THERE ARE FOUR SEASONS, page 28
“Let me die,” she pleaded. “I can’t bear to go on living without him. . . . I can’t bear it. . . .”
She looked a ghost of herself when she recovered, so weak that she could hardly raise her hand. Then Mabs and Walter took her abroad with them—to India, Ceylon, Java—and gradually life seemed to return to her. She had married again two years later and was now the blooming mother of two children. She was fond of Vicky and often came to see her, but Vicky couldn’t quite forgive her for those children—the children of which she had cheated Lionel. She sent Vicky photographs of them, but Vicky, whose display of photographs was the joke and despair of her children, put the photographs of Elaine’s little girls away in a drawer and never took them out again.
She returned to her book, but she was using a letter from Paula as a bookmark and that took her thoughts to Paula—Paula, the mother of seven children with an eighth on the way, undisputed aristocrat of home and village. Peter was passionately proud of her, of her beauty and energy and the forcefulness of character that made her so dominating a figure in his world. He loved everything about her, even the stoutness that marred her once lovely proportions. He himself was stout, too—stout and mahogany-faced and generous and imperturbable. He spoilt his young brood shamefully, delighting in their good looks and health and daring. They ran wild over the countryside with ponies and dogs, and were all accomplished riders almost as soon as they could walk.
“I think I’m the happiest man in the world,” he had said solemnly to Vicky the last time she had seen him.
She glanced through the letter again. “Daphne won a first in the children’s jumping competition at the Horse Show last week. . . . Jill’s pony’s gone a little lame, and the poor child is so upset about it. . . . Frankie went out with the guns last week, and Peter said he’s really quite a good shot for his age. . . . Patsy had her first riding lesson yesterday. She was rather frightened, but Peter says she’ll soon get over it. Do come over and spend a week or so with us, darling. The children say it’s years since they saw you.”
Vicky shook her head gently as she put back her letter in the pages of the book. No, she didn’t want to go and stay with Paula. The children were darlings but terribly noisy, and no one in the house ever seemed to sit down from morning to night. They were always out riding or walking or playing games or seeing to their dogs and horses and other live-stock. And they had loud voices and all talked at once. Even Paula’s voice had acquired a ringing tone suggestive of the barrack square. It had had to acquire it, of course, in order to make itself heard above the uproar. Paula’s family made Vicky feel very much a grandmother. . . .
Of the others, Margery now had two boys and Noel one daughter. Four years ago Noel had married a tall sinuous woman called Salome (she had been christened Ethel), and they had a solid foursquare little girl called Undine, of whom they were inordinately proud.
Vicky had only met Noel’s wife once before marriage, and still did not feel quite at ease with her. Noel said she was the “Rossetti type,” and certainly she was very striking looking, with her great eyes, full lips, and masses of untidy auburn hair. She dressed in exotic styles and shades, was perpetually horrified by the ugliness of modern life, and considered Noel a great poet. They had moved to a small house in St. John’s Wood, which was as bare and, in Vicky’s eyes, as comfortless as Noel’s Bloomsbury rooms had been.
Her reveries were interrupted by the sound of Celia’s noisy little car drawing up at the gate. Then Celia bustled into the garden, stout, cheerful, untidy, her greying hair done in an erratic bun beneath a lop-sided hat, carrying the large shopping basket which always accompanied her and which she used as a sort of travelling desk, for it contained her correspondence, account-books, and all the papers relating to the many parish affairs she conducted.
Mrs. Carothers had died the year before, and Celia now lived alone in Ivy Lodge, still filling her life with a succession of little duties, to each of which she seemed to give every ounce of energy she possessed.
Mrs. Abbot, too, had died after a stroke that had left her helpless for several months, and since then Celia had looked after both Roger and his parish.
Roger was a dreamy scholar, with hardly half a foot in the world of reality, and even the most determined matchmakers had resigned themselves to the fact that nothing would come of his lifelong friendship with Celia.
Mark very seldom came to the Vicarage now, and when he did he and Vicky avoided each other by tacit consent.
