Antony had hardly set foot in Latter End before he was convinced that, Jimmy or no Jimmy, business or no business, he would have done better to have stayed in town. It had not been a happy household when he had said goodbye to it ten days ago, but it was a paradise compared with how he found it now. Minnie Mercer’s looks fairly horrified him. She had the air of a sleepwalker set apart from those around her in some miserable dream. It reminded him of a picture which he had once seen and been unable to forget. The artist had painted a girl who was just about to be shot as a spy. Before his colours were dry she was dead. In the picture she scarcely looked alive. Every time he looked at Minnie the picture came into his mind. No wonder poor old Jimmy was worried about her.
By the time he was halfway through his talk with Jimmy in the study he was worried about Jimmy too. There was something wrong, and he had only to see him and Lois together at the evening meal to realize that this something lay between husband and wife. Lois, in extreme good looks, lost no opportunity of making this clear. Her glance flicked over Jimmy with light contempt. She called him “darling” in a voice like splintered ice—a voice which melted charmingly to Antony a moment later. After which it sank to a murmur, which Jimmy at the other end of the table was vainly trying to follow.
Antony was sitting next to her. You cannot turn your back upon your hostess. You cannot change your place at table. He kept his own voice audible, and presently endeavoured to make the conversation general. Only Julia responded. Ellie looked worn out. Minnie was in her dream, and Jimmy quite unmistakably in one of his rare queer fits of temper. Usually the most abstemious of men, he poured himself out so liberal an allowance of whisky that Lois raised her eyebrows, upon which he drank it off with the merest modicum of soda. And did it again.
When he looked back afterwards Antony was to wonder by what variation in his own conduct the issue might have been avoided. He was left with the hopeless feeling that too many other people were concerned. There was too strong an undertow. It would have taken more than any effort of his to stem the flow which was sweeping them to disaster.
If Jimmy hadn’t asked Julia to sing, insisting until it would have been folly to refuse; if he himself had not gone out into the garden with Lois; if Jimmy hadn’t tuned up his obstinacy, his hurt feelings, his vague suspicions, with all that whisky; if Gladys Marsh hadn’t taken it into her head to have a bath… What was the good of all those “if ”s? There are states of the mind, and states of feeling, in which some mounting passion turns everything to its own ends, as a fire once it has taken hold will feed on what is meant to smother it, and turn all efforts to get it under into an added heat.
One of the changes which Lois had made in the drawing-room was the removal of the piano. It was supposed to be somewhere vaguely in store, but Julia said roundly that Lois had sold it. There was, however, an old piano in the schoolroom, and to the schoolroom they repaired, with Jimmy demanding Julia should sing.
Lois lifted her eyebrows and gave a faint icy laugh.
“My dear Jimmy—how antediluvian! I thought ‘a little music after dinner’ was dead and buried!”
He gave her a resentful look.
“I happen to like music after dinner. I happen to want to hear Julia sing. Haven’t heard her sing for years. Sit down and begin. P’raps it’ll sweeten this revolting coffee.”
The eyebrows rose again.
“You needn’t take it.”
“You know damn well why I take it.”
Lois laughed.
“That’s Jimmy’s latest!” she said to Antony. “If I’m to be poisoned, he’ll be poisoned too. Touching devotion—isn’t it?” She picked up her cup off the tray and crossed over to the window where he stood half turned from the room. “He’s in a filthy temper, isn’t he?” She hardly troubled to drop her voice. “We had a row about Hodson’s cottage. I wanted it for the Greenacres, you know. And it was all fixed up—the old man was going to a daughter-in-law in London, where he’d be properly looked after. But now Jimmy’s come crashing in on my nice plan and says he won’t have it. What do you think of that? I’m furious.”
He smiled at her.
“I think you’d better let the cottages alone.”
She leaned nearer.
“Come into the garden and soothe me down. You haven’t any unnatural craving for the drawing-room ballad, have you?”
“I want to hear Julia sing.”
She threw him a bright, sarcastic glance, settled herself on the window seat, and lighted a cigarette.
