Cold Pastoral (40 page)

The understanding of David. He had cleared Philip out, leaving her free to go to the mater's bedroom, and out to the garden to say good-bye.

While the ship was sorting visitors and passengers they stayed in their cabin. Philip blocked the door to any who might have entered to wish them God-speed. Felice was sailing without intimation to any of her friends.

In a dark redingote coat over a print dress Mary Immaculate looked very tall. A hat revealed all of her hair, but shaded her eyes. Disposed on the two small beds lay all the creature comforts the mind could enumerate. Overhead and from the alleyway came sounds of feet, and voices keyed to a pitch of farewell. Setting out would have been stupendous without the weight of reason. Sitting on one of the beds, David talked on, maintaining an easy tempo, as if they might be going away for the week-end. Philip leaned against the door in black silence.

“All visitors ashore! All visitors ashore!”

A monotonous voice reiterated the one sentence all down the alleyway. The girl laced her fingers together, drawing in her breath.

“Well, darling,” said David, taking her in his arms. “It's just
au
revoir
. You do the sights, and when I come I'll introduce you to the fleshpots.”

Without a word she put her arms round him, giving him little appreciative pats on his back. Then David turned to his wife, very thoughtfully turning his back on her farewell to Philip. He came forward, very set, letting her make the first move. Mary Immaculate had made the discovery that supreme naturalness came when the mind was terribly occupied with big adventures. She put an arm round his shoulder, raising her face. “It's good-bye for a while, Philip.”

Incapable of speech, he crushed her in arms, going frantic with imminent loss. She pressed her face against his, whispering, “Thank you for letting me go.” Then he relaxed, holding her lightly. He seemed to forget himself and speak naturally.

“Mary, if you could remember what I asked, that you'll come to me, with anything and everything? Believe me, dear, Mater's little motto…”

She gave him a pat, with something maternal in it.

“Don't worry, Philip. It's the good things I remember. Please, Philip, don't leave Rufus to Hannah. See that he gets his liver.”

David and Felice laughed out loud. It was so relieving to think of Rufus.

“I'll ring the butcher myself,” David said with a grin. “Come, Phil, let's go.”

Laying his hand lightly on his brother's arm, he drew him out. They were left alone with the sounds of a ship. Without a word Felice started to sort the packages on the beds, while the girl leaned her head against the port-hole, seeing the arms of the harbour, parted at the wrists to form an entrance to the sea. She was going to England! She, Mary Keilly, who had become Mary Fitz Henry, and Mary Vincent for about six hours.

“Felice,” she asked, without turning round, “am I a widow?”

Over an open suit-case Felice looked startled. She had discovered that the best medium to the girl's confidence was the straightest answer.

“Technically, I suppose so, Mary, but, personally, I don't think you can be a widow without being a wife. Your passport is made out for Mary Fitz Henry, and your identification signature for the bank. You were not thinking of calling yourself Vincent, I hope, dear. David took a great deal of trouble to keep that secret. It was better so.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Felice. I was just wondering what I really was. I'd rather know at this end, and start new. Then I'm not a widow! I wish I had been Tim's wife, Felice. Now I can see him so much better, and I know he was gentle when he might have been rough.”

“Believe me, dear,” said Felice gently, “it would have made your loss a great deal more.”

“Yes, I expect so,” she said thoughtfully.

“You've been lucky, Mary,” said Felice reassuringly. “You've had young love, full of idealism. Don't worry about Phil. Dave will be splendid. He's lazy, but he gets terrific spurts of energy, and just now he's decided to take Phil in hand. That will include the gradual disposal of Hannah. Phil will fall in line, and if I know my husband they'll be very busy. When I'm not there Dave surrounds himself with people, including glamorous girls. Perhaps Phil will fall hard for one, you know, reaction.”

“Oh,” said Mary Immaculate, appalled.

“Why ‘oh', Mary ?” asked Felice idly.

The girl looked quite desolate, drooping in her beautiful lines.

“Then, Felice,” she said in utter tragedy, “I won't belong anywhere.”

In that cry Felice saw how stability had taken its roots. It was Lady Fitz Henry's daughter speaking. Unprepared to add another drop of bewilderment to the girl's cup, Felice walked over, putting an arm round her waist.

“Mary, it's eyes front just at present, and you must take what comes. Remember, you're free. Go around and see what you really value. Just remember, my dear, the condition I made when I left David. Give me your confidence.”

‘'Yes, you left David for me,” said the girl. For a moment her eyes were very yellow and a little cold. Felice remembered that David had said she smiled often with her lips and not her eyes. Now she smiled with warmth flooding her eyes and mouth.

“Felice, I do want to talk to you. You and David—it would be difficult to imagine what it would have been like without you. You've been like Mater since that night. I will be good! Is that all right, Felice?”

The girl looked really anxious, as open as the sea towards which they were sailing. Felice squeezed her shoulder.

“Quite enough. Now we'll unpack and go up on deck.”

“INTERCHANGE OF LETTERS A CHIEF LINK.”

F
elice to David:

David darling,

The fourth day out and the first clear day. I am not sailing as well as usual,
due, I think, to our recent upsets. Mary is comfortable and promises to be a
neat traveller. Her emotional state is unobtrusive, but she spends hours
watching the sea with Indian stillness. I let her alone and am ready to talk
when she comes back. There is the usual inert game of bridge, deck-games
and too much time. So far she has participated in nothing, but seems to have
attracted the unearned devotion of five tweedy young men. They are in mixed
stages of scholarship from English universities, and appear to be taking
a round trip to see the raw red side of the world. Very patronising about
what they call America. Mary seems to confuse them, as their ideas of
Newfoundland comprise pictures of Eskimo women. In St.John's they
were surprised that they were not met with komatics and husky-dogs.
Disappointing, no doubt, but we managed to produce an iceberg as we left the
coast, and they were appeased.

