unfortunate brother.
There was no other way to look at it. She had undoubtedly lured Christopher on to marry her because she thought rightly or wrongly that she was with child by another man. They would never know — she herself probably did not know! — whether this boy was Christopher’s son or the other’s. English women are so untidy — shamefaced —about these things. That was excusable. But every other action of hers from that date had been inexcusable — except regarded as actions perpetrated under the impulsion of sex-viciousness.
It is perfectly proper – it is a mother’s duty to give an unborn child a name and a father. But afterwards to blast the name of that father is more discreditable than to leave the child nameless. This boy was now Tietjens of Groby – but he was also the legal son of a father who had behaved unspeakably according to the mother…. And the son of a mother who had been unable to attract her man!… Who advertised the fact to the estate carpenter! If we say that the good of the breed is the supreme law, what sort of virtue was this?
It was all very well to say that every one of Sylvia’s eccentricities had in view the sole aim of getting her boy’s father to return to her. No doubt they might be. He, Mark, was perfectly ready to concede that even her infidelities, notorious as they had been, might have been merely ways of calling his unfortunate brother’s attention back to her – of keeping herself in his mind. After the marriage Christopher, finding out that he had been a mere catspaw, probably treated her pretty coldly or ignored her — maritally…. And he was a pretty attractive fellow, Christopher. He, Mark, was bound nowadays to acknowledge that. A regular saint and Christian martyr and all that…. Enough to drive a woman wild if she had to live beside him and be ignored.
It is obvious that women must be allowed what means they can make use of to maintain — to arouse — their sex attraction for their men. That is what the bitches are for in the scale of things. They have to perpetuate the breed. To do that they have to call attention to themselves and to use what devices they see fit to use, each one according to her own temperament. That cruelty was an excitant he was quite ready, too, to concede. He was ready to concede anything to the woman. To be cruel is to draw attention to yourself; you cannot expect to be courted by a man whom you allow to forget you. But there probably ought to be a limit to things. You probably ought in this, as in all other things, to know what you can do and what you can’t — and the proof of this particular pudding, as of all others, was in the eating. Sylvia had left no stone unturned in the determination to keep herself in her man’s mind and she had certainly irretrievably lost her man: to another girl. Then she was just a nuisance.
A woman intent on getting a man back ought to have some system, some sort of scheme at the very least. But Sylvia — he knew it from the interminable talk that he had had with Christopher on Armistice night — Sylvia delighted most in doing what she called pulling the strings of shower-baths. She did extravagant things, mostly of a cruel kind, for the fun of seeing what would happen. Well, you cannot allow yourself fun when you are on a campaign. Not as to the subject matter of the campaign itself! If then you do what you want rather than what is expedient you damn well have to take what you get for it.
What would have justified Sylvia, no matter what she did, would have been if she had succeeded in having another child by his brother. She hadn’t. The breed of Tietjens was not enriched. Then she was just a nuisance….
An infernal nuisance… For what was she up to now? It was perfectly obvious that both Mrs. de Bray Pape and this boy were here because she had had another outbreak of… practically Sadism. They were here so that Christopher might be hurt some more and she not forgotten. What then was the reason for this visit? What the deuce was it?
The boy had been silent for some time. He was gazing at Mark with the goggle-eyed gasping that had been so irritating in his father — particularly on Armistice Day…. Well, he, Mark, was apparently now conceding that this boy was probably his brother’s son. A real Tietjens after all was to reign over the enormously long, grey house behind the fantastic cedar. The tallest cedar in Yorkshire; in England; in the Empire…. He didn’t care. He who lets a tree overhang his roof calls the doctor in daily…. The boy’s lips began to move. No sound came out. He was presumably in a great state!
