there above that house, that, years ago in her mother’s sitting-room in a place called Lobschcid, Father Consett had predicted that if Christopher fell in love with another woman, she, Sylvia, would perpetrate acts of vulgarity. And there she had been, not only toying with the temporal courts in a matter of marriage, which is a sacrament, but led undoubtedly into a position that she had to acknowledge was vulgar. She had precipitately left the court when Mr. Hatt had for the second time appealed for pity for her — but she had not been able to stop him…. Pity! She appeal for pity! She had regarded herself as — she had certainly desired to be regarded as — the sword of the Lord smiting the craven and the traitor to Beauty! And was it to be supported that she was to be regarded as such a fool as to be decoyed into an empty house! Or as to let herself be thrown downstairs!… But
And her position had been broadcasted all over England — and now, here in the mouth of this gross henchman it had recurred. At the most inconvenient moment. For the thought suddenly recurred, sweeping over with immense force: God had changed sides at the cutting down of Groby Great Tree.
The first intimation she had had that God might change sides had occurred in that hateful court and had, as it were, been prophesied by Father Consett. That dark saint and martyr was in Heaven, having died for the Faith, and undoubtedly he had the ear of God. He had prophesied that she would toy with the temporal courts. Immediately she had felt herself degraded, as if strength had gone out from her.
Strength had undoubtedly gone out from her. Never before in her life had her mind not sprung to an emergency. It was all very well to say that she could not move physically either backwards or forwards for fear of causing a stampede amongst all those horses and that, therefore, her mental uncertainty might be excused. But it was the finger of God — or of Father Consett, who as saint and martyr, was the agent of God…. Or, perhaps, God, Himself, was here really taking a hand for the protection of His Christopher, who was undoubtedly an Anglican saint…. The Almighty might well be dissatisfied with the relatively amiable Catholic saint’s conduct of the case in which the saint of the other persuasion was involved. For surely Father Consett might be expected to have a soft spot for her whereas you could not expect the Almighty to be unfair even to Anglicans…. At any rate, up over the landscape, the hills, the sky, she felt the shadow of Father Consett, the arms extended as if in a gigantic cruciform — and then above and behind that an… an August Will!
Gunning, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her, moved his lips vindictively. She had, in face of those ghostly manifestations across hills and sky, a moment of real panic. Such as she had felt when they had been shelling near the hotel in France when she had sat amidst palms with Christopher under a glass roof…. A mad desire to run — or as if your soul ran about inside you like a parcel of rats in a pit awaiting an unseen terrier.
What was she to do? What the devil was she to do?… She felt an itch…. She felt the very devil of a desire to confront at least Mark Tietjens… even if it should kill the fellow. Surely God could not be unfair! What was she given beauty — the dangerous remains of beauty! — for if not to impress it on the unimpressible! She ought to be given the chance at least once more to try her irresistible ram against that immovable post…. She was aware….
Gunning was saying something to the effect that if she caused Mrs. Valentine to have a miscarriage or an idiot child ‘Is Lordship would flay all the flesh off ’er bones with ‘is own ridin’ crop. ’Is Lordship ’ad fair done it to ’im. Gunning ’isself, when ’e lef ’is missis then eight and a ’arf munce gone to live with old Mother Cressy! The child was bore dead.
The words conveyed little to her…. She was aware…. She was aware…. What was she aware of? She was aware that God — or perhaps it was Father Consett that so arranged it, more diplomatically, the dear! — desired that she should apply to Rome for the dissolution of her marriage with Christopher and that she should then apply to the civil courts. She thought that probably God desired that Christopher should be freed as early as possible, Father Consett suggesting to Him the less stringent course.
A fantastic object was descending at a fly-crawl the hill road that went almost vertically up to the farm amongst the beeches. She did not care!
Gunning was saying that that wer why ‘Is Lordship giv’im th’ sack. Took away the cottage an ten bob a week that ’Is Lordship allowed to all as had been in his service thritty yeer.
She said: “What! What’s that?” Then it came back to her that Gunning had suggested that she might give Valentine a miscarriage….
Her breath made in her throat a little clittering sound like the trituration of barley ears; her gloved hands, reins and all were over her eyes, smelling of morocco leather; she felt as if within her a shelf dropped away — as the platform drops away from beneath the feet of a convict they are hanging. She said: “Could…” Then her mind stopped, the clittering sound in her throat continuing. Louder. Louder.
Descending the hill at the fly’s pace was the impossible. A black basket-work pony phaeton, the pony — you always look at the horse first — four hands too big; as round as a barrel, as shining as a mahogany dining-table, pacing for all the world like a
She exclaimed to Gunning:
“By God, if you do not let me pass I will cut your face in half…”
It was justified! This in effect was too much — on the part of Gunning and God and Father Consett. All of a heap they had given her perplexity, immobility and a dreadful thought that was gripping her vitals…. Dreadful! Dreadful!
She must get down to the cottage. She must get down to the cottage.
She said to Gunning:
“You damn fool…. You
He moved up — interminably — sweating and hairy from the gate on which he had been leaning, so that he no longer barred her way. She trotted smartly past him and cantered beautifully down the slope. It came to her from the bloodshot glance that his eyes gave her that he would like to outrage her with ferocity. She felt pleasure.
She came off her horse like a circus performer to the sound of “Mrs. Tietjens! Mrs. Tietjens,” in several voices from above. She let the chestnut go to hell.
It seemed queer that it did not seem queer. A shed of log-parings set upright, the gate banging behind her. Apple branches spreading down; grass up to the middle of her grey breeches. It was Tom Tiddler’s Grounds; it was near a place called Gemmenich on the Fourth of August 1914… But just quietude: quietude.
Mark regarded her boy’s outline with beady, inquisitive eyes. She bent her switch into a half loop before her. She heard herself say:
“Where are all these fools? I want to get them out of here!”
He continued to regard her, beadily, his head like mahogany against the pillows. An apple bough caught in her hair.
She said:
“Damn it all, I had Groby Great Tree torn down: not that tin Maintenon. But, as God is my Saviour I would not tear another woman’s child in the womb!”
He said:
“You poor bitch! You poor bitch! The riding has done it!”
She swore to herself afterwards that she had heard him say that, for at the time she had had too many emotions to regard his speaking as unusual. She took indeed a prolonged turn in the woods before she felt equal to facing the others. Tietjens’s had its woods onto which the garden gave directly.
Her main bitterness was that they had this peace. She was cutting the painter, but they were going on in this peace; her world was waning. It was the fact that her friend Bobbie’s husband, Sir Gabriel Blantyre — formerly Bosenheir — was cutting down expenses like a lunatic. In her world there was the writing on the wall. Here they could afford to call her a poor bitch — and be in the right of it, as like as not!