After Mrs. Carothers’ death the air of spick-and-spanness had vanished from Ivy Lodge (none of her delusions had prevented Mrs. Carothers from keeping a sharp lookout for dust and disorder) and Celia’s natural untidiness found full vent. All the rooms were now cluttered up with her belongings—the materials for the Women’s Institute classes (raffia, leather, basket-work), badges and uniforms belonging to the Girl Guides, the choir surplices she was mending, the hymn-books and prayer-books she was looking over for missing pages, account-books, minute-books, and food for her pets—for she kept two cats, a canary, a tortoise, and a hutch full of Angora rabbits.
“There you are, Vicky, darling,” she said. “Do you think you ought to be sitting out with your rheumatism?”
“Well, I can’t sit out without it,” said Vicky. “No, I’m all right, Celia. It’s sheltered here and the sun’s quite warm. Get a deck-chair from the summer-house and sit down yourself.”
“Well, only for a second, dear. I’m just on my way to clean the church brasses and do the flowers. That’s what I came for really. May I steal some of your chrysanthemums? I don’t seem to have any decent ones this year.”
“Yes, take as many as you like,” said Vicky.
“As many as Andrew will let me have, you mean,” said Celia. “As soon as I start picking them he’ll come up and say, ‘You stop pulling them flowers about, Miss Celia.’ ”
“No, he won’t,” smiled Vicky. “He’s sulking. He’ll let you do what you like this afternoon.”
Celia sat down in the deck-chair.
“Oh dear! It’s nice to sit down. I’ve just been up to the Vicarage. Roger’s got such a nasty cold and I’ve been trying to persuade him not to go out to his confirmation class, but he will, of course. I’ve been telling Mrs. Bird” [Mrs. Bird was Roger’s housekeeper] “to give him hot lemon last thing at night, but she’s so stupid. I’m sure she’ll forget or not make it really hot. I’m very worried about it. A neglected cold leads to all sorts of things, and Roger never takes any care of himself.”
Vicky laughed.
“You’re a fussy old hen, Celia. Roger’s all right. He always has a cold all through the winter. He has done ever since he was a little boy.”
“He ought to be more careful,” persisted Celia. “He’s not really strong. And he will fast on Fridays. Naturally he can’t keep up his strength. I simply dread Lent for him every year. I can’t see any merit in starvation, but it’s no use talking to him. He won’t look after himself. I found out yesterday that he was still wearing his summer underclothing.”
“Well, it’s only September, after all.”
“It’s very cold in the mornings and at night. There were several degrees of frost the night before last. I put all his summer things away and told Mrs. Bird she was to be sure to put out his winter things on Sunday.”
Vicky thought that it would be rather interesting to hear Mrs. Bird’s opinion of Celia. Mrs. Bird was a pleasant easygoing old woman, but even her patience must be sorely strained at times.
“I haven’t seen you since I came back from the Women’s Congress, have I?” said Celia suddenly. “I managed to get over to see Margery. It was only six miles from where the Congress was.”
“How was she?”
“Well, Vicky, is she——? You know what I mean, dear. Is there another little one——?”
Vicky stared at her.
“Oh, I’m sure not, Celia. She’d have told me.”
“Well, dear, I thought so. I really thought so.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No, she didn’t say anything, and I didn’t like to ask, but—well, dear, it was beginning to show. Vicky, wouldn’t it be lovely to have another little one in the family?”
Celia’s face radiated a tenderness that took from it its usual look of amiable foolishness.
Vicky’s heart contracted anxiously. She could never think of Margery without that contraction of the heart. She knew so little of her affairs. The child was so passionately proudly reserved. But Vicky was aware whenever she saw her of her unhappiness and disillusionment.
The marriage was turning out badly. Brian was dishonest, drank too much, and had affairs with women. His work as a commission agent brought in very little money, and he could never settle to a steady job. Peter had found him several, but he had lost them all. Vicky knew that behind her mask of proud reserve Margery suffered acutely. She was not the type of woman who can compromise or lower her ideals. She lived for her two little boys—Sandy, who was now ten, and Tony, who was eight—struggling to bring them up well and protect them from Brian’s influence, a struggle against heavy odds. Sometimes she looked worn out with work and worry. Another child. . . . Vicky’s heart sank still lower at the thought.
