Noble in Reason (19 page)

In the next few weeks my determination unselfishly to forward Netta's happiness was taxed to the utmost. Graham, who had been severely burned about the body in a forced landing after his aircraft had been damaged by machine-gun fire, wished—naturally enough, I thought, considering the low expectation of life of a pilot in 1918—to marry before he was recalled to service. My father demurred, from no reason that I could discern except his usual cross-grained perversity; all around us such marriages took place every day, but he as always took no notice of the general custom. He found it shocking, inconsistent with Victorian ideas of decency and order, that a young man who would probably be killed in the next few months should marry a young girl and leave her a widow.

“Let them wait till the war is over,” said my father.

“That may be too late, Edward,” drawled my mother.

“They are far too young in any case,” grumbled my father.

“Father, it's cruel to Netta to keep them apart,” I blurted.

“I wish you wouldn't use such exaggerated expressions, Chris,” said my father. “Cruel indeed! What nonsense!”

The persuasive pressure exerted by my mother and myself upon him would doubtless in the long run have been successful,
but meanwhile the sands of Graham's leave were running out. Suddenly, however, Netta's cause received unexpected assistance. Geoffrey's parents, Canon and Mrs. Graham, who had several times been invited to our house but found themselves unable to accept, at length appeared there, and it became at once evident that they were quite as reluctant as my father about the marriage. That his adored and brilliant son should marry a girl of slightly lower social status and (as he thought) no money was not agreeable to the Canon, a tall dark lean predatory man to whom we all took an instant dislike. His wife, however, a fair faded gentlewoman whose character had much quiet strength, had allowed herself to be mollified by Netta's sweetness.

“She's a
good
girl, Mrs. Jarmayne,” she said to my mother, who beamed with happiness at this tribute.

The Grahams were south-country people, with the appropriate accents, manners and contempt for the industrial north. In these circumstances I could not but be glad for Netta's sake that John was not on the scene, for John and Canon Graham would have come to fierce warfare. Henry on the other hand—I had not thought of Henry for years—would have been a great asset. In his absence it fell to me to uphold the prestige of the family against Canon Graham's attacks. I found my reading my most useful weapon. It seemed that Geoffrey Graham—it was almost out of my power to call him Geoffrey alone—who had been pursuing the study of the law at Oxford before the outbreak of the war, had not shown the eager scholarship and pertinacious assiduity (the Canon's words) which his father had desired. The Canon was a good classical scholar and in history a well-read man; we were able to use the same language in talking to each other, and perhaps he found the absence of any claim to learning on my part a point in my favour, for he could amiably patronise a man without a degree. But the main part played by the Canon in
Netta's marriage consisted of the antagonism he aroused in my father, who after a very short experience of his condescending suggestions about postponing the wedding, became violently convinced that the young people ought to marry at once, and said so with his customary vehemence. Accordingly Geoffrey and Netta had their wish, and were married by special licence on a bright June day.

For me it was a strange and harrowing occasion.

I paced the floor of my room for much of the preceding night, and accordingly found myself looking even paler and drearier than usual next morning. I disliked the publicity of acting as an usher at the church in a morning coat and buttonhole flower—Graham's best man was in the RFC (now just becoming the RAF) like himself, and the few other young men present all wore uniform. Canon Graham, who was assisting in the marriage ceremony, wore a face like a thunder-cloud. My mother was late in reaching the church, the purple of her dress was a little over-bright and the hooks of the belt were inaccurately fastened. Luckily Beatrice Darrell, who was standing in the porch having a word with me when my mother arrived, perceived the mistake and rectified it before her entry. Edie had not yet come and I was worried by this lateness, for there had been trouble between her daughters about the position and duties of bridesmaid. The wedding being “quiet,” Netta had thought to have merely one small attendant, but this had caused such an outcry from the younger twin that eventually both Muriel and Joyce had to be invited. Then arguments arose as to which child should hold during the service the prayer-book which Netta was carrying as a wartime substitute for a bouquet. All John's daughters had a stubborn grasp of their own rights, and I was apprehensive of some “scene” between those two firm-willed young twins. When I heard children's voices in the porch, therefore, I hurried towards them.

