The Blackmailer, page 13
Judith got up too. ‘Please.…’ she began. ‘Please don’t do anything rash. I have thought so carefully about whether anything could be done.…’
‘What is his name?’ said Mrs. Lane.
‘But please,’ said Judith. ‘It won’t do any good.’
Mrs. Lane suddenly seized her by both arms. ‘What is his name?’ she said wildly. ‘What is his name? What is his name?’
‘But I can’t tell you, I can’t,’ said Judith. ‘He didn’t tell me who he was. He wouldn’t say.’
Mrs. Lane began to shake her. ‘You’ll tell me who he is,’ she now spoke in a sort of screaming whisper. ‘I’ll make you tell me. I daresay you thought it all very fine to get money out of an old idiot like that. Didn’t you? What did you do with the money? Did you keep it? Did you make the whole thing up?’
‘No no stop,’ said Judith. ‘You mustn’t say that. I know how awful it is. I was horrified too.’
‘So you were horrified,’ Mrs. Lane was still gripping Judith’s arms. ‘You were horrified. Oh yes. Of course. You thought it was a good way of getting money didn’t you? Was it for this man, or did you make the whole thing up yourself? He’s your lover—you hatched the plot between you. You’ve always been after our money. That’s why you married Anthony. I knew at the time you didn’t care for him.’
‘Oh don’t don’t,’ said Judith. ‘You mustn’t say that, you don’t mean it.’
Mrs. Lane suddenly let go of her arms, pushing her violently away.
‘You never understood him,’ she walked away from Judith. ‘You wanted the money, the position. I knew. How could you understand that sort of man, who was a gentleman and came from a good family? This could never have happened, never, when I was young. Nobody would have believed you then. The world’s changed. People have no sense of values, no decency, they’re all out for what they can get. Our sort of people get pushed aside by all the lies and ingratitude. The Welfare State—it’s just a means of sheltering these liars and slanderers and upstarts. I brought Anthony up in the old-fashioned way, to be what his father was before him.’
She suddenly stopped, and turned fiercely round.
‘If his father had been alive this would never have happened,’ she said. ‘He would never have allowed it. He wouldn’t have allowed the marriage. He’d have seen Anthony married to someone who could understand him, someone of his own sort.’ Tears began to run down her face, which did not change its expression of fierce despair. ‘I spent my whole life in bringing up Anthony to be what he was. My whole life. My husband died of overwork for his country—they don’t do that now. They have a five day week, holidays with pay, pensions, free this, free that. But my husband and my son died for them. They don’t do anything for widows and mothers, do they, in the Welfare State? They don’t do anything for me, do they? I have to live out my miserable life in that horrible uncomfortable house with a gaga old man, and who cares what becomes of me? I don’t get anything for it. They don’t do anything for old women, do they? Who ought to be being looked after. But who cares for what I’ve done for my country—both my brothers were killed in the war. But they don’t do anything for old women. There’s no sense of values. The young are so selfish.…’ her voice mercifully began to die down.
‘I know,’ said Judith quickly, urgently wishing to put an end to this horrifying tirade. ‘I know how you feel, I really do.… Look, do come and sit down.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘You’re selfish and hard like all your immoral generation. Why should I sit down, here, in your house, when you’re a traitor to everything Anthony died for?’
Judith said gently: ‘You needn’t of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was all this bitterness in you—I never really knew what you were feeling, but I never imagined, I never dreamt, it could be this.’
Mrs. Lane was now leaning against the wall in an attitude of exhaustion, still very pale.
‘You think I’m just a bitter old woman,’ she said. ‘You wait. You’ll see. I’ve been patient. I’ve done my duty. But who cares for an old woman? I’m ugly. I’m often in pain. What do I get back for what I gave? Soon I shall die, but who’ll care about that? I’m just a useless old woman in a world that’s made for money, and war, and power. Nobody believes in what I believe in now.’
