Friends and Relations Page 2

  Mrs. Studdart had the last word. Leaning into the car she added: “And, Laurel, you must remember to write about the candlesticks. And there are those two lamps and the coffee-tray. I have put a list in your dressing-case.”

  “Oh yes, Mother, yes.”

  “I daresay Edward has letters too.”

  Edward, who did not think it delicate on Mrs. Studdart’s part to allot their immediate future, nodded with some reserve and the Daimler presently moved off.

  * * *

  —

  The photographer’s proofs arrived some days afterwards. The wedding group was not an entire success. The best man’s spectacles glared, belying his natural mildness; the young bridesmaids had “over-posed” and showed too much knee. All the same, copies were very much in demand. The young couple, mounted, framed, soon took up life in Corunna Lodge. Their height, their grace had been transferred to the plate; their youth with its suggestion of the heroic perhaps exaggerated a little. When one called at Corunna Lodge, if one said nothing, Mrs. Studdart could never resist moving the photograph forward. Even the stranger, the casual visitor, could infer much of Laurel: her fairness, her charm, her irregular prettiness, the tilt of the long eyes, the turn of the head, the rueful gay smile that would be for less than a moment. She appeared delicious. And Edward—the forehead, the eyes set not very deep in their deep sockets, the short jutting nose with wide delicate nostrils, the line of the jaw square, too fine to be massive: formality, a surviving childish gravity and elegance, perversity, incuriosity, impassibility, communicativeness. His smile, Mrs. Studdart explained, did not appear. But, as Janet added, his smile was not expressive.

  2

  For the Studdarts, the summer of 192– was to prove eventful. They came to be notable among the families of Cheltenham; it was supposed by the neighbourhood that early marriages really must run in families, and that since Mrs. Studdart herself had married just out of her ’teens, her girls had been born to this happy tradition. Six weeks after the wedding of Laurel, Janet announced her engagement to Rodney Meggatt. She had not, these difficult days, been expected to marry; she had little charm, many interests, appeared even forbidding. Letters began to come in again steadily; Mrs. Studdart had hardly a pause in her correspondence. By this time she had learned to reply by formula, and for hours set aside daily she verbally smiled and puckered. Where, indeed, would she be without her girls? But as a mother one lived for these deprivations. Once, unaccountably, in the course of a morning she crossed the room to kiss Janet who, at her typewriter, wound up her dealings with several local societies before resigning the secretaryships.

  “I suppose it’s never possible to be absolutely sincere,” said Mrs. Studdart in confidence—as though the girl were married already. But Janet, barely pausing over the keys, looked blankly up with her very dark eyes. If in her twenty years she had formed opinions, she never expressed them. No one knew what she thought. She had now, of course, her happiness, but it had been difficult—Cheltenham did not know.

  A fortnight after her sister’s wedding, when everything was cleared up and the house quiet, she had gone to visit in —shire (the invitation arising out of the wedding), taking three new dresses given her by her father as a reward for having been so busy and capable, as a consolation because she was not the bride. Once or twice at least, by day and by night, she would be, in her dark way, certain to look beautiful. She wrote to her mother three times: first, that weather in —shire was uncertain; rain interrupting a tennis party at Batts Monachorum she had played billiards throughout the afternoon with a Rodney Meggatt, nephew of Considine Meggatt at Batts Abbey (the explorer and big-game hunter). Then, that she and Margaret were sitting up all night with Margaret’s borzoi which had distemper; Margaret wanted her to stay on. Finally, that the borzoi was better; that Rodney Meggatt, who had riden over several times to inquire for the borzoi, wanted to marry her and that she, for her part, would like to marry him. She came home two days afterwards to discuss the project; Rodney, by invitation, followed. It seemed hardly credible. Rodney was fair, lean but solid; his manner quiet but with, at this time, an undertone of excitement. He was very much liked in —shire; Colonel and Mrs. Studdart immediately understood why. Naturally, they were pleased. Janet’s creamy-pale face had the repose of serenity; her slow smile sent up her cheeks in lovely curves under downcast eyelids; her rare dark look remained as ever intent, searching, with nothing of a child’s in it but an oblique directness that paused and turned away. It had passed for sullenness, this habit of looking down. But her reserve of expression could now hide nothing but happiness.

