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Man On The Other Side

<h2 id='III' class='c005'>CHAPTER III</h2> “My dear Roger,” said Mrs. North, with that peculiar guinea-hen quality in her voice which it was her privilege and pleasure to keep especially for her husband, “have you nothing of interest to tell us? No one has seen you since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. At any rate, not to speak to.” North looked across the beautifully appointed lunch-table at the ill-chosen partner of his joys and sorrows, while the silence, which usually followed one of her direct attacks on him, fell upon the party surrounding it. “I see you brought Larry back with you, and conclude you found him at Thorpe,” continued Mrs. North, “and I suppose you saw Miss Seer. As it is a moot point whether we call on her or not, you might rouse yourself so far as to tell us what you thought of her. I am sure Arthur would like to hear too.” “Very much! Very much!” said the fair, cherubic-looking little man sitting on her right hand. “Thorpe was such a pleasant house in poor dear Carey’s time. It would be a serious loss if the new owner were impossible. I look upon the changes in the neighbourhood very seriously, very seriously indeed. I was only thinking yesterday that of our old circle only poor old Mentmore, the Condors, and ourselves are left. The Court and Whitemead both bought by newly rich people, whom I really dread inspecting.” “The St. Ubes may be all right,” interpolated Mrs. North. “I hear they made their money doing something with shipping, and St. Ubes does not sound a bad name.” “No,” allowed Mr. Fothersley. “No. Yet I do not remember to have heard it before. It has a Cornish sound. We must inquire. They have not arrived yet, I gather, as the new servants’ wing is not ready. But the people at the Grange, I fear, are not only Jews, but German Jews! What a milieu! And we were such a happy little set before the war, very happy—yes.” “At any rate,” said the fourth member of the lunch party, a very beautiful young woman, the only child and married daughter of the house, “they have all an amazing amount of money, which I have no doubt they are prepared to spend, and the German Jews I conclude you will not take up. As for Thorpe, it is disgusting that anyone should have it. What is the woman like, father?” “Oh, all right,” said North. “She is looking after the place well, and hasn’t been seized with the present mania for building billiard-rooms and winter gardens and lordly garages.” “But what is she like?” asked Mrs. North. “Is she a lady, or isn’t she? You can’t call on a woman because she hasn’t built a winter garden.” “Why not?” returned her husband, in his most irritating fashion. “By the way,” interposed Mr. Fothersley adroitly, “I hear Miss Seer intends building cottages. A thing I do not consider at all desirable.” “Why not?” asked his host again. “We want nothing of that sort in Mentmore,” said Fothersley decisively. “It is, in its way, the most perfect specimen of an English village in the country—I might say in England. Building new cottages is only the thin end of the wedge.” “They appear to be wanted,” said North, pushing the cigars towards his guest. “That is the Government’s business,” answered Mr. Fothersley, making a careful selection. “And we may at least hope they will put them up in suitable places. Thank Heaven the price of land here is prohibitive. There, however, is the danger of these newly rich people. They must spend their money somehow. However, it may not be true. I only heard it this morning.” “Did she say anything about it, Roger?” asked Mrs. North. “Yes she mentioned it,” answered North curtly. Mrs. North made an exaggerated gesture of despair as she struggled with a cigarette. She had never succeeded in mastering the art of smoking. “Are you going to tell us what we want to know or not?” she asked, with ominous calmness. “Do you advise calling on the woman, or don’t you?” Here Violet Riversley broke in. “When will you learn to put things quite plainly to father?” she asked. “You know he can’t understand our euphuisms. I suppose it’s one of the defects of a scientific brain.” She helped herself to a cigarette and held it out to North for a light. “What we want to know, father, is just this. Do you think Miss Seer is likely to subscribe to the Hunt and various other things we are interested in? If to this she adds the desire to entertain us, so much the better, but the subscriptions are the primary things.” “No, no, my dear!” exclaimed Mr. Fothersley, deeply pained. “That is just what I complain about in you young people of the present day. You have not the social sense—you——” “Dear Arthur,” Violet cut him short ruthlessly, “don’t be a humbug with me. Your Violet has known you since she was two years old. Let us in our family circle be honest. Lord Mentmore and the Condors called on the Pithey people because Mr. Pithey has subscribed liberally to the Hunt, and you and mother have called because they did. Incidentally they will probably give us excellent dinners. All I can say is, I hope you will draw the line at the German Jews, however much money they have.” “Well, Roger,” said Mrs. North, who had kept her eyes fixed on her husband during her daughter’s diversion, “shall I call or not? Surely you are the proper person to advise me, as you have met Miss