‘But you must believe it,’ Judith was trembling with shock and with desire to persuade this unknown frantic being out of its despair. ‘You don’t believe it any more. You haven’t thought lately, you’ve forgotten what your faith was—it wasn’t like this. It was strong and valid once. It was a faith in humanity and God, and.…’
‘God!’ said Mrs. Lane, jerking herself away from the wall and sitting slowly down in an armchair. ‘What do you know about God? You’re all atheists, your generation. Our God doesn’t exist any more. You saw to that.’ She took a small handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose violently. ‘What do you care about Anthony?’ she then said. ‘You never had any children. The modern generation don’t believe in children. I know.’
The door was suddenly opened and Jean-Claude’s ugly sane face looked in. ‘You heard not the bell?’ he asked. ‘Is Mr. Reeves.’
‘Oh Baldwin,’ said Judith, as his figure appeared in the dark of the hall, behind Jean-Claude. ‘Look, I’ve something to show you here, before you come in.…’
Outside the drawing-room she shut the door, and led Baldwin half way up the stairs, out of earshot.
‘Listen, I’ve had the most terrifying scene with my mother-in-law,’ she said quickly. ‘About Anthony. I had to tell her—she found out—I can’t explain now. But she went absolutely frantic, she won’t believe it, she thinks I made it up to get the money—I can’t tell you how awful it was. She’s almost mad.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Baldwin. ‘D’you want me to go?’
‘No, we’ll go in in a minute,’ said Judith. ‘It’s better, I think. If she’s alone with me she’ll only start again. But she knows you were with Anthony. She doesn’t think you’re the blackmailer. I told her that was someone else; but she’s very likely to talk to you about it.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ asked Baldwin.
‘You must tell her he was a hero,’ said Judith. ‘It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. Tell her that.’
She led the way back into the drawing-room.
The arrival of a stranger had induced Mrs. Lane to make the effort necessary to calm herself. She was sitting quietly, looking at an evening paper. Judith introduced Baldwin, and he began to make polite conversation while Jean-Claude cleared away the tea things. Judith, suddenly tired, leant back in her chair and allowed Baldwin to take over the conversation. She had to admit he did it well, talking entertainingly but uncontroversially about theatres, the traffic problem, this and that. The look of strain lessened on Mrs. Lane’s face, but after a time she took advantage of a brief pause to say, with her polite smile:
‘Wasn’t it you who was in the same regiment as my son Anthony?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Baldwin. ‘I remember coming to your flat in Hyde Park Gate once with him. Have you still got that? It was so nice, I remember.’
‘No, I gave it up,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘I don’t come up to London a great deal now. My life is much quieter without Anthony. We were so much together, you know.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Baldwin. ‘You live up in Lancashire, then, do you? Or is it Yorkshire?’
‘Anthony was a wonderful son to me,’ said Mrs. Lane, without answering. ‘There aren’t many people like that nowadays. They always say it’s the best who go, don’t they?’
Judith, checking an impulse desperately to agree, went over to the cupboard in the hope that an offer of a drink might change the subject.
‘Didn’t Judith tell me,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘That you were with Anthony most of that terrible time?’
‘Yes, I was,’ said Baldwin.
‘You’ll forgive me if I say I think that was a privilege?’ said Mrs. Lane, smiling again.
‘It was,’ said Baldwin. ‘Anthony had immense charm. I very much enjoyed knowing him. He had a lot of friends, of course. I wonder if you ever see any of them. Do you remember Charles Finnigan, who came with us to the flat that day?’
‘Some of his friends were rather odd,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘Some were jealous, and wanted to detract from his glory. He died a glorious death, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. ‘But Charles was always one of his most outspoken admirers. I just wondered whether you knew what he’d done after the war. His family lived in Leicestershire somewhere, I think.’
Miraculously, Mrs. Lane did know the Finnigans and could be persuaded to talk about them. In fact the conversation flowed on comparatively smoothly until she said, addressing Judith for the first time since Baldwin’s arrival: ‘I’m afraid I must go. The Digbys are back from Washington and very kindly asked me to dinner, and I shall have to change. I’m looking forward to seeing them again. Thank you so much for my tea. No, don’t bother to see me out. Oh, my coat—thank you so much, Mr. Reed. I’m glad to think you knew Anthony. You know, mothers are foolish, I’m afraid, and I’m awfully proud to think he was a hero.’ Again the wild smile, and she shook hands with Baldwin, though not with Judith, and was gone.