  But presently they had been appalled; there appeared a substantial difficulty, a cruel obstacle. Before the appearance of Edward last autumn, from over the Cotswolds, and his rather dazzling courtship of the entire family which had not for some months particularized in the direction of Laurel, the Studdarts had known nothing of the Tilneys. Their worlds were apart. Edward’s mother’s distressing past was no more than a fact to them; into its details—out of delicacy, awkwardness, solicitude for Edward—they had not even now cared to enter. Edward, it had been easy to satisfy themselves, was himself irreproachable. Now it was Laurel who wrote from Dalmatia, desperate with apprehension. Meggatt? Meggatt? Was it possible that they did not know? Rodney’s uncle Considine had been Lady Elfrida’s co-respondent.

  Letters on this affair of extreme delicacy shot to and fro between the distracted Studdarts in Cheltenham and the distracted young Tilneys honeymooning in Dalmatia. Rodney had to be asked to be most considerate and withdraw for a short time, perhaps for a short time only. There was nothing for Janet to say; she wrote to nobody. Hearts bled for her; her happiness had been interdicted. Mercifully, the Girl Guides kept her busy during this difficult period: a rally was being organized. Meanwhile, which to approach first: Considine (appreciative of Janet, affably disposed towards the Studdarts, unaware—apparently—of the Tilney connection) or Lady Elfrida, unconcernedly elsewhere, they thought Venice? The Studdarts had not liked to suggest that Edward should write to his mother; it was Laurel who urged this.

  In indirect reply to Edward’s communication, Lady Elfrida wrote promptly to Cheltenham. She did not consider the situation awkward at all. Not nowadays when everybody was different, everyone else dead. She thanked the Studdarts but was unable to understand them. Why sacrifice Janet? If Rodney were like his uncle she could wish Janet no one better—and how she loved her! Considine surely, surely did not object? She would write at once to him. Surely nothing so far-fetched should stand in the way of Janet’s happiness? Especially since Edward—here, with unusual thoroughness, she had scratched half a sentence out. Concluding, she wished they were all in Venice, which was delightful.

  To Edward she wrote to the same effect, tartly. She had reasons for her annoyance; a rapid and superficial reader, she had found his letter, all qualifications qualified, almost unintelligible. She hoped (but apparently without confidence) that he and Laurel were having a nice time in Dalmatia.

  Gravely, shut up in the morning-room, Colonel and Mrs. Studdart re-read and talked over Lady Elfrida’s letter. Dimly, they appreciated their own difficulty, which was that they were neither quite worldly nor quite unworldly enough to be either high-handed or simple about the matter. They did not know if they were reasonable, trying to be good, or good, trying to be reasonable. They were shocked by Lady Elfrida’s attitude and did not know whether to condemn her as a lady or as a woman. Colonel Studdart, who did not like a woman to be dispassionate, suspected she was not wholly either. Yet here they were, bound to gratitude, for she tossed their daughter happiness, an establishment, with a negligent hand.

  They pictured the Abbey with cedars, cypresses; their daughter walking cheerfully over the smooth lawns. Rodney was Considine’s heir; his uncle had not married. Colonel Studdart thought of the shooting, but put this behind him. His wife, however, was not ashamed to enter the garden and pace in m
inute examination down border after border. They had from the first liked Rodney better than Edward, and as they both loved Janet a little less than Laurel they felt Rodney was owed to her. The growing-up together of Meggatt and Tilney children might well heal the ugliness of that adultery, cheerfully re-linking the two names.