Seer.” North frowned irritably. “No, I certainly should not call,” he said, rising from the table. “She is a lady, but you would have nothing in common, and I should not think she has enough money to make it worth while from the point of view Vi has put so delicately before us. That all right, Vi?” His daughter rose too, and slipped her arm through his. “Quite good for you!” she said. “And now come and smoke your cigar with me in the garden. Arthur will excuse you.” “Certainly! Certainly!” said Mr. Fothersley, who sincerely liked both husband and wife apart, and inwardly deplored the necessity that they should ever be together. He recognized the lack of fine feeling in the wife which so constantly irritated the husband, but which did not alienate Fothersley himself because his own mind moved really on the same plane, in that he cherished no finer ideals. He recognized, too, the corresponding irritation North’s total lack of the social instinct was to a woman of his wife’s particular type. Pretty, vivacious, with a passionate love of dress, show, and amusement, Mrs. North would have liked to go to a party of some sort, or give one, every day in the year. She was an admirable and successful hostess, and Mr. Fothersley was wont to declare that Mentmore would be lost without Mrs. North. They were great friends. Mr. Fothersley had never seen his way to embark on matrimony. At the same time he enjoyed the society of women. As a matter of fact he was on terms of platonic, genuinely platonic, friendship, with every attractive woman within reasonable reach of Mentmore. Undoubtedly, however, Mrs. North held the first place. For one thing the Norths were his tenants, occupying the Dower House on his estate. It was always easy to run across to Westwood, hot foot with any little bit of exciting gossip. They both took a lively interest in their neighbours’ private affairs. Violet Riversley had once said that if there was nothing scandalous to talk about, they evolved something, after the fashion of the newspapers in the silly season. They both loved, not money, but the things which money means. To give a perfect little dinner, rich with all the delicacies of the season, was to them both a keen delight. He was nearly as fond of pretty clothes as she was, and liked to escort her to the parties, where she was always the centre of the liveliest group and from which North shrank in utter boredom. They agreed on all points on matters of the day, both social and political; he gathered his opinions from <cite>The Times</cite> and she from the <cite>Daily Mail</cite>. He looked upon her as an extremely clever and intelligent woman. Also he was in entire sympathy with her intense and permanent resentment against her husband because he had persisted in devoting to further chemical research the very large sums of money which his scientific discoveries had brought him in from time to time. The fact that, in addition to these sums, he derived a considerable income from a flourishing margarine factory started by his late father’s energy and enterprise, of which income she certainly spent by far the larger portion, consoled her not at all. She spent much, but she could very easily have spent more. She too could have done with four or five cars, she too could have enlarged and expanded in various expensive directions, even as these new nouveaux riches. Fothersley, who devoutly held the doctrine that not only whatsoever a man earned, but whatsoever he inherited, was for his own and his family’s benefit and spending, with a reasonable contribution to local charities, or any exceptional collection in time of stress authorized by the Mayor, felt that Mrs. North’s resentment was wholly natural. A yearly contribution of, say, twenty-five guineas, to research would have amply covered any possible claim on even a scientist’s philanthropy in this direction, and he had even told North so. Therefore it was only natural for Mrs. North to turn to him, even more than to her other friends, for sympathy and understanding. “There now!” she exclaimed as her husband left the room. “Can you imagine any man being so disagreeable and surly? Just because he was asked a perfectly natural question. And I shall certainly call on the woman.” “I believe she is quite possible from all I have heard,” said Mr. Fothersley, adroitly lighting Mrs. North’s cigarette, which had gone out. “As you know, I mean to call myself, if you would prefer to wait for my report.” “Thank you. But may as well come with you. I shall probably be a help, and you see Roger says she is a lady, and, funnily enough, he really knows. I expect she is as dull as ditchwater; I hear she was something in the nature of a companion before she came into some money. But anything must be better than the Pitheys.” She shuddered as she replenished Mr. Fothersley’s wineglass. “They appear from all accounts to be very bad,” sighed Mr. Fothersley. “I could bear their commonness,” said Mrs. North, “one has got used to it these days, when one meets everyone everywhere, but it is the man’s self-satisfaction that is so overpowering. However, I am depending on you to look after him this afternoon. Roger won’t, and Violet is nearly as bad. I don’t know if you have noticed it, but Violet is getting Roger’s nasty sarcastic way of saying things, and she always seems to back him up now against me.” Her