“Such a dear, Brian, isn’t he?” Celia was saying with a smile that was almost coy.
Brian, of course, still had a way with him. He was handsome, charming, and looked appealingly boyish, and Celia, who took everything at its face value, had never even suspected the unhappiness of Margery’s married life.
“Is he?” said Vicky shortly.
“Of course he is,” said Celia. “Not many young men would go out of their way to be nice to an old woman like me, but Brian does. You know, Vicky——” She stopped.
“Yes?” said Vicky.
“I know Margery’s splendid and manages wonderfully and all that, but—well, I do think she might be a little nicer to Brian. I’m not criticising her, dear, but I do think she might. She seems so hard and so—sharp with him sometimes, and he’s so sweet and patient always, and so responsive. I’ve never heard him say a hard word to her, however sharp she is with him. You know, Vicky, I wish you’d speak to her. A woman could do anything with Brian if she’d take him the right way.”
Brian had always been able to make women feel like that, thought Vicky bitterly, but she said nothing. She, too, had heard that rasping note in Margery’s voice when she spoke to Brian, and it had sent a pang through her heart. To hear her gentle dreamy little Margery nag like a shrew. . . . It was so unlike her, and it must come from such a deep well of bitterness. . . .
“I do wish you’d find out definitely, dear,” Celia went on. “I mean, about the little one. Paula’s is due in March, and if Margery’s— Well, I’d like to know in good time because of the christening robe. I must get it laundered between the two christenings, if Margery is——”
Celia had a christening robe that had been in her mother’s family for over a hundred years. It was trimmed with lace that was supposed to be priceless, but it was ugly and cumbersome and yellow with age. It was the apple of Celia’s eye, however. It gave her a pleasant sense of importance and made her feel the pivot on which the family revolved. Every niece and nephew had to be christened in it, and it had to be laundered and fussed over by Celia in between.
“I wish to goodness the wretched thing would get lost in the post,” Paula would say, but it always arrived safely the day before the christening, and it would have broken Celia’s heart had Paula suggested not using it. Even Salome had not dared refuse it for Undine, though the rosettes of lace and ribbon had sent a shudder through her. “So baroque . . .” she said to Noel.
“Well, dear, I really must go,” said Celia, rising from her chair. “I’ll just get the chrysanthemums, shall I? Don’t bother to come with me, dear.”
She went to the other side of the garden, tore up an armful of yellow chrysanthemums, watched disapprovingly by Andrew, waved them in a gesture of farewell to Vicky, and returned to her car. It started up noisily, then roared furiously away into the distance.
Vicky sat still gazing in front of her, that heavy oppression over her spirit that the thought of Margery always brought with it. She did not see how another child could do anything but make the situation worse than it was.
The sun had gone in now, and a wind had sprung up from the east. She saw Andrew glancing in her direction and knew that he was thinking it was time she went indoors, but was reluctant to come to her because of their recent tiff. She shivered ostentatiously and drew her coat closer round her shoulders. The thought of Margery had made her feel unhappy and frightened, and she wanted the consolation of Andrew’s devotion. She saw him lay down his spade and pretended to be deeply interested in her book, looking up with a start when he reached her chair.
“It’s time you went in, Miss Vicky,” he said. “You’ll be getting your rheumatics bad again if you aren’t careful.”
She smiled at him and he smiled back, their difference forgotten.
She felt more cheerful when she got indoors. A fire was lighted in the grate and the tea-table drawn up to it. Even Vicky acknowledged to herself that the room deserved a little of the scorn Noel poured on it. It was completely cluttered up with furniture—occasional tables, pictures, ornaments, photographs—but they were all her personal friends. They had lived with her so long, known her happy and unhappy, anxious, afraid, triumphant, despairing. They consoled her by their familiar presence when things went wrong. They seemed to rejoice with her in her triumphs and happiness. To get rid of any of them—even the what-not that Noel hated most of all—would be like turning one of the family out of doors. The only stranger among them was a small lacquered desk that her mother’s executors had sent last year, thinking that she would like to have some personal memento of her.