  Colonel and Mrs. Studdart agreed upon nothing, decided nothing, but suddenly, solemnly kissed. She went out to look for Janet. There was nothing particular to say: Janet, in uniform, was half on to her bicycle, in a hurry; this was the day of the rally. Her mother gave her Lady Elfrida’s letter, at which she had less than a moment to glance. Then Janet skimmed off round the circular grass plot and out of the gate with the stucco lions. There would be always her interests.

  Rodney, recalled by telegram, was there for dinner when Janet returned from the rally very tired. Later, he and she walked down the garden, hardly able to distinguish each other in the mild starlight. The air was heavy with a chestnut’s foliage and thousand unlit candles. Past the chestnut, by the poplars, she wept on his shoulder; one would have said with despair. He barely bent his head, they were both very tall. They did not speak; till now he had hardly touched or kissed her. Though she did not love him she began to understand desire. He comforted her a little. A week later, their engagement was announced. Then Cheltenham knew that both the Studdart girls would in a summer, a summer when men were so few, have married with ease and simplicity, and married well. Janet’s wedding, however, would not take place till the autumn.

  So Mrs. Studdart was at her writing-table, morning after morning, regretting there was no absolute insincerity. She did not again kiss Janet so unaccountably. And Janet, leaving the affairs of the local organizations in perfect order, handed over to other secretaries—who hoped their own terms of office might be as brief, for as happy reasons. She received some engraved silver presents in recognition; these were a delight to her parents.

  Lady Elfrida, in a subsequent letter to Janet, spoke of a purely personal disappointment. She had hoped she and Janet might have been much together. She was by now back from Venice and, writing from Trevor Square, painted herself as solitary. Would Janet come to her at the end of June? Together, they might project the trousseau. (She had delayed some four days in Paris, where autumn—in the Trade’s desperate prematurity—already foreshadowed the Place Vendôme, and the oracles, though still mute, had significantly gestured.) One understood that Rodney would be, at this time, also in London. (In the post-war, prolonged indecision his bent had not yet declared itself; meanwhile he had obtained through the influence of his uncle an interesting secretaryship.)

  Mrs. Studdart declared herself resigned to the visit; even, after a day’s consideration, favourable. Janet must take a bold line. It seemed best for Janet to crash forthwith, before marriage, through this thicket of implications. Two or three difficult tête-à-têtes, some triangular awkwardness; much not said when the young Tilneys returned to town (and at the thought of Edward’s return to town Mrs. Studdart did shut her eyes defensively) and her Janet would have established and fortified her extraordinary position. Only as to the trousseau, Mrs. Studdart advised Janet not to let Lady Elfrida influence her unduly. She did know, naturally, but was perhaps extreme. But it would be nice for Janet to see some models and take some patterns. Janet agreed. She had, however, secretly set her heart on a gold wedding-dress, of which she meant to speak for the first time to Lady Elfrida. She was to be an October bride: one could forecast chrysanthemums, a certain quality in the sunshine. Janet (though she did not clearly formulate this or any idea) personified Weather as someone feminine, tractable while perverse, agreeably subject to the dominance of some wills, upon whom Rodney could not fail to exercise a compulsion. Nothing should impair his magnificence as a bridegroom. Edward’s appeal had notably failed with the demi-goddess. She thought, perhaps to love Edward one must be half a man.

  * * *

  —

  June afternoon, in Knightsbridge, polished the house-fronts; a crystal twirled in a window; the young town trees, the curtains were mildly sensitive to a breeze. Life in the streets and squares ran transparent and ran without a ripple. A foot on a step, a door opening, a taxi stopping engaged the street; the balconies shared a calm social expectancy. Janet found Lady Elfrida’s long little drawing-room green, cool, receptive—the sun was off it—her hostess quite haggard with the anticipation of pleasure. Lady Elfrida, whose journeys were seldom less than transcontinental, ignored the transition from Cheltenham; she did not ask if Janet were tired but, displacing a Siamese cat from the sofa beside her, drew Janet down at once to a level of intimate talk among the cushions.

