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!
It said drily:
“An the King will ha’e my heid I carena what ye do wi’ my …” It was a saying common to both Mark and Christopher … That was bitter. She was reminding her, Valentine, that she had previously enjoyed Tietjens’ intimacies—before her, Valentine!
But the voice went on:
“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 Léonie:
“Dr. Span is bringing some bromide. … I can’t find those …”
Marie Léonie 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 est 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!’ … Be 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. … Their littleness. … 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 as against a little carting service. … He would be tired, when he got back, Christopher. He would have, nevertheless, to go to Hudnut’s: Gunning could not be trusted. But they must not disappoint Lady Robinson. …
Marie Léonie said:
“C’est lamentable qu’un seul homme puisse inspirer deux telles passions dans deux telles femmes. … C’est le martyre de notre vie!”
Yes, it was lamentable that a man could inspire two such passions in two women. Marie Léonie went to look after Mark. There was no Sylvia Tietjens. They say joy never kills. She fell straight down onto the ground, lumpishly!
… It was lucky they had the Bussorah rug, otherwise Chrissie … They must have some 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, duck, swans even: the owls kept closer to the ground, beating along the hedgegrows. Beasts became busy in the long grass. They rustled busily; then paused for long. No doubt a rabbit ran till it found an attractive plantain. Then it nibbled for a long time without audible movement. Now and then cattle lowed, or many lambs—frightened by a fox maybe. …
But there would be nevertheless long silences. … A stoat would get onto the track of the rabbit. They would run, run, run brushing through the long grass, then out into the short meadow and round and round, the rabbit squealing. Loudly at first.
In the dim illumination of his night-light, dormice would climb up the posts of his shelter. They would remain regarding him with beads of eyes. When the rabbits squealed they would hunch themselves together and shiver. They knew it meant S-t-o-a-t—stoat! Their turn soon!
He despised himself a little for attending to these minutiae—as if one were talking down to a child. … On his great night the whole cattle of the county had been struck with panic; you heard them crashing down through the hedges and miles down into the silent valleys.
No! He had never been one to waste his time and mind on small mammals and small birds. … The Flora and Fauna of Blankshire! … Not for him. It was big movements interested him: “wherein manifesteth itself the voice of God!” … Very likely that was true. Transport. Panic in