After a moment’s hesitation Antony sat down too. He had drunk his coffee and left his cup on the tray. Jimmy was making faces over his and drinking it doggedly down. Lois’ cup, with only the dregs left in it now, stood between them on the broad oak sill.
His eye travelled to Ellie sitting by herself in the corner. He wondered what she was thinking about. It would not have comforted him very much if he had known. She was going over and over what had happened at the hospital that afternoon. Well, what had happened? She kept on saying to herself, “Nothing—nothing—nothing.” But it wasn’t any use saying that when you felt sick with misery. Nothing had happened—nothing at all. You had to keep on saying it. It was like being in a boat with the water coming in through a hole you couldn’t see—you had to keep on baling. But if the hole was too big, it wasn’t any use, the water would swamp you.
She saw Ronnie’s face, all pleased and lighted up as she had seen it when she got to the hospital. The pleased look wasn’t for her. She had a bare half-minute of thinking it was, and then he was telling her about Nurse Blackwell being transferred to Brighton, to the home he was going to. Nurse Blackwell was the pretty girl who laughed. She always looked as fresh as if she hadn’t anything to do except look like that. Ronnie said, “Isn’t it marvellous?” Ellie said, “Marvellous— ” Her voice sounded like a tired echo. She felt like that, too— just an echo fading out. Something cold touched her heart.
Julia struck a chord or two and began to sing. She had what Antony had once called a voice of cream and honey—sweet and rich without being very large. Contraltos are apt to be ponderous. Julia’s voice flowed easily in the old, country songs which Jimmy demanded—“Barbara Allen”—“The Bailiff’s Daughter.” Lois’ drawled “Rather infant school, don’t you think?” was taken no notice of.
Jimmy was asking for “the jolly tune you used to sing— the one with all the animals. You know—we used to call it the ‘Zoo.’ ”
Julia’s laugh rang out quite naturally.
“ ‘Love will find out the way’? All right.”
She began a spirited prelude, and sang to an old and charming tune:
Over the mountains,
And under the waves;
Under the fountains,
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest;
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him,
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne’er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,
Blind love, if so ye call him,
Will find out the way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phoenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her
To give o’er her prey;
But you’ll ne’er stop a lover:
He will find out his way.
On the last word Lois stood up, throwing her cigarette-end out of the window. Her voice cut clearly across Julia’s closing chords.
“Well, we’re going to leave you to wallow in folk song. It isn’t my line. Antony and I are going into the garden.”
This was one of the times he thought about afterwards. If he had stayed where he was, imitating her frankness with a cool and quite truthful declaration that he liked the old songs and liked to hear Julia sing them, would it have made any difference? Lois would probably have stayed too, fidgeting with the things from the bag she always carried—cigarette case, lighter, compact; talking without taking the trouble to lower her voice; rasping Jimmy’s temper. It really seemed better to go off with her into the garden, leaving Julia to minister to Jimmy’s mood.
He stepped out over the low sill and gave Lois his hand. The swish of her dress knocked her coffee cup over. It fell and rolled, but did not break.
Minnie came out of her corner to retrieve it. She stood looking at it for a moment before she set it down with its saucer upon the tray.
“It’s not broken,” she said—“just the tiniest chip by the handle. Marcia was so fond of these cups, and there aren’t a great many of them left. I’m glad it isn’t broken.”
She spoke as if she were talking to herself—as if she were alone in the room, or alone in that dream of hers. Then she picked up the tray and went away.
In the garden, Antony laid himself out to entertain his hostess. That, at least, was the part he had cast himself for, the entertaining guest. Unfortunately, it takes two to play a scene. Lois had her own idea of the scene she meant to play. A fine sunny evening; still, warm air; a bird or two calling; a glow of colour from the autumn border—these were the setting. And for characters, what could be more promising than a pretty woman who is bored, and the man who used to ask nothing better than to make love to her?
She began to show him that it would not be disagreeable to her if he were to do it again. If that had been all, it would not have been too bad. Antony could hold his own in a verbal cut-and-thrust. But with every passing moment he was made aware of something underneath the play. Some current, dangerously alive—ready to give off sparks.
