The Way Home (27 page)
Authors: Henry Handel Richardson
And in addition he had one genuine talent. For some reason or other -- "a throwback to his grandmother," supposed Mahony -- Cuffy had been dowered with a natural gift for music. He learnt tunes more easily than he learnt his letters; could hum "Rock of Ages" and "Sun of my Soul" before he uttered a word. His ear was extraordinarily good, his little voice sweet and true. And knowing that Mary's intonation was but faulty, that of the nursery faultier still, Mahony here put in his single spoke in Cuffy's education. He had the boy brought to his dressing-room of a morning; and there, while he dressed, Cuffy with his elephant would sit perched on a corner of the table, singing songs old and new. Together Mahony and his son practised "Oft in the Stilly Night" and "The Land o' the Leal," and with such success that, was there company to dinner, Cuffy in his best velvet tunic would be stood on a chair at dessert, to perform to the guests. And as he gave forth, in baby language, such ditties as:
A temple to friendship, Cried Laura, enchanted, I'll build in my garden The thought is divine!
the ladies uttered rapturous exclamations; while the gentlemen, mostly without a note of music in them, declared: "'Pon my word, very remarkable, very remarkable indeed!" And Aunt Lizzie, from whom Cuffy had picked up this song by ear, hailed him as an infant prodigy, and painted for him a future that made Mary's heart swell with pride.
Such were Mahony's children.
"Out and away too conspicuous!" was Mahony's verdict. "The woman must want people to stare at her. Though I will say, Mary, it's something of a treat to behold the natural female figure again, after the unnatural bulgings we've put up with. And a very fine figure, too!"
For this he had to admit: there was nothing unfeminine or forbidding about the lady. She was as handsome as she was striking. A full eye, a Grecian nose, a slim waist: such were her charms; to say nothing of a white, dimpled hand, and a well-turned ankle. And yet every one who knew her agreed that she captivated less by reason of her comeliness, than by the ease and elegance of her manner.
She was just as popular with her own as with the sterner sex. Which said a good deal; for, wherever she went, she was run after by "the gentlemen." And small wonder, thought Mary. For Gracey was up in any subject, however dry; had brains really equal to "gentlemen's conversation."
Richard said: "It's not the least piquant thing about her that after she has been holding forth, supremely well, on one of those learned themes ladies as a rule fight shy of, she will suddenly lapse into some delightful feminine inconsequence. That, my dear, gives us men back, for a finish, the sense of superiority we need." But here you just had one of the satirical remarks Richard was so apt at making -- especially in the early stages of an acquaintance. Afterwards he generally had to eat his words, or at least water them down.
Mrs. Marriner rented a villa within easy driving distance of "Ultima Thule." This was in the early days of the nursery, while the twins were still babies in arms, and Mary went out but little. It fell to the newcomer to pick up the threads; and she did so with a will, calling frequently and entering wholeheartedly into Mary's interests. She was devoted to children; and sometimes, as they sat on the verandah, Nannan would bring Cuffy out to them. And then it was a pretty sight to see the tall, handsome woman on her knees before the little child, rolling his woolly ball to him, or playing at peek-a-bo.
The merry voices lured even Mahony forth from his den. And having tossed his son in the air, he lingered for a word with his wife's guest. This happened more than once; after which, as Mary had foreseen, his sarcasms died away. Mrs. Marriner had travelled widely, and owned a large collection of photographs of famous beauty-spots; and the first time Mahony went to her house was when he and Mary drove over one evening to view these through a stereoscope. Dotted about the rooms they found many another interesting memento of her travels. On the chimney-piece were candelabra of Dresden china. Coloured prints of Venice by night and the blue grotto of Capri adorned the walls. A statuette of Christ by a Danish sculptor stood on the lid of the piano. She had a very fair assortment of books -- serious works, too: essays, poetry, history -- both old and of the newest; and Mahony carried away with him a couple of volumes by a modern writer of verse named Browning.