He was undoubtedly like his father. Darker…. Brown hair, brown eyes, high-coloured cheeks all flushed now; straight nose, marked brown eyebrows. A sort of… scared, puzzled… what was it?… expression. Well, Sylvia was fair; Christopher was dark-haired with silver streaks, but fair-complexioned…. Damn it; this boy was more attractive than Christopher had been at his age and earlier…. Christopher hanging round the schoolroom door in Groby, puzzled over the mathematical theory of waves. He, Mark, hadn’t been able to stand him or indeed any of the other children. There was sister Effie —
“The tree… the great tree… It darkens the windows….”
Mark said: “Aha!” to himself. Groby Great Tree was the symbol of Tietjens. For thirty miles round Groby they made their marriage vows by Groby Great Tree. In the other Ridings they said that Groby Tree and Groby Well were equal in height and depth one to the other. When they were really imaginatively drunk Cleveland villagers would declare — would knock you down if you denied — that Groby Great Tree was 365 foot high and Groby Well 365 feet deep. A foot for every day of the year…. On special occasions — he could not himself be bothered to remember what — they would ask permission to hang rags and things from the boughs. Christopher said that one of the chief indictments against Joan of Arc had been that she and the other village girls of Domremy had hung rags and trinkets from the boughs of a cedar. Or maybe a thorn? Offering to fairies…. Christopher set great store by the tree. He was a romantic ass. Probably he set more store by the tree than by anything else at Groby. He would pull the house down if he thought it incommoded the tree.
Young Mark was bleating, positively bleating:
“The Italians have a proverb…. He who lets a tree overhang his house invites a daily call from the doctor… I agree myself…. In principle of course….”
Well, that was that! Sylvia, then, was proposing to threaten to ask to have Groby Great Tree cut down. Only to threaten to ask. But that would be enough to agonise the miserable Christopher. You couldn’t cut down Groby Great Tree. But the thought that the tree was under the guardianship of unsympathetic people would be enough to drive Christopher almost dotty — for years and years.
“Mrs. de Bray Pape,” the boy was stammering, “is extremely keen on the tree’s being… I agree in principle…. My mother wished you to see that — oh, in modern days — a house is practically unlet-table if… So she got Mrs. de Bray Pape…. She hasn’t had the courage though she swore she had….”
He continued to stammer. Then he started and stopped, crimson. A woman’s voice had called:
“Mr. Tictjens…. Mr. Mark… Hi… hup!”
A small woman, all in white, white breeches, white coat, white wide-awake, was slipping down from a tall bay with a white star on the forehead — a bay with large nostrils and an intelligent head. She waved her hand obviously at the boy and then caressed the horse’s nostrils. Obviously at the boy… for it was impossible that Mark, Senior, would know a woman who could make a sound like “Hi, hup!” to attract his attention.
Lord Fittleworth, in a square, hard hat, sat on an immense, coffin-headed dapple-grey. He had bristling, close-cropped moustaches and sat like a limpet. He waved his crop in the direction of Mark — they were such old friends — and went on talking to Gunning, who was at his stirrup. The coffin-headed beast started forward and reared a foot or so; a wild, brazen, yelping sound had disturbed it. The boy was more and more scarlet and as emotion grew on him, more and more like Christopher on that beastly day…. Christopher with a piece of furniture under his arm, in Marie Leonie’s room, his eyes goggling out at the foot of the bed.
Mark swore painfully to himself. He hated to be reminded of that day. Now this lad and that infernal bugle that the younger children of Cramp had got hold of from their bugler-brother, had put it back damnably in his mind. It went on. At intervals. One child had another try, then another. Obviously then Cramp, the eldest, took it. It blared out…. Ta…. Ta…. Ta…. Ta, ti… ta-ta-ti…. Ta…. The Last Post. The B—y infernal Last Post…. Well, Christopher, as that day Mark had predicted, had got himself, with his raw sensibilities, into a pretty bloody infernal mess while some drunken ass had played the Last Post under the window…. Mark meant that whilst that farewell was being played he had had that foresight. And he hated the bugle for reminding him of it. He hated it more than he had imagined. He could not have imagined himself using profanity even to himself. He must have been profoundly moved. Deucedly and profoundly moved at that beastly noise. It had come over the day like a disaster. He saw
