Before the Fact Page 10

  “Do I really look wicked?” Lina asked happily, under Johnnie’s kiss.

  “As wicked as they make ’em,” Johnnie assured her.

  She went back to her bedroom in a glow of satisfaction. How many husbands, she wondered, still take an interest in their wives’ undress after six years of marriage?

  But Johnnie never failed her in that way. Dress or undress, he was still as interested in her appearance as on their honeymoon: and still as enthusiastic when she looked nice. And he still told her how pretty she was. Lina knew, better than ever, that she was not pretty (though she did not consider she looked anything like her thirty-five years), but she adored Johnnie to tell her so. And Johnnie did.

  Whatever Johnnie had done, or been once, Lina knew, as well as she knew the alphabet, that he had never once since their wedding looked beyond her at any other woman. She had that, at any rate, to be thankful for.

  She had other things now, too.

  Since that terrible time, two years ago, when Johnnie had lost his job at Bradstowe for what had been nothing less than sheer dishonesty, explain it as he might, and had, Johnnie had given her no more worry. He had had a fright, a real fright; and it had done him all the good in the world. He might still be a little hazier than most people upon the moral side of meum and tuum, but he realized at any rate what other people thought about it: and what they might do if his practice differed from their precept.

  Since that day the contents of Dellfield had remained undiminished.

  Of course Johnnie did no work nowadays, but that no longer mattered. The money was not needed, and technical idleness had not seemed to hurt him. Not that Johnnie ever was really idle. He had taken to gardening, and a few of the fields surrounding Dellfield had been bought, which Lina had stocked and Johnnie did his best to farm; he was most interested in a line of pedigree cattle with which he was experimenting, and which were to pay better than any other line of cattle. Johnnie’s cattle kept him busy, and the losses on them did not cost Lina more than a hundred or two a year at most.

  Besides, Johnnie could not afford to take any more risks.

  He was a most important man nowadays: a member of the county council, a J. P., and all sorts of other things that a country gentleman ought to be. Captain Melbeck had been more than fair. He had breathed no word to anyone else of Johnnie’s peculations; the money had been repaid; the affair was forgotten. And he had most conveniently been in Africa when Johnnie had been made a county councillor and a J. P., so that no opportunity was afforded to his conscience of becoming difficult.

  Johnnie the county councillor, Johnnie the J. P., had nothing more to fear from that old, now almost incredible spectre of Johnnie, the dishonest steward.

  But for all that Lina kept a controlling hand on the purse strings.

  She would probably have done so in any case, for she was exceedingly jealous of her own possessions; but she had been too badly frightened to take the smallest risk. Johnnie, of course, had wanted to look after her capital for her. He had promised investments, just as safe as the government securities in which it lay, that would bring in a certain ten per cent. He had begged hard for just a couple of thousands with which to speculate on his own account. (“Don’t you see, the loss of it couldn’t hurt us in any case, monkeyface, and I might make a fortune.”)

  But Lina had been firm. She made Johnnie what she considered a more than generous personal allowance, of five hundred a year; over the rest, and over the capital, she kept complete control. Johnnie had sulked about it for weeks, at the beginning, but Lina had shown surprising firmness.

  In the end Johnnie had accepted it.

  Lina wished sometimes that he had not. It went against all her canons that a husband should be content to live, in apparent idleness, on his wife’s income. This point of view apparently never occurred to Johnnie. He took it for granted that he should do just that. Lina had never suggested that he should try to earn enough money of his own at any rate to keep him in cigarettes, because it was up to Johnnie to make the suggestion himself; but she was sure that if she had, Johnnie would have been quite genuinely surprised; he would have pointed out that they did not need the money in the least. And yet no one could have called Johnnie spineless.

  He was still the most popular man in the county.

  As Janet once said to her, Lina was as proud of him as if he had ever done anything to deserve it.

  She patted and pulled her frock into place, and glanced at the watch on her wrist. There were five minutes before the first arrival might be expected.

  “I’m going down, Johnnie.”

  “Right-ho! Who did you say were coming?”