In addition she was musical. Not in sister Lizzie's superb, almost professional fashion; but singing in a clear, correct voice, and playing the pianoforte with neatness and skill. Her performance of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words was most enjoyable. And now it was Mahony's turn to suggest inviting her; after which he went back to sing duets, and listen to her execution of a sonata by Haydn. He relished, too, a conversation that for once rose above the affairs of the nursery.
For, the piano closed, the lady and he dropped into talk. And having skimmed the surface of various subjects on which they found themselves in marvellous accord, they came round to the one which still engrossed Mahony's attention. Of spiritualism Mrs. Marriner was ignorant; she begged the doctor to enlighten her. And the rough sketch he gave her interested her so much that she expressed a strong wish to know more. He promised to bring her an armful of literature; and then, if her interest still held, to procure her the entrée to a sitting at the house of that arch-spiritualist, Mrs. Phayre, where remarkable phenomena took place. Weird noises might be heard there at dead of night: furniture was moved by unseen hands from its place against the wall.
The next day he carried over the books; and Mrs. Marriner read them with what seemed to him a rare and unfeminine insight: that is to say, she was neither alarmed, nor derisive, nor stupidly obstinate: and, so far, except for members of the inner circle, he had known no woman whose state of mind towards the question was not one of these three. She also jumped at his offer of introducing her at a seance. Later on, learning that he was eager to find an unprofessional medium with whom he might experiment in private, and on whom no shadow of suspicion could be held to rest, she herself proposed sitting at a small table in her drawing-room. And after a few fruitless hours, during which he had every reason to admire her patience, they met with success: the table tilted under their hands and a pencil, delicately sustained by the lady's fingers, wrote words that could be read. It was plain she was possessed of the power.
He went home to Mary in high feather.
"Now, perhaps, you'll believe there's something in it!"
"I never said there wasn't something. It's only that . . ."
"You can hardly suspect your friend of being an impostor?"
"Good gracious no! The idea!"
And Mary meant it. Gracey was no more capable of downright fraud than she herself. And yet . . . yet . . . say what you liked, there was a part of you that simply would not accept the conclusions you were asked to draw. To think, because a table stood on two legs, or a pencil wrote: "I am here," that dead people -- people who lay mouldering in their graves! -- were speaking to you . . . no, that she would never be able to believe, not if she lived to be Methusalah. Why, you might just be leaning a little too heavily on your side of the table without knowing it. Or your hand write things down in a kind of dream, and you imagine somebody or something else was doing it. And still be the most truthful person alive. Like Richard. Who again and again let himself be imposed on. -- The truth was: if people wanted to believe such things, believe they would: the wish was father to the thought. Well, at least this new hobby of Richard's had one advantage: it gave him something to do. Which was just what he needed. Instead of always sitting humped up over his books.
Under the stimulus he began to look more like his old self. He spruced up his dress; and the daily ride to Gracey's gave him beneficial exercise. As time went on, their sittings proved so satisfactory that he began to think of publishing a small pamphlet, embodying the results. And though Mary would rather it had been on a less outlandish subject, she hailed the idea and encouraged it. For looking after Richard became, year by year, more like minding a fidgety child, who had always to be kept on the go. He had been such a worker in his day. And the old fear could still wake in her at times that, being without active employment, he might all of a sudden turn restless and declare himself tired of their lovely home.
But then came that afternoon when Lizzie let drop an item of news which successfully routed Mary's peace of mind.
They did not see much of Lizzie nowadays; she and John were always in society; out night after night at concerts, dinners, balls. Or else entertaining lavishly in their own home. It was an open secret that the longed-for knighthood would very soon set the crown on John's labours for the colony.
Stateliness in person, gauzes and laces floating from arms and shoulders, trinkets and chains a-jingle, Lizzie swept through the hall, a majestic figure indeed. No wonder John was still unable to refuse her anything.
Then, just about to step into her carriage, she paused. "Mary, déhling. . . I vow I all but forgot it! I have something to tell you, love, that I think will interest you. Mary! I met a gentleman on Friday who was once acquainted with our friend -- the charmin' Gracey. And what do you think? My dear, she is not a widow at all."
