South Riding (75 page)

“I see. She would. Of course.”

“I went down to see them in Shropshire last week. I like the niece. She’s a fine woman, I should say. It’s a glorious old place. After all, that’s Midge’s real atmosphere. She
belongs.
”

“She was always a little snob.”

“Oh—Miss Burton! Why must you be so,” the alderman paused. “You used to like him once. When Midge was ill. Surely——”

“Surely. I liked him once.”

“Then why can’t you behave decently? You know I loved him. You know he was my friend—more like a son to me. Can’t you keep back your prejudices at least—until he’s in his grave?—keep a civil tongue in your head. Do you think it’s
fun
? Do you think it’s easy for any of us to face it? You only quarrelled with him about politics and so on. But we who loved him—we shall have to stand there and hear those words, and see the flowers, and listen to the rector talking about death being swallowed up in victory, not knowing—not
knowing,
whether perhaps he failed in the end.”

“You mean—you think he killed himself?”

“Oh, how can we tell? It wasn’t like him. But all that about making his will, and the insurance, and his dealings with the bank, and coming to me—
Why
did he fix up everything so if he didn’t know—if he hadn’t planned . . .”

“Do you think suicide a sin, then?”

“Perhaps not exactly a sin. But it was so unlike him. He never shirked anything. No matter how unpleasant. And he wasn’t the sort to look so much ahead either. It worried me when he gave me this.” She touched the brooch at her throat. “It was Muriel’s. It worried me when he asked me to be the guardian. Why did he do it just then—if he hadn’t
known
? That’s what I’ve asked myself day and night. Why did he do it?”

“Because,” said Sarah quietly, “he knew he was very ill.”

“Ill? Robert Carne? Nonsense. He never had a day’s illness in his life.”

“Oh, yes, he had. He had at least two. And he suspected that the third would kill him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had angina pectoris. Two attacks. And the second was a bad one.”

“Angina—How did you know?”

“I happened to be there once, when he had an attack.”

“When? Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t he tell us? When was this?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“Just before—why—it was before Christmas he began to make all his arrangements.”

“Yes. I know that.”

“You mean he had this attack and immediately after——”

“Yes.”

“But why—why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t he?”

“Because it might have been a little awkward.”

“Awkward? For him?”

“And for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It is awkward now. But I am going to tell you. I am sick of deception and concealment. I am sick of guarding my reputation. I thought I wanted to go on teaching here. I don’t. I want to go away. I want to give up teaching. I think I want to die,” said Sarah.

“I don’t understand. What is all this?” asked the alderman.

“It may not have occurred to you,” Sarah said in her dull lifeless voice. “But I was in love with Carne. Oh, he wasn’t with me. Not at all. Though I think he liked me. We got to know one another when Midge was ill. But we’d met before, of course. In curious circumstances. I flatter myself that I didn’t betray my feelings—at first. Then at the beginning of the Christmas holidays I went to Manchester, to see Miss Tattersall, who was passing through there, and to do some shopping before I went down to my sister. I’d taken a room at the Crown Hotel—You knew it?” For she had seen Mrs. Beddows start.

“No—but——” Emma remembered that this was where Carne’s letter came from. She nodded. “Go on.”

“When I reached the hotel before dinner, I found Robert Carne there too.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. He did not know I should be there, of course. What followed was entirely my own doing. I invited him to have a drink with me. Then he could hardly avoid asking me to dinner. He was lonely, he was miserable, he was troubled. He had spent the day looking at mental homes that might do for his wife, if he had to sell Maythorpe and work in a riding school. He had not found one that he liked. After dinner, we danced. He had drunk—a good deal. I took care that he did. Do you understand? I wanted him to be drunk. Because if he was drunk he might forget for an hour that he did not love me. I made him dance. I am quite a good dancer. Then we had some more drinks. Do you understand? Then I
asked
him to come to my room.”

“Oh, God!”

Mrs. Beddows covered her face with her hands. After a moment she said:

“Do you want to go on?”