  “The Newshams, Janet, and Martin.”

  “Good. Young Caddis will argue with Harry, and I shan’t have to pretend to be listening.”

  Lina sped downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “Everything all right, Lily?”

  “Yes,’m, quite all right.” Lily beamed through her glasses. She had a right to beam complacently. She was a very good cook, and she knew it. Lina had always got on very well with her during the two years of their acquaintance. They taught each other new and exciting dishes, and experimented in making them. Lily would always ask, after Lina had been out to dinner, whether anything unexpected had been in the menu, and if so how Lina thought it had been made. Lily really enjoyed cooking.

  Lina lifted the lid of the saucepan containing the soup and sniffed at it. Lily handed her a spoon. “Just a touch more salt, I think, Lily.” There was no need to look at the birds inside the oven; Lily never omitted to baste them enough.

  Everything seemed quite satisfactory.

  “Remember, Alice,” Lina said to the parlourmaid, who was young and not yet completely trained (the grenadier had left to be married six months ago), “don’t bring round the tray for the soup cups until everyone’s emptied them. It looks so bad for you to stand and wait at somebody’s elbow.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Alice seriously. She contracted her eyebrows in an effort to remember never to wait at a diner’s elbow for his soup cup. Alice was very willing not merely to learn, but to please her mistress. Lina never seemed to have the trouble with her servants that some of her friends in Upcottery had. She put it down to the fact that she paid them more.

  She hurried along to the dining room and gave the table a long, critical look.

  Everything here seemed quite satisfactory too. She gave the flowers in the centre of the table a little perking up and moved a dish of salted almonds out of the exact symmetry with its counterpart in which Alice had carefully put it.

  In the drawing room everything was not so satisfactory. There were no cocktails standing on the Queen Anne bureau. Johnnie had come in too late to mix them.

  With a cluck of annoyance, Lina hurried back to the dining room.

  “Details, details, details!” she thought, as she hastily poured together orange juice, gin, and the vermouths. “That’s what women’s lives are made up of. Nothing but silly little details. Shirts, soup, flowers, powdering noses, mixing cocktails, telling Alice things, talking to people one doesn’t want to talk to, about things one doesn’t want to talk about – nothing but details; nothing lasting. That’s why we never get anywhere.”

  She sipped her mixture, and her expression grew more serious.

  “I wonder if I’ve put enough gin in this.”

  2

  “Monna Lisa, oh, Monna Lisa

  There’s such temptation,

  And aggravation, and guile,

  In your little smile,”

  sang Johnnie, as he put the record on the gramophone. “Yes, I saw it in Murdoch’s, and I got it at once, for you, Janet.”

  Janet smiled painstakingly.

  Martin Caddis uttered a loud laugh. He had had just a little too much of Johnnie’s impeccable port. “You call her ‘Monna Lisa,’ Aysgarth?”

  “Yes. It’s her smile. It’s very disturbing. I never know whether she’s laughing with me or at me.” H
e set the needle on the record.

  “How absurd you are, Johnnie,” Lina laughed.

  Janet continued to smile painstakingly.

  “Dance with me, Janet.” Johnnie’s twinkling eyes taunted her.

  “No, thank you, Johnnie. I never dance so soon after dinner.”

  “Not even with me?”

  “Not even with you.”

  Lina made a note to tell Johnnie that he really must not tease Janet in public. He had been doing it all the evening. Janet did not understand teasing.

  She went to Janet’s rescue. “Janet, have you heard about Martin’s novel? He’s found a publisher for it.”

  “Have you really, Martin?”

  Johnnie turned to the Newshams, who were sitting together a little aloofly, on the couch. “Bring your one-stringer, Harry?”

  “Yes,” Harry Newsham said, not without eagerness. “It’s in the hall.”

  “Good!” said Johnnie, very heartily, “We must have it in soon.”

  “He would bring it,” Freda Newsham interjected. “I told him nobody would want to be bored with it, but he insisted.”