‘Oh oh oh,’ Judith sank into a chair. ‘That was awful, terrible, frightful.…’
‘She will convince herself again that he was a hero,’ said Baldwin. ‘She’ll really believe it before long.’
‘But what can her life be like?’ said Judith. ‘I had no idea, no idea. You don’t know the bitterness she revealed, the horror. Bitterness against everything. Oh, such despair.…’
Baldwin sat down opposite her, and looked at her attentively. ‘It’s not easy to be old,’ he said.
‘But I had no idea,’ said Judith. ‘That’s what’s so extraordinary. Was she always like that, do you imagine?’
‘Probably it was once quite an admirable pride,’ said Baldwin.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Judith. ‘I forgot about that. I couldn’t bear another scene.’
‘I’m very reasonable really,’ said Baldwin, smiling. ‘Very reasonable. If you like I’ll go away, but I’d rather not.’
‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ said Judith. ‘Besides I’d rather not be alone—life’s too alarming, suddenly.’
‘What a confession,’ said Baldwin. ‘You admit that you’d rather have me than nothing—I never dared hope for as much as that. No, I mean it—it was a moment of weakness of which I won’t remind you, but I am pleased.’
‘But look,’ said Judith. ‘All this is your fault.’
‘I know,’ said Baldwin seriously. ‘Of course I know. I want to talk to you about it, and about some other important things, but I thought perhaps not now?’
‘No, not now,’ said Judith. ‘After dinner.’
‘After dinner,’ said Baldwin, noticing that she was committing herself to spending the evening with him.
‘How did she find out?’ he asked later.
‘She opened a letter I wrote to the old man,’ said Judith.
‘What did it say?’ asked Baldwin.
‘Oh, it mentioned the money and so on,’ said Judith. ‘He paid it you see. The £500 came. I knew it would, and now you say you don’t want it.’
‘No,’ said Baldwin. ‘Send it back. I never knew you’d told him.’
‘You told me to, don’t you remember?’ said Judith. ‘I hadn’t got that amount of money myself.’
‘Oh,’ said Baldwin.
‘So now I’m to send it back?’ asked Judith.
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin.
‘Well, you have got into a mess, haven’t you, over this?’ said Judith.
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin.
‘I can’t think what you were doing really,’ said Judith. ‘And it was very dangerous. You might easily have gone to prison.’
‘Perhaps that was what appealed to me about it?’ suggested Baldwin.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Judith.
‘No,’ said Baldwin. ‘I think it was jealousy of Anthony among other things. He got away with so much, you know; and then I felt he was even getting away with that, when I came back and found him a public hero. And you looked a bit like him, in a way, as if you might be equally unassailable. That made me want to tell you—yes, nasty I know. I knew it was nasty at the time. The thought of blackmail came second.’
‘You felt that gave you a reasonable excuse for making the revelation which was to humiliate me?’ asked Judith, coldly.
‘Possibly, possibly,’ said Baldwin. ‘I don’t fool myself. I did it only because I thought anything legitimate which might serve to further my ambitions.’
‘You still think that?’ asked Judith.
Baldwin looked embarrassed. ‘It’s a—a theory which might have to be modified,’ he said. ‘In practice.’
Judith smiled.
‘But you can imagine feeling the power,’ he said, with some vehemence, looking at her. ‘The power in you. Imagine feeling every day more confident in it, knowing it’s growing and time is passing, and not being allowed to use it.’
‘There’s humility,’ said Judith. ‘The most tiresome, and the most often misinterpreted, of the Christian virtues, I know, but still there it is.’
‘I have no humility and no patience,’ said Baldwin. ‘Perhaps you would care to teach them to me.’
‘I don’t think I can teach you anything,’ said Judith.