He began to wish very heartily that he had remained in the bosom of the family. And then quite suddenly she changed her tone. The lightness went out of it. She said in a voice which sounded perfectly human and sincere,
“Antony, I’m bored to death.”
Relief brought a smile to his lips.
“What do I say?—‘Thank you for the compliment.’ ”
It was her turn to frown.
“I can’t live here. I was a fool to try.”
He said, “Why you’re only just beginning. A week or two ago you were full of all the things you were going to do.”
She said in a curiously sombre manner,
“The bottom’s dropped out of it. I can’t live in the country. I shall take a flat in town.”
“I don’t think you’ll get Jimmy to live in town.”
“I could if I tried, but—I don’t intend to try.”
He gave her a keen glance. This was a Lois he did not know. Her face seemed to have grown heavier. Her eyes looked past him with something fixed in their expression, pupils narrowing against the light. He said casually,
“And what do you mean by that? Or do you mean anything at all?”
She said in a low, obstinate tone,
“Yes, I mean something. I think you know what I mean.”
“I hope I don’t.”
“It’s no good hoping. I’m not going on like this.”
He kept the casual note.
“Because you and Jimmy have had a row?”
She said, “No,” left time for that to sink in, and then went on with a warm change of expression, manner, everything. “Antony, don’t you see that I can’t go on?”
“Frankly, I don’t.”
“Don’t you? Then try! Antony, won’t you just try? I was a fool two years ago. There—I’ve said it! If I’d known that those Doubleday relations would settle out of court… I can’t do without money, you know—it’s no use pretending that I can. I’ve always been quite honest about that, haven’t I?”
“Perfectly.”
“I can’t do without money, and I can’t do without people. I’ve got to get back to town.”
He said quite seriously,
“Lois, I think you’re being stupid. What have you been making all these changes for if you’re not going to be here? You’re clearing the house, you’ve got a new staff coming in. You’re planning to entertain—to have people down here. Jimmy won’t stop you—he likes having the house full.”
She laughed.
“No—Jimmy won’t stop me.”
He would rather she had remained sullen, but he laughed too.
“Well then, what do you want?”
She turned her head and looked past him again, but this time she was smiling.
“I’ll tell you if you like. Or perhaps you can guess. And when I want things I generally get them.”
“Do you?”
Their eyes met for a moment. Hers were full of a sparkling vitality. The current was dangerous again. Then she laughed.
“I shall have my flat in town. You’ll come and see me there, won’t you? We can have week-end parties down here, just to keep the staff up to the mark and give the village something to talk about.”
“It sounds marvellous. And now don’t you think we’d better go in?”
“And join the community singing?” She dropped her voice a note. “Afraid of being alone with me, darling?”
She got a black frown.
“Look here, Lois—”
“Saint Anthony?”
Under the frowning brows his look was cold.
“I suppose you know what you’re playing at.”
“Don’t you?”
“Oh, certainly. You’ve had a row with Jimmy, and you think it’s a bright idea to annoy him by flirting with me. And I’m telling you quite seriously and frankly that there’s nothing doing, and that you’d better watch your step! I won’t be used to annoy Jimmy!”
She looked up at him with a provoking smile.
“You’d make an awfully good-looking parson. Have you ever thought of taking orders?”
“Lois, listen a moment! You’re bored. You’re angry with Jimmy—”
“And you’ve turned my head. Darling, do go on—this is thrilling!”
“Yes, I’m going on. I said you’d better watch your step, and I meant it. I’ve seen Jimmy in this mood before—not very often—perhaps three or four times. Well, there’s no knowing what he might do. He got up against his father once—Marcia told me about it—when he was about twenty. And he just walked out of the house and off the map. They didn’t know whether he was alive or dead for a year. Then he turned up again—walked in full of bonhomie as if nothing had happened. But he never told them where he had been, or what he had been doing. That’s a new light on Jimmy, isn’t it?”