“Yes, please,” said Sarah. “He came, of course. In the circumstances, it was inevitable. But the dancing, the exertion, and then running up five flights of stairs to my room was too much for him. He had an attack immediately. He was very ill. I thought he was going to die. He had nitrate of amyl in his room. I got it for him. By morning he was better. He went down to his own room. I left the hotel and went home to my sister. I do not know what he did next day, but from that time he must have known that life might end at any moment.”

“Oh,” Emma Beddows hardly breathed the word. “Oh, I see. I see.”

She was looking straight before her and seeing, not Sarah, but Carne as he stood in her doorway, giving her the brooch which had been Muriel’s. Her hand went up to it. She fingered the stones, then suddenly withdrew it and cried, “He was your lover!”

“No. No. He was not. He—he was ill too soon. I meant him to be.” Sarah stood up. “I tell you here and now that I would have given all I have for one night—one hour. Even knowing that I should be only a passing fancy. I should have gone away. I should have left Yorkshire. I should not have cared what happened to me afterwards. But he did not—he did not—you must believe that.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

Sarah came over to the alderman and stood looking down at her.

“And believe this. It was all my doing. Never for a moment would he have dreamed of it. We had been together many times. He had had ample opportunity. Until that night I do not think it ever even entered his head that I was a woman. And even then—he never so much as kissed me.”

Sarah went back to her window seat. She knelt, looking out to sea. The light was fading. Her little eastward room was almost dark. After a pause she continued.

“So you see. You know everything now—what sort of person I am, and how unfit to keep school here. You are a governor and an alderman. You can deal as you think fit with the situation. But I will send in my resignation at once.”

Then the strength went out of her, and she could speak no more. She leant back with her eyes closed against the deep embrasure. She wanted only to sit quite still and say nothing.

Mrs. Beddows was quiet too until she asked, “Why did you tell me this?”

“I believe you loved him. I have never been able to give him anything. I thought that you might at least know the truth about him. He was a sick man. He knew he must die. He tried to make preparations for that. He did not kill himself.”

“And you think—I shall expect you to resign now?”

“Of course. I am what is known as an immoral woman. Not only that, but your friend, Robert Carne, disliked me. Don’t men hate women who throw themselves at their heads? I tell you. I took the initiative; I made him want to come. In a moment of impulse and desire, he might have taken me. But when all that happened was this frightful attack, of course he loathed me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“We never met again till the day he died. He never wrote. Why should he? He avoided the governors’ meetings—every thing. Then suddenly—on the day of the inspection it was— he came to call to scold me about my action over the new buildings. We had a frightful quarrel. We were quarrelling when Miss Teasdale arrived. He rushed out, and she asked me, ‘Is that one of your local problems?’ Problems? My God. So you see, I have lost everything, even his good opinion of me. And it is my own fault completely. No blame to him. Oh, no, no blame to him.”

“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Beddows said strangely. “What time was it when he called on you?”

“In the morning—about—Miss Teasdale came at half-past eleven—Why?

“What difference can it make? Oh, let me go. End this interview. I cannot bear much more. Haven’t I given you what you want? Haven’t I torn my heart from my body to give you back your idea of Carne—
my
Carne?”

“I’m just remembering. It was the afternoon I saw him,” Mrs. Beddows said. “Why, yes. And he gave me a message for you.”

“A message? For me?”

“Yes. I never thought it was important. In one way it wasn’t. Just a light word. He said, ‘Give her my love. Tell her she’s a grand lass. I wouldn’t miss quarrelling with her for a great deal.’”

“He said that? And you never told me?”

“It went out of my mind. I thought it half a joke. I never thought it might be important to you. I’m very, very sorry.”

From her pit of misery, Sarah stared fiercely at the alderman.

“You’re telling the truth? You’re not fooling me? Not fobbing up something to comfort me with?”

“Why should I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. People do.”

“But I know he liked and admired you. He told me once that he wished Midge had half your courage and generosity.”

“Ah—but he altered his mind when I behaved—like a bitch in heat, like a cat on the roof.”