To my surprise Edie and her offspring seemed in a happy mood. Edie on her knees in a light-coloured flowery frock was shaking out the twins' skirts so vigorously that they staggered under the impact, but their round florid faces remained smiling and cheerful. The reason for this was at once explained by the youngest girl, Anne, who exclaimed in a loud childish tone which carried through the whole church:

“Uncle Chris, Daddy's a prisoner!”

“Good heavens! Is it true? Do my father and mother know?”

“Yes, it's true. The telegram came this morning. He's unwounded too. Isn't it nice? I'm afraid I didn't think to telephone Mr. and Mrs. Jarmayne,” said Edie apologetically. “I was so busy with the twins, you know.”

I hurried into the Church and told my mother the good news. She took it calmly, smiling and nodding as if to say: “I told you so.” I hurried back to the porch in time to meet Netta and my father as they arrived, and told them too. Netta broke into happy laughter and exclaimed:

“What lovely news for my wedding day!”

My father, however, was quite knocked over by the news; he turned pale and trembled, and had to sit on the porch bench for a moment to recover his composure before leading his daughter up the aisle. By this time the news had spread, from my mother and Edie, all over the church. Everyone—for everyone had sons, brothers, husbands, serving at the front— was very much moved; the men smiled and nodded, tears stood in the women's eyes. Even the Canon became less glum, and Netta of course looked radiantly happy.

At the reception after the wedding we drank the health of John as well as of the happy pair. The only jarring note was struck, oddly enough considering her usual tact, by Beatrice Darrell, who said to Edie as they stood with other guests about the bride:

“But when will John come home, then?”

Edie's face twitched wryly as she replied: “I suppose not till after the war.”

A sudden message recalled my father to Hilbert Mills just before the departure of the bride and bridegroom. He was obliged to go; the exigencies of the war could not be disregarded. He kissed Netta tenderly and left. This incident called forth a remark from Canon Graham which he did not, I am sure, intend to make:

“Is it very profitable, then, when your mill is so fully employed?”

“I suppose it is,” said I.

I spoke in this casual manner because I had genuinely given little thought to the matter. But now I considered it I perceived that the Ashroyd finances had been much more comfortable of late; the preparations for Netta's wedding had certainly been made on quite a lavish scale.

“Yes, it is,” I added in surprise.

No tone could better have convinced Canon Graham of the truth of our improved fortunes than my disinterested carelessness; the gloom cleared from his face and he became very kindly indeed towards his new daughter.

Graham and I had said very little to each other during the engagement, and I at least had kept such talk as we had, firmly on the surface and in the present. I felt that only so could I avoid some shameful exposure of the fear and hatred I still felt towards him. Now when it came to saying goodbye and allowing him to carry Netta off to wifehood I made a last great effort, took his hand in the friendliest way I could manage and wished him happiness in the warmest tone I could find. But this expressed goodwill was not sincere. I had already noted a certain dominance in his tone towards Netta, a certain sharpness of comment when her simplicity became more than usually apparent, which pained me keenly on her behalf and
gave me uncomfortable auguries for their future together. However, as I say, I drove down this feeling and smiled and took his hand. For his part he gave me a long strange look the nature of which I could not diagnose; was it appeal, reproach? I did not know.

At last the wedding reception was over; the bride and bridegroom drove away, the guests began to disperse. Playing host in my father's absence, I stood on our large square doorstep shaking hands, calling farewells and in general behaving in the “cheery” manner necessary to the occasion—
cheery
is a word I have always detested. When even my uncle Alfred (when did Aunt Minna die? I have forgotten) and Edie and her flock had gone, I turned to find Beatrice Darrell at my side.

“I'll come in with you, Chris,” she said. “Your mother may need me.”