Two years ago Vicky, much to her surprise, had received an invitation from Lady Attley to visit her at Cannes. Vicky hadn’t seen her mother since that visit to London before her marriage, and she found her a travesty of the woman she remembered. Her face was heavily made up, her hair dyed a bright golden. She was almost incredibly thin and sharp and dry and witty. She defied convention as outrageously as when she had been a girl, but with no other apparent result than that of increasing her circle of admirers. It was strange to remember how demure and pious she had been as inhabitant of the demi-monde and how glaringly demi-monde she was now that as Lady Attley she had an impregnable position in Society.
She seemed amused by the fact that Vicky was her daughter.
“Isn’t it absurd, my dear! I simply don’t believe it.”
“You’ve got grandchildren,” said Vicky.
“I believe I have. At least I’ve been told so. Tell me about them. How many? What are they like?”
Vicky began to tell her, but she soon lost interest and turned the conversation to the more congenial topics of Paris fashions and London gossip.
She had died in her sleep last year after a particularly riotous champagne supper.
Vicky’s head nodded over her book and she began to doze.
At first she thought that Margery’s entrance was part of her dream. She seemed to appear so suddenly in the room, her face white and set, her blue eyes hard. Sandy and Tony were with her—Tony merry and roguish-looking as usual, Sandy worried and anxious.
One glance at Margery’s figure told Vicky that what Celia had said was true. But the wonder of that was swallowed up in the larger wonder of Margery’s unheralded arrival.
“Margery!” she cried, dragging herself from the haze of sleep. “What’s the matter? Has anything happened?”
Margery flashed a warning glance at the children.
“We just thought it would be nice to have a little holiday with you, Mother,” she said. “I said to the children, ‘Let’s go down and see Granny for a bit,’ and they were awfully pleased; weren’t you, Sandy?”
Sandy looked at her, puzzled and afraid—afraid of the dull weary tone of her voice and the bitter unhappiness of her eyes.
“Sandy, dear,” said Vicky gently, “take Tony into the garden and find Andrew.”
The boys went out, and Vicky turned to Margery, noticing with sudden concern her pallor and the heavy shadows beneath her eyes.
“Margery, darling, you’re ill. You——”
“I’m perfectly all right,” said Margery, still in the hard toneless voice.
“But how did you come?” went on Vicky, bewildered.
“We came from the station in a cab. Didn’t you hear us?”
“No. . . . I think I’d just dozed off.” She put out her hands to the bell. “You must have some tea, dear, at once.”
Margery stopped her with an impatient gesture.
“No, don’t, Mother, I couldn’t. It would make me sick. Mother——” She spoke as if with an effort.
“Yes, dear?” said Vicky anxiously.
“May we—may we come to you—the children and I? To live, I mean?”
“Darling, of course, but——”
“I just can’t stand it any longer—living with Brian. I can’t go on. I’ve tried. I’d have left him long ago, but—I’ve hardly any money now. I’ve had to—pay his debts. I couldn’t let him go on owing money to—to people we knew and trades people. I’ll get a job when——”
She stopped, pressing her white lips together. It was as if every word she had to say were torture.
Vicky longed to gather her into her arms and comfort her, but one couldn’t—not with Margery. One daren’t risk outraging the pride that had been so besmirched and yet was still inviolate.
“Margery,” she said timidly, “are you——?”
“Oh yes,” said Margery bitterly. “I’m as much a fool as that.” She turned her head away, and a hot flush suddenly stained her pale cheeks. “He’d been—worse than usual, and I’d told him I was leaving him, and he didn’t want me to go. He—cares for me in his own way, I suppose. He worked himself up into a hysterical state over it, and he swore he’d be different, and, like a fool, I believed him.” She was sitting on the sofa, rigidly upright. “We—said we’d make a fresh start. I believed him, you see. I thought it was going to be all right, God knows why. Anyway—that’s what happened. And then——”