pretty eyes were tearful, and Mr. Fothersley looked distressed. “Dear Violet has never been the same since poor Carey’s death,” he said. Mrs. North agreed. “And yet, as you know,” she added, “I never really approved of the engagement. Poor Dick was a dear—no one could help liking him; but, after all, there was no getting away from the fact that he was old enough to be her father, and besides he was not very well off, and owing to Roger’s folly, wasting his money as he has, we could not have made Violet a big allowance. Really, you know, Fred is a much better match for her in every way.” “Quite, quite,” assented Mr. Fothersley. “But there is no doubt she felt Carey’s death very much at the time. I certainly have noticed a difference in her since, which her marriage has not dispelled. But indeed all the young people seem altered since this terrible war—there is—how shall I put it?—a want of reticence—of respect for the conventions.” Mr. Fothersley shook his head. “I regret it very much—very much.” In the meantime North and his daughter had wandered out into the shade of the great beech-tree which was the crowning glory of an exquisite lawn. The garden was in full perfection this wonderful May, and the gardeners were busy putting the finishing touches before the afternoon’s party. Not a weed or stray leaf was to be seen. Every edge was clipped to perfection. The three tennis courts were newly marked out, their nets strung to the exact height, while six new balls were neatly arranged on each service line. Presently Mrs. North would come out and say exactly where each chair and table should go. Violet Riversley looked at the pretty friendly scene with her beautiful gold brown eyes, and the misery in them was like a devouring fire. She was one of the tragedies of the war. She could neither endure nor forget. With her mother’s good looks, pleasure-loving temperament, and quick temper, she had much of her father’s ability. Spoilt from her cradle, she had gone her own way and taken greedily of the good things of this world with both hands, until Dick Carey’s death had smitten her life into ruins. She was twenty-four, and she had never before known pain, sorrow or trouble. Always she had had everything she wanted. Other people’s griefs passed her by. She simply had no understanding of them. She was not generous, because she never realized what it was to go without. And yet everyone liked and many loved her. She was so gay and glad and beautiful a thing. When she said good-bye to Dick Carey, she was simply unable to grasp that he could be taken from her, and when the news of his death came she had passionately and vehemently fought against the agony and pain and desolation that came with it. She had genuinely and really loved him, and nothing, absolutely nothing, seemed left. There was no pleasure any more in anything. That was what she could not understand, could not cope with. Her conventional faith fell from her, and she let it go without a struggle. But her happiness she refused to let go. She clung to it, or to the mirage of it, savagely, desperately. Dick was dead, yes, and she wanted him with a devouring hunger. But all the other things were left. Things she had loved. Things that had made her happy. She would not let them go. After a brief space, in which the devils of bitterness and resentment and impotent wrath rent her in pieces, she took up her old life again, with apparently added zest. Her friends said “Violet was very plucky,” and no one was astonished when after a year she accepted and married Fred Riversley. It was altogether a more suitable match than one with poor Dick Carey. Riversley was of more suitable age, rich, devoted, and a good fellow, and as North said to her best friends, “Violet was never suited for the wife of a poor man.” Only Roger North watched her anxiously at times. She had been her mother’s child before, but since Dick’s death she had turned more and more to her father. Something of his dogged patient strength of mind seemed to become clear to her. Something of the courage with which he faced life. She remembered a saying of his one day when her mother had been flagrantly unjust and bitter to him on some matter of expenditure, so that even she had felt ashamed. Whatever her father’s faults, his generosity was past question. She had gone into the study and striven to make amends, and he had looked at her with those tired humorous eyes of his and said: “My dear, nothing can hurt you if you don’t let it.” She seized on that as some sort of creed amid the welter of all she had ever thought she believed. She would not let things hurt her, She plunged more eagerly than ever into the amusements of her world. After her marriage she started and ran a smart officers’ hospital in London. Mrs. Riversley’s name was on many committees. She was a noted giver of the then fashionable boy and girl dances. A celebrated personage said she reminded him of a human fire. There seemed a fever in her body, a restlessness which never left her. Since the cessation of hostilities this restlessness had increased, or possibly now that others were ceasing their activities it was more noticeable. While North sat smoking his cigar she fetched a racquet and began to practice her service on the court nearest him. She served over-hand a swift hard service, and North watched the long slim line