She had guessed right. My poor mother, anguished no doubt by her parting with Netta, lay in the same kind of wretched stupor as had overtaken her at John's wedding. Between us Beatrice and I carried her upstairs. Beatrice put her to bed.

Then at last I was alone and able to indulge in the pain of my lacerated feelings and to savour the loneliness which in the absence of my gay little sister would now be mine.

I enquire of myself now what Graham's feelings were towards me at the time of his marriage, and whether the fact that Netta was my sister stood for anything in his love for her.

I think that probably, or at any rate possibly, it did. Our schooldays' relationship had perhaps made a great mark on his life, as it did on mine. (In the light of Atkinson's revelations
I must even wonder whether my excelling him in class did not perhaps dim his zest for learning.) In those early days I believe the dividing line between the hate he felt and the love he might have felt for me was a very narrow one. We could have been deep friends. By a hairsbreadth—some foolish utterance of my own, I expect, some silliness the proud Graham could not stomach—we were enemies, and his feeling for me expressed itself in sadistic torment. This kind of masterful teasing has something sexual in its nature which for Graham readily found satisfaction later in desire for my sister; there was even a certain vague physical likeness between Netta and myself to assist this transference of emotion. If Graham and I had had it all out together then, discussed our old antagonisms, probed our hates and jealousies and fears, we three might have made a happy life together. But I rejected this solution, and perhaps after all the habit of reserve which Graham owed to the gentility of his heredity and upbringing would always have prevented him from such embarrassing frankness.

In loving Netta, did Graham take revenge on or make atonement to his former enemy? Since I did not grant him the opportunity of telling me before his marriage, I shall never know. But I give him the benefit of the doubt.

I am ashamed to say that after her marriage I wrote only once—an insincere and stilted letter of condolence—to Netta in nearly twenty years.

The fatal (for me) day of Netta's wedding was not over when our guests had left nor even when my father came in and after a hasty meal withdrew, extremely tired, to bed. I went up to my own room and sat trying to read, trying to keep my thoughts from Graham and Netta—enduring, after the livelier pain of the day, a kind of quiet sick hopeless misery—when a
rattle of stone struck against my window. Astonished, I put out the light—a wartime precaution—and drew the curtain. Below in the moonlight stood Beatrice Darrell. She was dressed in some kind of long loose light-coloured robe whose folds billowed in the night breeze; lace at the wide sleeve fell back from her rounded arm as she raised it to catch my attention. In the silver light her handsome face looked drawn, indeed her whole appearance had a strange ethereal, tragic quality. Her whisper reached me clearly through the open window.

“Come and help me, Chris. Father is ill.”

I ran downstairs and went out of the back door, the heavy chain rattling in my fingers as I drew it.

“I hoped you'd be awake. No need to wake the others. You don't mind, Chris?”

I did not even trouble to answer this, but followed her hastily into the Darrell house, through the kitchen and into the surgery. Here Dr. Darrell lay sprawled in the armchair, his leonine head lolling, his face crimson, breathing stertorously. His left cheek puffed out oddly with each expiration. It seemed to me that he was suffering from some kind of apoplectic seizure. I looked at Beatrice.

“We were sitting talking. It happened suddenly. He's dying, Chris,” she said in a low clear tone.

“We must get a doctor,” said I.

“Yes. But there's a military convoy due tonight. Most of the doctors will be at the hospital,” said Beatrice.

“I'll telephone there. Meanwhile—is there anything we can do for him?”

Beatrice shook her head. “I'm afraid there's nothing to be done.”

She picked up a woollen rug which lay on the surgery couch, shook it out and folded it round her father. Even in this sad moment I could not help noticing the grace, the elegance, of her movements.

A list of medical telephone numbers hung by the instrument in the hall. I tried several, but Beatrice had spoken truly: the few doctors the war had left in Hudley were at the station or at the hospital, dealing with the casualties in the convoy of wounded. I telephoned the hospital but the number was engaged and the operator warned me that it was useless to try for an answer there. I returned to Beatrice and explained that I would walk to the hospital and fetch a doctor personally.