  “I should hope so,” Johnnie replied perfunctorily. “What did you think of the run last Tuesday, Harry? A corker, wasn’t it?” Johnnie was able to hunt now.

  Freda Newsham somewhat elaborately turned her shoulder towards him and yawned.

  By the open window Lina, Janet, and Martin were discussing Martin’s novel. Martin himself, a short young man with lots of fair hair, always untidy, and a very large head, who stammered when he was excited, was rapidly approaching the stammering stage. His own novel always excited Martin tremendously.

  He had first told Lina the story of it five years ago. On hearing that she was the sister-in-law of Cecil he had told it to her again. He continued to tell it to her at intervals, until he began to write it. Then he brought it to her, chapter by chapter. Lina had found it far too long-winded and very dull. She had not told Martin so.

  Martin, thus established as Lina’s literary protégé, came to Dellfield a great deal. Lina had encouraged him, at first. It flattered her to have a young man hanging on her criticisms, and accepting her judgment as final, to say nothing of acting as Mæcenas to the young white hope. Martin would argue fiercely with Janet when, as not seldom happened, she disagreed with Lina. Johnnie, whom Martin frankly bored, laughed at her, called Martin “the Caddis-worm,” and made no objections on finding him so often deep in earnest discussion with Lina on Higher Things when he came back from work.

  A year or more ago, through Lina’s intercession with Cecil, Martin had been offered quite a good post on one of the more serious weeklies, and since then Lina had not seen so much of him. She had not been unthankful.

  Stammering with excitement, Martin explained to Janet the alterations he had made since she last read the manuscript. Lina of course had been kept informed of them by letter. Her attention wandering, she turned, to find that Freda had joined them. On the couch Johnnie and Harry were still talking hunting shop.

  Freda listened for a few moments with an expression of intelligent concentration. Then, finding that the young author continued to confine himself to Janet, let the expression slip and turned to Lina.

  “Let’s walk round the garden, shall we? It’s quite warm, for September. I don’t seem to have seen you for ages. I’ve been longing for a real gossip again.”

  They edged past the other two out through the window.

  Freda linked her arm through Lina’s and exclaimed loudly at the gladioli, still obstinately resisting autumn and dimly to be seen, standing at attention like a particoloured platoon, in the darkening twilight. But Freda’s gladioli, it immediately transpired, were taller, stronger, and less ready to fade.

  “Are they really?” said Lina.

  The two women paced, gleaming wraiths to Janet and Martin, round the neat gravel paths.

  “What on earth,” said Freda abruptly, “is the matter with Johnnie this evening?”

  “Johnnie?” Lina echoed, surprised. “Nothing, so far as I know. Why?”

  “He’s been positively rude to me all the evening.”

  “Has he? I’m awfully sorry, Freda. Are you sure? I never noticed ...”

  “No, my dear. You wouldn’t.”There was a really vicious edge to Freda’s voice.

  Lina wondered what on earth was the matter with her, not with Johnnie. Johnnie had not been rude to her in the least. He had not taken very much notice of her. Perhaps that was the trouble. It was Freda’s enormous vanity.

  “I’m getting sick of this place. Thank goodness I’m going up to town the day after to-morrow, for a week.”

  “Are you?” Lina said enviously. There was no reason why Lina should not go up to town for a week too, if she wanted; but somehow she never did. At the back of her mind, though she refused to recognize it, was the feeling of wardership. Johnnie was quite all right now, of course; but still – better not leave him. “Yes. Charlie Bowes – I’ve told you about him, haven’t I? – is going to be up, and wanted me to join him.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lina accepted this surprising statement quite calmly. Freda had half-a-dozen men friends whom she favoured with her society in London, in return for theatres, dinners, dances, and attention. She stayed at one hotel, and her escort of the period at another. Freda was very insistent that everything was quite all right. Besides, Harry knew all about it and didn’t mind in the least. Lina, who considered the arrangement extremely undignified, to put it at its mildest, thought that probably Harry had no option.

  “I’m looking forward to it. I like Charlie. He’s tremendously fond of me, of course. Yes, it’ll be quite nice to get a little attention, for a change.”

