“it” — it said coldly to Mrs. de Bray Pape:
“You hear! The lady of the house does not require your presence. Please go away.”
Mrs. de Bray Pape had been explaining that she intended refurnishing Groby in the Louis Quatorze style.
It occurred to Valentine that this position had its comicalities. Mrs. de Bray Pape did not know her, Valentine. Marie Leonic did not know who that figure was.
They could miss a good deal of the jam…. Jam to-morrow, jam yesterday…. Where was the jam?… That figure had said “The lady of the house.” Delicately.
But she did not appear denunciatory. She dropped sideways: pensive. Puzzled. As if at the ways of God. As if stricken by God and puzzled at his ways…. Well, she might be.
She caught at the telephone shelf. The child had moved within her. It wanted her to be called Mrs. Tietjens in its own house. This woman stood in the way. She could not give a father’s name to the little thing. So he protested within her. Dark it was growing. Hold up there.
Someone was calling: “Valentine!”
A boy’s voice called:
“Mother! Mother!”
A soft voice said:
“Mrs. Tietjens!”
What things to say in her child’s hearing!… Mother! Mother!… Her mother was in Pontresina, complete with secretary in black alpaca…. The Italian Alps!
Dark!… Marie Leonie said in her ear: “Tiens toi debout, ma cherie!”
Dark, dark night; cold, cold snow — Harsh, Harsh, wind and lo! — Where shall we shepherds go, God’s son to find?
Edith Ethel was reading from a letter to Mrs. de Bray Pape. She said: “As an American of culture you will be interested…. From the great poet!”… A gentleman held a top-hat in front of his face, as if he were in church. Thin, with dull eyes and a Jewish beard! Jews keep their hats on in church….
Apparently she, Valentine Wannop, was going to be denounced before the congregation! Did they bring a scarlet letter?… They were Puritans enough, she and Christopher. The voice of the man with the Jewish beard — Sylvia Tietjens had removed the letter from the fingers of Edith Ethel…. Not much changed Edith Ethel! Face a
“After all! It does make a difference. He is virtually Tietjens of…” He began to push his way backwards, outwards. A man trying to leave through the crowd at the church door. He said to Valentine oddly interrogative:
“Mrs…. eh Tietjens!” And then: “Par
Edith Ethel remarked:
“wanted to say to Valentine: if I effect the sale personally I do not see that any commissions should be payable.”
Sylvia Tietjens said they could discuss that outside. Valentine was aware that, some time before a boy’s voice had said: “Mother, is this sporting?” It occurred to Valentine to wonder if it was sporting of people to call her “Mrs. Tietjens” under Sylvia Tietjens’ nose. Of course she had to be Mrs. Tietjens before the servants. She heard herself say:
“I am sorry Mr. Ruggles called me Mrs. Tietjens before you!”
The eyes of the statue were if possible doubly bent on her!
The bitter answer came to her as if from stiff lips:
“An the King will have my head I carena what he may do with my…”
It affected Valentine disagreeably — with a pang of jealousy. What it amounted to was that Sylvia said: “You have my man, so you may as well have his name.” But by using a saying that Christopher used habitually — and that Mark had used habitually when he could speak – by using then a Tietjens-family saying she asserted that she too had belonged to the Tietjens family, and, before Valentine, had been intimate with their sayings to the point of saturation.
That statue went on speaking.
It said:
“I wanted to get those people out…. And to see…” It spoke very slowly. Marmoreally. The flowers in the jug on the fald-stool needed more water. Marigolds. Orange…. A woman is upset when her child moves within her. Sometimes more, sometimes less. She must have been very upset: there had been a lot of people in the room; she knew neither how they had come nor how they had gone. She said to Marie Leonie:
“Dr. Span is bringing some bromide…. I can’t find those…”
Marie Leonie was looking at that figure; her eyes stuck out of her head like Christopher’s. She said, as still as a cat watching a mouse: “Qui este elle? C’est bien la femme?”
It looked queerly like a pilgrim in a ballet, now, that figure against the light — the long legs slightly bent gave that effect. Actually this was the third time she had seen it — but in the dark house she had not really seen the face…. The features had been contorted and thus not the real features: these were the real features. There was about that figure something timid. And noble. It said:
“Sporting! Michael said: ‘Be sporting, mother!’… But sporting….” It raised its hand as if to shake a fist at heaven. The hand struck the beam across the ceiling; that roof was so low. And dear! It said:
“It was Father Consett really… They can all, soon, call you Mrs. Tietjens. Before God, I came to drive those people out…. But I wanted to see how it was you kept him….”
Sylvia Tietjens was keeping her head turned aside, drooping. Hiding a tendency to tears, no doubt. She said to the floor:
“I say again, as God hears me, I never thought to harm your child. His child…. But any woman’s…. Not harm a child… I have a fine one, but I wanted another… with its littleness…. It’s the riding has done it….” Someone sobbed!
She looked loweringly then at Valentine:
“It’s Father Consett in heaven that has done this. Saint and martyr, desiring soft things! I can almost see his shadow across these walls now it’s growing dark. You hung him: you did not even shoot him though I say you shot him to save my feelings…. And it’s you who will be going on through all the years….”
She bit into a small handkerchief that she had in her hand, concealed. She said:
“Damn it, I’m playing pimp to Tietjens of Groby — leaving my husband to you!…”
Someone again sobbed.
It occurred to Valentine that Christopher had left those prints at old Hunt’s sale in a jar on the field. They had not wanted the jar. Then Christopher had told a dealer called Hudnut that he could have that jar and some others against a little carting service…. He would be tired, when he got back, Christopher. But he would have to go to Hudnut’s, Gunning could not be trusted. They must not disappoint Lady Robinson….
Marie Leonie said:
“C’est lamentable qu’un seul homme puisse inspirer deux passions pareilles dans deux femmes…. C’est le martyre de notre vie!”
Yes, it was lamentable that a man could inspire two such passions in two women. Marie Leonie went to look after Mark. Sylvia Tietjens was gone. They say joy never kills. She fell straight down onto the floor Lumpishly…. It was lucky they had the Bussorah rug otherwise Chrissie… They had no money…. Poor… poor…
IV
MARK TIETJENS had lain considering the satisfaction of a great night he had lately passed. Or perhaps not lately; at some time.
Lying out there in the black nights the sky seemed enormous. You could understand how somewhere heaven could be concealed in it. And tranquil at times. Then you felt the earth wheeling through infinity.
Night birds cried overhead: herons, ducks, swans even; the owls kept closer to the ground, beating along the hedgerows. Beasts became busy in the long grass. They rustled busily, then paused for long. No doubt a rabbit ran