He was not prepared to argue with her now. He smiled and said: ‘You taught me how not to be a blackmailer.’
‘I should have thought you were quite a successful one,’ said Judith.
‘You mean the money?’ he said. ‘You must tell me which was his and which was yours, so that I can return it.’
‘And that, of course, will make everything all right?’ said Judith.
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I told you. I made you tell him. And the mother.’
‘She’ll never get over it,’ said Judith. ‘And he is a simple man with simple principles who—what an awful thing to have done, what an awful thing.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. ‘It was irresponsible. You know I wish you hadn’t told him. I never really thought you would.’
‘How was I to get the money?’ said Judith. ‘And there you were, waving that foul document in front of my face. No, you can’t shift the blame.’
‘I wasn’t trying to do that,’ said Baldwin. ‘No, I accept it all. But it makes it difficult. He knows it’s me, of course?’
‘Yes,’ said Judith.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No, I really wish he didn’t know. I really wish he didn’t.’
‘Why?’ said Judith. ‘What does it matter to you?’
‘It makes things difficult,’ said Baldwin. ‘Especially in view of the proposition I was going to make to you. You’re fond of him, aren’t you?’
‘What proposition?’ asked Judith.
‘You respect his opinion, don’t you?’ said Baldwin. ‘He’s your family, more or less, only you’re more sentimental about him. Isn’t that so?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Judith. ‘It’s my home, very much. There’s no reason why it should be, now, but it still is.’
‘And you go up for a lot of week-ends,’ said Baldwin. ‘And you really rather admire your mother-in-law too. And there’s old Nanny, and the house, and the village.’
‘Did I tell you this?’ asked Judith.
‘Not in so many words,’ he said.
‘What about it?’ she said.
‘I’m afraid if we got married it might mean a break with them,’ he answered.
There was a pause. ‘I should have thought that was a contingency which was hardly likely to arise,’ said Judith, event- ually.
‘You don’t face facts,’ he said.
‘Facts?’ she echoed.
‘The fact of—no, don’t be angry—the fact of what exists between us,’ he said. ‘Please don’t ignore it. But we should get on very well. We’re the same sort of person. Together we should be much more of a force than apart.’
‘You’re thinking of power again,’ she said. ‘You think I might help you to be successful—a wife might be useful to your career. I’m to be nice to the right people, have them to dinner, open fêtes and jumble sales when you stand for Parliament.’
He smiled. ‘You’d be rather good at it,’ he said. ‘You’d hate it, but funnily enough you’d really be quite good at it. No, you know I don’t mean only that: you want to pretend I mean that so that you can work yourself up into a rage and think how despicable I am, but there’s more to it than that, and I know you know it because you always know what I mean. That you can admit—aren’t I horribly clear to you?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said.
‘Look, you know how you find the world,’ he said. ‘Remember that scene tonight with Mrs. Lane. You know how sometimes madness seems to be on every side. You see it on people’s faces in the street. Or illness. You think everything’s fine with people and then there’s some little lie and the whole thing’s gone to pieces. Sometimes you think the only people who aren’t impossibly shifty or mad are the very very stupid, or the ones who are dying. But you and I, to each other, are different. We’re reasonable, we’re of the same mind—we haven’t altogether proved it, but we know it. We do, you know.’
‘I don’t,’ said Judith. ‘Nor do I think all that.’ She was thinking of Thomas, but rather as if he were dead.
‘You think I’m bad, you know,’ said Baldwin, after a pause. ‘With reason, no doubt. But what about you? You seem, in some curious way, to have come to think of yourself as a Lane—not a member of the real Lane family, because after all we both know the very great weaknesses of that—but a sort of idealised Lane, upholding the old traditions, rooted firmly in your county past, a part of English history.…’
‘No,’ said Judith. ‘Nonsense.’
‘Now morally,’ said Baldwin. ‘I’m the first to admit you’re a good deal better than I am, but you can be unscrupulous too. What about your behaviour to Thomas Hood? How’s that been?’