They are personable enough, but no particular value to conversation. They
are also extremely piqued by the way Mary treats them, but continue to
be there for her to stumble over. Should she drop anything there is mass
prostration like a football scrum. Having failed to attract, they weep on my
shoulder at intervals, and I compensate by playing popular melodies. Soppy
music and dry Martinis reduce them to sentimentality, and they confide in
me that she is beautiful, but definitely without sex-appeal. That they might
lack it themselves, naturally, is a question that would never arise. I think
women are her greatest need at the present moment.

Mater was marvellous, but too rarefied, and she has missed the rough-and-tumble
of boys and girls. It's a strange mind, a mixture of profundity and
utter childishness. If it's any comfort to Phil, I'd say she had definite roots
in the Place, and feels keenly the loss of its background. This terrible shock
has had a steadying effect, and I should say she is living below her stature for
fear she may do something wrong. What she might have been, if she had
continued her dual role, is hard to visualise. She may have failed to realise her
own size and ridden roughshod over things, through sheer intrigue of living.

I shall cable from Liverpool and London as you suggest. I know the relatives
will be stunned to see me at this time of year, but I am not daunted by the
prospect of a summer in town. It has the savour of novelty, and I feel the
edge of all that Newfoundland wind. Many times lately I wanted to push
down the hills to get a wider view. I expect we are all depleted with our high
emotional estate. How I keep thinking of that boy, Dave dear. That mother
of his! She was difficult to talk to, with an old-world passivity; but from the
shape of their faces I should say Tim and his mother have some foreign blood.
However, it's too late to sort them out now. From what Mary tells me she
and Tim compared notes on everything. It would be interesting to know how
much Tim knew of us.

Give Phil my love and tell him how comfortable we are. Having a suite has
been a help, as we can be comfortably alone. He is very generous, and it is a
pleasant prospect to be able to take her round in a munificent way.

For yourself, my dear, I can only say I am one winged without you.

Always,
     
FELICE

David from Mary Immaculate :

Dear, dear David,

Felice says you might like a letter from me, and to hear how I feel on the sea.
Isn't it strange that though I was born on it, I've never really been on it? It
fascinates me, and I seem to be in the centre of that poem by Swinburne. He
must have loved the sea, when he called it a green-girdled mother. When we
go up and down it's so like ‘rise with thy rising, with thee subside'.
I sometimes think Tim is in it, as he wanted to go down that last day like
Les Noyades
. It's unreal, all of it, and I wonder if I have to wake up and
find Mater at the top of the table, and me on my way to school. Perhaps
when we get to Liverpool I'll feel more substantial. I seem to eat a lot, but it
doesn't give me much mooring.

Felice is so comfortable to be with, and I don't have to think about how she
will feel when I ask her anything. I feel awful for having taken her away from
you, because I know, dear David, you must be a lot to leave. It is foolish to
try and tell you how I felt the day I left. Philip looked so miserable that I was
more than ever convinced of my faults. Yet, dear David, if I cried for the rest
of my life I couldn't undo it, could I? and I can't help being interested in the
sea, and the fact that I will soon be in England. I find lots of people have had
awful things happen to them, and yet they look ordinary outside.

Our bedroom steward went to sea when he was twenty-two, after his wife had
died having a baby, and the man who waits on us at table has a stomach
ulcer, and he has to look at food he can't eat. I like hearing their stories, as
they sound more interesting than a lot of boys in tweed jackets who look like
quintuplets. They're foolish! They think nothing goes on in Newfoundland
but salmon and caribou. They've asked me to do things in London, but I
have refused. They talk about tradespeople, so I feel, dear David, if they
knew I was a fisherman's daughter they couldn't bear it. It's better not to take
any chances, than have them discover my low birth later. At first, anyway,
I'd rather see a lot of things alone.

David dear, does Philip want me to write to him? Please thank him for
everything, and the lovely way we're travelling.

Lovingly,
     
MARY

Felice to David :

David darling,

Even I am excited at being in town again. Mary is in a thrall and does
nothing but look. We are in a hotel at Marble Arch, overlooking the Park,
which looks so tailored after the sharp-pointed beauty of Newfoundland.
We have been here a day and I am writing before I go to bed. We have
communicating-rooms, which suits us both, as I find she has a terrific sense
of privacy. We docked at a very grim hour, and I was conscious of the
depressing atmosphere. I wanted it to be at its best for her, but it was filthy
with that dreadful screech of the gulls. It always seems to be their Christmas
dinner at the Hornby Docks. Mary was appalled at the dirty water.
However, we did not linger, but got through the customs with the help of the
five young men. They appeared again at Lime Street, which always makes
the fresh impression of being the world's most dismal station. I wonder
whether a Grand Central would suit the English temperament, or would
they feel they were embarking from the Halls of Belshazzar. I can't help
thinking, in contrast to America we prefer discomfort.

I thought we might remain here for a while, as the view is so open, but I
gave her the choice of doing what she liked. We were settled soon after lunch
and she went out instantly by herself. When she returned, I found she
had walked, walked, mark you, to Hyde Park Corner, through Piccadilly,
Haymarket, Trafalgar Square, Northumberland Avenue and the
Embankment. I'm thankful to say at that point she took a taxi and
came home, with, Dave dear, a tentative request that we stay a week in
several hotels so that she can learn London from several points. Our next
place is Piccadilly, and then Northumberland Avenue. That's as far as
she got in one afternoon, but if we continue the weekly exodus, you will
doubtless be hearing from me at Amen Corner. It may be interesting, though
I intended hiring a piano for myself. However, it is a small sacrifice as I
expect I shall be busy.