  “You’re looking wonderful: how this suits you. We will have tea, but listen—Edward and Laurel are back. (But you know, I expect?) They are just the same, not surprised at all. They will talk of nothing but what they saw in Dalmatia.”

  “But Laurel has travelled so little.”

  “But it cannot be so different.”

  Janet, taking her gloves off slowly because of her shyness, said, “Laurel sees everything new.” Lady Elfrida, who did not care to understand Laurel, went on rapidly:

  “And in their house they are making every mistake. I thought perhaps you—I can’t, you see. They are like sparrows tugging little pieces of things about; little patterns, you know, of the wrong brocades. Of course they don’t know where to go for their things; it is difficult for them. I think they rely on you. I lunched there today and didn’t know what to say. It is all like a little girl’s first room of her own, without even the daisies. You or I—Janet, how old are you?”

  Janet said: “Twenty.” In view of her capability and composure the statement was hardly ever received without surprise. It went without saying, she looked older than Laurel. Early, while her hair was still down her back, she had accepted maturity; as though someone touching her on the shoulder had told her to come away from a party that had hardly begun.

  “Twenty? That was when I married. Now show me your ring—Oh yes, I like Rodney; I knew he was wise. He does know your hands, doesn’t he? When shall we meet?”

  “Rodney? I don’t think tonight…”

  “No, I thought of the Opera. Oh, you are tired: how foolish I am.” And Lady Elfrida, in her solicitude, poured out tea more quietly. Perhaps she thought: “Janet gets tired easily.” The Siamese, reappearing like a malign sun over the cushions, looked at his mistress with penetration, without sympathy. She did not evoke sympathy; she had few friends, for she appeared to lack reticence and talked extravagantly, exaggerating her idea of herself. Loved, she exasperated the affection; the indignation of Edward’s gentle father had been cumulative and upon discovery of her deception he had divorced her punitively. Her abandonment of Considine, his abandonment of her, remained inexplicable. Tall mirrors prolonged her little drawing-room in false perspectives; in her life as in her drawing-room an acquaintance, losing the sense of direction, hardly knew which way to proceed. She put down a saucer of milk for the Siamese, which dropped to it like a plummet from the sofa-back, startling Janet.

  3

  Edward said to Laurel, very early in the morning after Janet’s arrival at Trevor Square: “I suppose we ought to have a family lunch?”

  “Four?” said Laurel. What resolution he had!

  “Rodney.”

  “Not five—your mother?”

  “Four,” repeated Edward, turning over in bed.

  “Oh…?” said Laurel. The protest was quite perfunctory; Laurel did feel very much relieved. For after lunch yesterday, when Lady Elfrida had gone, she had asked herself, “What is the good?” realized some lives could never approach and longed to telephone to Cheltenham. She returned all the patterns Lady Elfrida deprecated to the wrong shops and was in tears when Edward came home because they would never have any curtains now.

  Edward always woke full of determination. Now, blinking up from the pillow at a curtain
less brilliant window, he resumed: “Not, of course, today.” They lay side by side on their two low beds as on tombs and were each aware in the other, falling asleep, of the same carven air of finality. Now, shading their eyes, they turned to discover each other again in the light of the new day.

  “Perhaps not today.” Determining in her heart to be first with Janet alone, she put out a hand; their fingers groped for each other over the chasm between the beds. A small thrill animated the tombs. Tomorrow, then, they should all four lunch together at the Ionides. Laurel got up to go to her bath and Edward fell asleep again.

  As soon as Edward had left the house for Whitehall Laurel ran to the telephone. Janet was barely awake—Lady Elfrida with what seemed to Laurel an infinite lack of consideration had taken her to the Opera. The two laughed with pleasure at the sound of each other’s voices; for some minutes no plans were formulated. Each, in effect, promised: “I’ll tell you my secret,” and for those minutes it was as though Lady Elfrida had never sinned. Then there was a slight break, Janet’s voice changed and on Lady Elfrida’s behalf she wished Laurel good morning. She promised to come round to Royal Avenue at half-past eleven.