of her figure, her exquisite poise, as she swung her racquet above her head and drove the ball home. It was typical somehow of the driving force that seemed behind her restlessness. Presently she stopped, and came and sat down close beside him, and when he looked at her he saw that her mask was down and the tormented soul of her for a moment bare. “It all looks just the same as ever, doesn’t it!” she said. “And we’ve got to get through it somehow to the very end. “My dear,” began her father, and stopped. A blank hideous horror of emptiness possessed him. He shivered in the hot sunshine. There was nothing to say. He had no comfort to give her. “Heaven knows I’ve done my best,” she said. “I swore I wouldn’t let Dick’s death spoil my life. I married Fred because he could give me everything else—everything but what was impossible, and he’s a good fellow.” She paused, then went on again, her voice very low and thin. “There’s only one thing would do me any good—if I could hurt those who’ve hurt me. That God, who let all this happen. I’m not the only one. That God they teach us is almighty, and this is the best he can do for us. You don’t believe He’s there at all, father—oh no, you don’t—I’m not a fool! But I do, and I see Him watching it all happening, letting it all happen, according to plan, as those damned Germans used to say. If only I could hurt them—hurt them myself. If they had only one neck that I could wring—with my own two hands—slowly—very slowly—I think that would do me good.” North pulled himself together. “How long have you been feeling like this, Vi?” he asked. “Ever since they killed Dick,” she said dully, as if the fire had smouldered down, after a sudden sheet of flame. “I think I am made up of hate, father. It’s the strongest thing in me. It’s so strong that I can’t love any more. I don’t think I love Dick now. And Fred, sometimes I hate Fred, and he’s a good fellow, you know.” The words filled North with a vague uncanny horror. He struggled after normal, everyday words, but for a moment none came. He knew the girl was overwrought, suffering from strain, but what was it that had looked at him out of those vehement, passionate eyes? “Look here, Vi,” he said at length, striving to speak naturally, “you are just imagining things. Can’t you take a pull on yourself and go easy for a bit? You’re overdoing it, you know, and these sort of ideas are the result.” “I’m sorry, father.” She bent sideways, letting her head rest against his shoulder, and seeking his hand, held it close. Such a demonstration was foreign to her with him. When she was small, some queer form of jealousy on her mother’s part had come between them. He felt shy and awkward. “I don’t know what made me break out like that,” she went on. “I think it must have been coming back here and seeing everything just the same as it used to be before the war came. Until to-day, when I’ve been down it’s been so quiet and different, with no parties, and nothing going on. Now it’s gone back like everything else is going back—only I cannot.” “Nothing goes back, dear,” answered North. “It’s not the same for anyone really. Not even for the quiet young people who’ll come and play here without a trouble as you used to. But there’s always the interest of going forward. If we’ve suffered, at least we’ve gained experience from it, which is knowledge. And there’s always some work to be done for every season that could not be done sooner or later. That helps, I think.” “Dear old father,” she said softly. “We used not to be really great friends in the old days. But now somehow you’re the only person I find any comfort in. I think perhaps it is because we are both putting up a hard fight.” “Don’t forget the spice of life is battle, Vi, as Stevenson has it. I’m inclined to think, though”—he spoke slowly as one envolving a thought new to him—“I’m inclined to think we sometimes confuse bitterness and rebellion with it. That’s not clean fighting. My dear, put that hate you speak of away from you, if you can—and have nothing to do with bitterness—they are forces which can only make for evil.” There was a little pause. “I don’t think I can, father. It’s part of me. Sometimes I think it’s all me, and sometimes I’m frightened.” “Look here, Vi,” said North, struggling with a disinclination to make the proposition that was in his mind, a disinclination that he felt was ridiculous, “I wish you would go over to Thorpe and get to know Miss Seer.” Violet sat up and looked at him with wide-open eyes. “But why? I should hate it!” she exclaimed. “It would remind me—oh, of so many things! It would make me feel even worse——” “Well, so I thought,” said North. “I can tell you I dreaded going. But the old place is full of a—a strange sort of rest. I didn’t realize how full of bitterness and resentment I had been until sitting there it all dropped away from me. It was as if a stone had been rolled away. I hadn’t realized how it was hurting until it left off.” He spoke disjointedly, and as if almost against his will. He was glad when the sound of his wife’s and Mr. Fothersley’s approaching voices made Violet release his hand and stand up. “You think Thorpe would lay my devils too?” she asked, looking down at him. “I think,” he said gravely, “it is worth trying.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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