“Hush. Be quiet. I won’t have you say such things. It’s ugly and horrid and false and doesn’t help. He didn’t. He admired you.”

“Why did he never speak, then? Why did he leave me alone, thinking he hated and despised me? It was cruel, cruel. One word—only one word—just to show . . .”

“Oh, can’t you see? He wasn’t the kind to talk. He never spoke a word, unless he was in a temper, when silence would do. Just like his father there. Then I expect he was a little embarrassed too for being ill with you. Ashamed.”

“Ashamed?”

“Those men who are so proud of their bodies. He was—”

“Why—yes——”

“I expect he didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He hadn’t much imagination, you know. He didn’t think much of what other people might be feeling, or what effect he might have made on them. He often hurt me too, without meaning it, just by not seeing. Being rather blind. Only with Muriel he used to be so sensitive. He’d force himself to imagine what she felt, and usually I think he tortured himself imagining that she’d take things even harder than she did. So don’t you worry. Nobody despised you. And you mustn’t despise yourself—any more.”

But Sarah had gone back to her seat and she bowed herself in the darkened window, and, for the first time since she heard the news of Carne’s accident, was lost in weeping.

After a little while she felt a gentle experienced hand stroking her fallen head and a tired kind voice that spoke in a weary monotone.

“So you mustn’t think of resigning, because you are needed here. I don’t say you’ve behaved well. I don’t think you did. You were foolish and reckless and very, very wrong, and it’s this kind of thing that leads to so much misery. But I’m not one to condemn you. Because for years I’ve thought far more of Carne than was good for me—or Jim. Mind you, I don’t say I loved him the way you did. More as a son. I’m an old woman. But when you’re seventy you don’t always
feel
old. I know I don’t. There are times when you find yourself thinking of yourself as a girl. ‘Now the girl went downstairs.’ ‘Now the girl put her hat on.’ And then you look in the glass and there’s a stiff heavy lump of an elderly person facing you, your face all wrinkles and the life gone out of your limbs. But you can still feel young. And if I’d been your age—and thought I could comfort him—though it’s always wrong and leads to misery, I’ve sometimes wondered . . .”

“But I loved him and hurt him. I hurt him. It was because of me he rode so recklessly. . . .”

“You flatter yourself, my girl. He had plenty to worry about without you.”

“Oh, it’s no use hiding it. I made him ill. I roused him, to satisfy
my
desire. If only I’d never spoken, kept still, held back. I cannot bear this pain.”

“And who are you to think you could get through life without pain? Did you expect never to be ashamed of yourself? Of course this hurts you. And it will go on hurting. You needn’t believe much what they say about time healing. I’ve had seventy years and more of time and there are plenty of things in my life still won’t bear thinking of. You’ve just got to get along as best you can with all your shames and sorrows and humiliations. Maybe in the end it’s those things are most use to you. They’ll make you a better teacher, anyway.”

“I shan’t teach any more.”

“Oh, yes, you will. You can’t take all your experience and education and training if you go and throw it all up just when you might be of some service. I call
that
cowardice. Not playing fair either.”

“But what use? I? Now?”

“Now listen to me, my dear. I don’t know much about your past life. You may have done many wrong things in it for all I know. You may have been loose in your morals, as they say all young people are nowadays. That’s not my business. I don’t know and I don’t want to. But I tell you what
is
my business, and that’s the kind of woman you are and the teacher you will be. Up till lately you’ve always been pretty successful, haven’t you? Scholarships, honours, promotions. You’re good-looking in a queer sort of way. You’re attractive. You’re young for your age, and strong, and confident. And you did your work well—up to a point, I think. You were good with the bright ones, Lydia Holly and Biddy Peckover, and the scholarship girls. You took pains with Midge—for other reasons. But what about the stupid and dull and ineffective? The rather dreamy sort of defeated women? You hadn’t much use for the defeated, had you? Not much patience with failure. Well, now at last you know what it is to be defeated. Now you know what it is to feel ashamed.”