrew and me and we haven't decided anything yet.”

He felt her small, strong fingers pressing his as though to reassure him as she spoke, and the gesture stirred him profoundly.

“Do you feel that too?” Claudia asked Andrew in a low voice.

He was torn between his passionate love for the valiant, loyal child beside him, and his own unshakable inner certainty that marriage, shackling his freedom and crippling his powers of work, was not and could never be what he wanted.

That Claudia must think him a cad and a coward mattered very little, but that he must hurt Sylvia was unendurable.

The sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Sylvia is perfectly right,” he said hoarsely. “This is something that concerns only ourselves. I don't mean that you haven't the right to know— she's living under your roof, she's your child—but any decision should be hers and mine.”

Claudia shook her head.

“No,” she said, and her voice was now very clear and decided. “Sylvia isn't a woman of eight or nine and twenty. She's almost a child still, without experience and without real understanding of what it is that you're asking. It's this, isn't it? You want to see her continually, to make love to her, to absorb her imagination, and her thoughts, and her dreams, so that everybody else is excluded from her mind for the time being—and perhaps, later
on, to become her lover. (I'm going to put this all into plain words. We're going to get it absolutely straight.) What you don't want, is to make the tie a permanent one—to marry. And you're quite right. You're a man of, I suppose, my own age. Sylvia is nineteen. You're in love with her now, but what you really want is to follow your career, to go on with the life to which you've grown accustomed, to have the right to consider your own interests first, to spend your money as you wish to spend it, to keep your absolute independence. You're quite right. It isn't for you to marry any girl of Sylvia's age. But what you can't do, Andrew, is to have it both ways. That's really what you're asking for, isn't it?”

Her great eyes were boring relentlessly into his.

Everything she had said was true, and yet he had the strongest conviction that she was speaking falsely. She wanted to separate Sylvia from him, but it was for reasons other than those that she had given.

“Do you want me,” he asked, “to give up seeing her altogether? To have nothing more to do with her?”

Before Claudia could answer, Sylvia had spoken.

“Mother couldn't possibly want that,” she said confidently. “She isn't cruel and tyrannical. You've always said, haven't you Mother, that we were to make our own decisions and to judge things for ourselves. You couldn't possibly go back on that now, when this is the most important thing in my whole life. Perhaps it sounds rather silly to say that when I'm only nineteen, but it's true. I can't tell
you exactly how I know, but I
do
know that it's true.”

Claudia smiled very faintly.

“You've known him three days,” she said.

Quarrendon felt a quick contraction of the muscles of the hand clasped within his own, as if those five words had revealed something to her suddenly.

She said piteously:

“Mother, don't you understand?”

“Yes,” Claudia said. “I see that you love Andrew. I don't know—neither do you, none of us does—whether it's something that will last and that may affect your whole life, or whether it's only a vivid emotional experience, not a deep one. But my darling, darling child, whichever it is you've got to be hurt, and I wish to God I could take it for you. Don't you see that—he doesn't love you enough?”

“That's not true,” said Sylvia simply.

“No,” said Andrew, “it's not true.”

He turned and looked at Sylvia. He saw that her eyes were brimming with tears, but her soft, childish mouth broke into a quivering, courageous smile as their eyes met.

“I know it isn't true,” said Sylvia. “I know you love me, Andrew—just as I love you. I don't want us to get married, or anything like that. I don't think I believe in marriage anyway. But I'm not going to give you up, unless you want me to.”

Claudia put up her hand and pushed the hair away from her face with an oppressed, exhausted gesture.

“Darling, you're not old enough, and not sufficiently experienced, to take a decision like that. You don't even realize what it would imply. How do you suppose Daddy would ever tolerate a situation of the kind you're suggesting? Even from a purely practical point of view, it's impossible.”

“No,” said Sylvia. “If I get a job, and go and live in London, it's not impossible at all. What I do there is my own affair. I quite see about Daddy—I know he'd never understand—and I couldn't live at home and do what he'd think wrong—but it was all settled, about my going to London, ages ago. If I don't get one job, I shall go on looking till I find another. And then Andrew and I will be able to be together whenever he comes to London.”

Claudia turned and looked at Quarrendon.

He answered the look.

“It was I who asked her if she'd do that. I asked her yesterday.”

“You can't do it,” said Claudia calmly and directly. “You can't do that to Sylvia. You and I know, if she doesn't, that it means breaking her heart sooner or later, and though the heart-breaks of nineteen don't last, the things that they do to us last. They take something away—for ever. You can't do that to Sylvia, if you love her at all.”

“I do love her,” said Quarrendon.

He saw that Sylvia was crying.

She pulled her hand away from his, and brushed the tears from her eyes with a child-like gesture that caused them to run in long smears down her face. When she spoke her voice shook, and every
now and then broke into a sob.

“Listen, Mother. I do know what I'm talking about. I know that I love Andrew and that he loves me, and that that will always be worth whatever comes out of it, even if it's what you call breaking my heart. I don't want him to marry me. He's told me why he doesn't want to marry anybody, and he's quite right. I understand. He's told me that I may have to suffer—that both of us may. I don't care. I don't believe that suffering is a dreadful thing we've got to avoid. It's one side of experience, just like happiness is the other, and that's the greatest thing in the world, and Andrew—Andrew will give it to me.”

She put her hands over her face, sobbing and crying.

Quarrendon put his arm round her and gently placed her in one of the creaking wicker chairs. He knelt on one knee beside her. He could see nothing through the dimming of his thick lenses, and he took them off and looked up at her.

“Sylvia,” he said, “will you marry me?”

She shook her head vehemently.

“No—no. You mustn't marry anybody. You've got to be free.”

A pang went through him as he realized afresh the truth implicit in her words.

“We'll make it mean freedom—for both of us. And I can't let you go, Sylvia.”

Claudia, suddenly unable to bear it, left them.

She went along the passage, hearing without noting the eternal blare of the radio from below, and went into her own room. She felt wretched and exhausted.