  “Freda, how absurd you are. Nobody could be more attentive than Harry. He’s positively maudlin, for a husband.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Harry.”

  Good heavens, Lina thought, was she thinking of Johnnie? Surely she can’t be falling in love with Johnnie after all this time. If so, she’s got a poor chance.

  She smiled into the growing darkness. A very poor chance! Johnnie had always said that he never saw Freda without wanting to smack her, hard. He had even implored Harry, in Freda’s presence, to smack his wife, hard and often. Johnnie did not like Freda.

  That was a funny thing about the country, Lina reflected idly. Joyce, in London, only had for friends people she liked. In the country one does not necessarily like one’s friends at all. They are one’s friends because they are there; and though, of course, one does not detest them, one rarely likes them. However, this arrangement does provide something to talk about; and heaven knows, in the country that is needed badly enough.

  Out of this evening’s gathering, for instance, only she and Janet, and perhaps she and Martin Caddis, really liked one another. The rest were either indifferent, or friendly on the surface and never missing a chance of saying something nasty in the others’ absence, like Freda and Janet. And yet one asked them all to dinner, as a matter of course.

  Freda and Janet ...

  And now, it seemed, Freda and Johnnie.

  How absurd!

  “How absurd!” said Lina.

  “What’s absurd now?”

  “Why, your saying that Johnnie had been rude to you this evening.” Lina realized that, unthinkingly, she had spoken a rather tactless thought aloud; but, committed, still more tactlessly amplified it.

  “I assure you, it wasn’t absurd in the least.” Freda was beginning to breathe quickly.

  She’s really annoyed! thought Lina.

  “Johnnie’s never rude to anyone. Except intentionally.”

  “Thank you. Then it was intentional.”

  “But, my dear Freda, there wasn’t any rudeness.”

  Lina was getting irritated herself. The woman really was a fool.

  “No?” Freda was silent for a moment. “Then I suppose if he wasn’t rude to me, he was rude to Janet?”

  “What do you mean? I simply don’t understa
nd you.”

  “No, I can quite believe that. Well, all I’ll say is that I was under the impression that Janet and Johnnie didn’t like each other any too much.”

  “Nor they do. At least, Janet doesn’t like Johnnie. I’m sure I can’t imagine why.”

  “And yet Johnnie calls her Monna Lisa and buys gramophone records for her?”

  Lina paused for a moment, to control her temper. “Freda,” she said coldly, “don’t you think you’re making rather an idiot of yourself?”

  “Thank you,” Freda returned angrily. “That comes pretty well from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  They walked a dozen yards in silence.

  “I saw your maid Ella, the other day,” Freda said, more calmly. “You remember her? The one you had here first.”

  “Oh, yes. Did you?” Lina recognized the olive branch, and accepted it instantly. Her tempers were often matters of seconds only. “How’s she getting on?”

  “She’s married. I believe she married soon after leaving you. Why don’t you go over and see her? She lives at Pensworthy. Her husband’s got a grocer’s shop there.” Pensworthy was a small town, perhaps twenty miles away.

  “I might call in one day, when we’re going through in the car,” Lina said, without enthusiasm. Ella was connected in her mind with an unpleasant period. She had no wish to see her again.

  “She was a pretty girl, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “She’s got a little boy now. About five years old.”

  “Has she?” Lina wondered why Freda should be apparently so interested in the almost forgotten Ella and her new appurtenances.

  “If I were you,” said Freda quite passionately, “I should go over and see her, Lina.”

  3

  The Aysgarths spent Christmas that year, as usual, at Lina’s old home. Joyce and Cecil were there too, with the children. Mrs. McLaidlaw was getting rather feeble now, and everyone was as kind to her as possible. She still lived at Abbot Monckford, but since the General’s death and the inheritance which had passed to his daughters there was barely enough money to keep the place up, and half the house was closed. Mrs. McLaidlaw had a little money of her own, strictly tied up, of course, as women’s money was, when she had married, which would pass to her own side of the family when she died.