whisky and soda, to warm you up after the drive? I expect Beatrice could provide it.”
I suppose he would have made some pretext to join me in one, to judge by the hopeful way he was looking at me.
“I think I’d just as soon have a cup of tea, thanks,” I said.
There was a pause. Beatrice moved to the door.
“I’ll take my bag up to my room,” I said at last.
I went upstairs. Beatrice went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. After a few moments, I heard John join her, and they talked in low tones. I began to unpack, very slowly, for I wanted to give them time to sort things out. After about a quarter of an hour I went down to the drawing room, and found tea laid out on a gate-legged table before the fire.
Beatrice and John were sitting side by side on the settee, eating crumpets. I sat down in one of the deep armchairs, and helped myself to a crumpet from the dish which John passed to me. Beatrice poured me out a cup of tea.
Nobody spoke for about two minutes, and I thought: They’re going to have the matter out with me. If they weren’t, they would have started to talk trivialities. They are going to get down to business. I waited patiently for one or other of them to make a move.
John spoke first. He wiped some butter from his lips with his pocket handkerchief, and drained his teacup, and replaced it on the table, and turned his rather heavy red face towards me and said:
“Well, now you now, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
“Now you know how things stand between Beatrice and me.”
I hesitated. “Yes,” I said, “yes, I do.”
He nodded. Beatrice was looking down at her fingernails, hands in her lap.
“At least,” I added, “I know how things appear to stand. But appearances can be deceptive. I saw you kissing her, if that’s what you mean.”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
“Yes, well, it’s no business of mine,” I went on. “I’m not married to Beatrice. It’s no concern of mine to cause trouble. Beatrice is not the first girl to have a bit of a flirtation in her husband’s absence.”
Neither of them said anything.
“As far as I’m concerned,” I finished, “I’ve seen nothing. The firelight can play strange tricks. It’s not for me to pass on stories which could be based on a figment of the imagination.”
In my opinion it was a pretty fair offer. I had not yet become fully involved personally in the implications of what I had seen.
Beatrice wouldn’t have it that way. Beatrice, the courageous, the clear thinker, the woman who faced every issue fairly and squarely, declined the easy escape.
“It is not a flirtation,” she said, flatly. “I’m in love with John. And he says he’s in love with me. That is the position.”
The lamplight fell on her red hair, and in the same light her skin looked creamy white and rose. She looked beautiful and very seductive. There was no trace of shame in her demeanour. There was no tremor in her voice. Yet to call her shameless would be unfair; she was more a fearless woman who recognized that a certain situation had arisen and was prepared to cope with the consequences.
“That’s the position,” she said again, when I remained quiet.
“I suppose you’re quite sure?” I asked.
“Quite sure,” replied John firmly, and loudly.
“Absolutely,” said Beatrice.
“Divorce?” I said, looking directly at Beatrice. I saw John place his hand over hers on the settee, and surmised that the subject had been pretty thoroughly discussed.
She shook her head. “No, no divorce.”
“Not-ever?” I said.
“No, not ever. I made a bargain with Barty, and I’ll keep it. If I thought he didn’t need me so much, I think- well, I think I would. But I’m all he’s got to hang on to, you know. His job is a bit of a failure.”
She reached forward to toss a log on to the fire. Then:
“I’m still very fond of him, you know. And I can’t stand the thought of what he might do if I left him.”
“Do you mean he might commit suicide?”
“Not so much that.”
“What, then?”
Beatrice made a vague little gesture with her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Drink, perhaps. And his clothes would all go to pot. And he might get the sack. Or get caught on the rebound by some untidy little slut who would drag him down.”
“What do you think, John?” I looked at him.
I had always liked old John, with his Irish lightheartedness, even though I had thought he was rather self- indulgent in matters of food and wine. I thought he might oppose her.
“Beatrice knows him best,” said John softly. “She honestly thinks that Barty would go to pieces without her. She may be right. The poor chap hasn’t had much fun out of life.”
I felt my heart beginning to beat faster. In a few words I could set their consciences at rest, make them two of the happiest people in England, and settle Barty’s problem for him, too.
“I’m so terribly sorry for him,” said Beatrice suddenly. “I remember not long ago he returned late one night, very cold and tired. I had written him a little note to cheer him up, and left it with a mince pie. I heard him read the note as I lay in bed, half asleep. Then he got into his bed, and I put out my hand to him, and in the end he went to sleep. He was so cold and tired, you know. I was glad he didn’t have to come back to an empty flat. That’s what would happen if I went away with John.”
“He works too hard,” said John, and got up to put another log on the fire. “And it doesn’t get him anywhere. That’s the trouble. He’ll never make a really good salesman.”
“Too modest,” said Beatrice. “Too modest and gentle. I think I could do it, if he was a real success, if he was making lots of money.”
“As it is, you can’t,” said John. “That’s ironic, really. He’s a failure at his job, and because he is a failure he’s a success with the one person in the world who matters. Queer, isn’t it?”
Beatrice caught the bitterness in his voice.
She reached out and gripped his hand and held it tight, and looked up at him.
I thought: Bartels was right. There is indeed one man in the world with whom she can be in love, and now she has found him.
But by now, ruthless as ever in the pursuit of that which I desired, I had made up my mind what to do. Just as I had planted and watered a seed of doubt in Lorna’s mind, so now I crushed all generous thoughts about revealing the true position to Beatrice and John O’Brien. For if Philip Bartels obtained his freedom from Beatrice, I should lose Lorna.
I had no intention of losing Lorna.
Doubtless Bartels, that over-kind man, would have acted differently. But Bartels was a failure in life. I was not. So I did not hesitate for long.
I spoke quietly and a little sadly, in the tone of voice of one who has deliberated deeply, and has come to the conclusion that however unpleasant his decision it must nevertheless be announced: the old family friend doing his stuff, the trusted adviser, impartial and benevolent, throwing his opinion into the scales. What hypocrisy it was!
“Would you like my views?” I asked mildly. And before they could reply I continued: “I think-I’m afraid Beatrice is right.”
She turned quickly and looked at me, and then looked away. It was only a glance, yet I thought I caught a flash of pain behind her eyes as though she had hoped, in spite of all she had said, that I would counter her arguments with some of my own.
I thought I saw, too, a tinge of despair. As if all hope were now indeed lost. I regretted it, but it did not deter me.