Mary was thunderstruck. "Not a widow? Lizzie! Then ---- "
"My déhling, her husband is still alive. He left her, love -- deserted her for another woman. . . the lowest of the low! At this very moment he lives with the creature . . . in his lawful wife's stead."
As always, Mary's first impulse was to protect. . . defend. "Oh, poor Gracey! . . . how terrible for her!"
"Well, love . . . I thought you ought to know. Since dear Richard is so friendly there. And considering the ultra-strict views he holds."
"Yes, of course. But, Lizzie, it's not her fault, is it? She can't help the man she married turning out a scoundrel."
But though she spoke up thus, Mary was greatly perturbed and her mind became a sea of doubts where no doubts had been. She found herself looking at Gracey with other eyes. The fact was, a divorced or legally separated woman -- even one who was just living apart from her husband -- was by no means the same as a widow . . . and never could be. Gracey knew that well enough; else why, to a close friend like herself, had she made a mystery of her state? And though not a shadow of blame should rest on her (and Mary was sure it didn't), it meant, none the less, that she had been through all sorts of unpleasant matrimonial experiences, which a properly married or widowed woman would know nothing about. Something of them might have remained clinging to her . . . the old saw about touching pitch would run in Mary's head. It was dreadful. Such a dear, nice woman as Gracey. And yet. . . deep down in Mary's heart there dwelt the obstinate conviction that once married was always married, and that as long as your husband lived you belonged at his side. Did you sit firm and hold fast to your rights as a wife, it seemed incredible that another woman could ever usurp your place. Had Gracey perhaps gone off in a tantrum, leaving the coast clear? Yes, doubts would up, and the result was, she found herself considering, with a more critical eye, the friendship that had sprung up between Richard and Grace over their table-tilting. Never before had she known Richard so absorbed by any one outside his home. Now suppose, just suppose Gracey, thanks to her wretched married life, had come to regard things -- serious things, sacred things -- more lightly than she ought? What if, because of her own unhappy past, she should not hold the marriage-tie to be binding? Why was she so attractive to gentlemen? Did they know or suspect anything? In reply to which there flashed through Mary's mind a memory of her last visit to Yarangobilly: Willy Urquhart's infatuation and the state poor Louisa had worked herself into. Of course there was really no comparison between the two cases -- none whatever! Willy was a notorious flirt: Richard a gentleman. And poor Louisa's morbid, distorted outlook would never be hers.
Richard . . . The question that teased Mary was, should she tell him what she had heard, or keep it to herself? In one way she agreed with Lizzie that he ought to know, he being so fastidious in his views. Besides, if he heard it from some other source, he might feel aggrieved that she had held back. On the other hand, his knowing would probably curtail, if not put a stop altogether to his and Gracey's experiments: he wouldn't want to give people food for talk. And that would be a pity. Would it be disloyal to say nothing? Disloyal to Gracey to tell what she so plainly wished to keep dark? But Richard came first. -- And here again, unlike poor Louisa, Mary felt she could weigh the matter very calmly; for in her was a feeling nothing could shake: the happily married woman's sense of possession. It was not only the fact of Richard being what he was. Their life together rested on the surest of foundations: the experiences of many, how many years; the trials and tribulations they had been through together; the joys they had shared; the laughs they had had over things and people; a complete knowledge of each other's prejudices and antipathies -- who else could unlock, with half a word, the rich storehouse of memories they had in common? Homelier things, too, there were in plenty, which bound no less closely: the airing and changing of your underlinen; how sweet or how strong you drank your coffee; how you liked your bed made; your hatred of the touch of steel on fruit; of a darn in a sock. -- Deeper down though, pushed well below the topmost layer of her consciousness, just one unspoken fear did lurk. If she told Richard what she had heard, and he did not take it in the spirit he had hitherto invariably shown towards irregularities of this kind, Mary knew she would feel both hurt and humiliated. Not for herself -- but for him.