A Difficult Young Man (25 page)

Helena went back to the bay window to pour out more tea, and I went with her to carry the cups. While we were standing with our backs to the room, she took from somewhere in her dress the envelope she had been sealing as we came in. She said to me quietly:

‘Will you give this to Dominic tonight?'

I said I would, and she said, ‘Promise?' I nodded, and she added, smiling, ‘Cross your breath?' the guarantee we used in our childhood's games.

I would have done anything for Helena, as she had that splendid courage which is not merely a grim setting of the teeth, but gay and in the most dangerous moments on the verge of laughter. But there was nothing masculine about her. She was not one of the strange uniformed hybrids admired of recent years, of whom the duc de Lauzun, the greatest eighteenth-century connoisseur of beautiful women, would doubtless have written as he did of Madame de Salles, when she came to return his call in a dragoon's uniform with leather breeches: ‘This was quite enough to disgust me with a woman for ever.'

I gave the mystic guarantee and we carried the teacups back to our aunts. Aunt Maysie returned home just as we were about to leave, and Mildy stayed on to talk to her, so it was nearly dinner time when we arrived back at Willara. The letter in my pocket prevented my giving my full attention to Aunt Mildy, who as a result became a little peevish. I had imagined that I would have time to go along to South Yarra before dinner, to Uncle Bob Byngham's house where I knew that Dominic was dining with Laura and Steven. I did not think clearly what could be in a letter from Helena to Dominic. I only knew that I had solemnly promised to deliver it that night, and I would have to do so, even if it entailed journeying to Brighton at midnight, if I could not reach South Yarra before Dominic left. There were only a few more days to the wedding, and although I knew that
Wentworth would be a deathly husband for Helena, I only half wanted the marriage to be prevented, as I was already affected by the overpowering veneration for wealth which thickened the air of Toorak. I was, as we so often are in our youth, and also in later life, in a cloud of unknowing, not realizing the implication or effect of half the things I did.

I could feel during dinner Aunt Mildy's dissatisfaction with my response to the delicious meal she had provided, though this may be a glaze of adult knowledge over a youthful memory. When we emerged from her pretty little ‘dining-alcove' into her more spacious ‘living-room' (she thought it very up to date to use these words) where the walls were hung with Steven's and Brian's landscapes, but not with Dominic's brooding nudes, and where her share of the spoils of Beaumanoir was displayed in loving prominence, I began to fidget, and at last said:

‘Aunt Mildy, I'd like to go to see Mummy this evening, if you don't mind.'

‘But you've been out all the afternoon, dear,' she objected.

‘Yes, but I haven't seen Mum since Sunday. I shan't be long. I'll just run up to Toorak Road and get a tram. I'll be back in less than an hour.'

‘You could ring up.'

‘Yes, but I want to
see
her.'

‘Oh, I thought we were going to have a nice cosy evening,' said Mildly plaintively. ‘I was going to play
MacDowell's
Sea Pieces
for you.'

Somehow I got away, feeling irritated with Aunt Mildy for trying to stop me, but guilty at leaving her. I also felt guilty at delivering the letter, though I would have felt worse if I had not done so.

Uncle Bob and his wife Aunt Lucy, Steven, Laura and Dominic were still sitting over their dinner when I arrived. Miss Vio Chambers who had just returned from England was also there, and it was a little party. Steven and Laura seemed vexed at my uninvited intrusion, but Uncle Bob said genially: ‘Come in, my boy, and have a pear and a glass of port.'

I wanted to deliver my letter and get back, but Uncle Bob had put me at the opposite side of the table from Dominic, and I could not sneak it into his hand or his pocket. At last I said: ‘I'm awfully sorry, but Aunt Mildy's alone, and I must go back.'

They laughed at me, as the old do at the young when they behave oddly. Laura said:

‘Darling, you can't walk into someone's house in the middle of a dinner party, eat a pear and then go home again.'

‘I just wanted to see how you were,' I said.

‘Is Mildy starving you?' asked Steven.

‘Oh, no, I have lovely food,' I protested. They were puzzled at my arrival but willing to let me go. I tried to make a significant face at Dominic, and said: ‘Will you walk to the tram with me?'

I've no doubt I was also contorting appealing eyebrows at Laura, because when Steven said: ‘No. He can't leave the table like that,' she answered: ‘Lucy won't mind for five minutes, will you? Let him go.'

When we came out into the street I handed Dominic the letter, and said: ‘It's from Helena. She made me promise to give it to you tonight.' In the darkness I was aware of the sudden bewilderment that came over him. He stood for a minute without speaking. Then he said, calling me by a name which he had given to me in my childhood, and which came from a character on some blue illustrated plates we used in the nursery:

‘I don't think I'll come to the tram with you, Pompey. Good night.'

He went back into the house, and I did not see him again for seven years.

CHAPTER XIII

ON THE
morning of the wedding day Aunt Mildy was fussing about her clothes. At that time women's dresses were very elaborate, and Mildy took full advantage of this to cover herself in clouds of chiffon, which if it had not been blue, would have given the impression that she was really the bride. To fill in the time I went across to see my old school at Kew, where I had been so happy before we left for England. Only two or three of the boys who had been there with me were still at school. I had to explain who I was, and though they were quite polite, they had little to say, and seemed touched with xenophobia. I then went to see Canon Wildthorne, the headmaster, of whom I had so often thought with affection while we were at Waterpark. Again I had to explain who I was.

‘Langton?' he said. ‘Yes, that's right. You weren't with us long. You left to go to China or somewhere, didn't you?'

‘No, England, sir.'

‘Oh, yes, England of course. And where did you go to school, Rugby, eh?'

‘I didn't go to school, sir. I was taught by the vicar.' The canon looked grave at this. ‘When he was young he knew Doctor Pusey,' I continued, and went on to speak with considerable erudition, which was the result of the puppy being brought up with adults, about the history of the Oxford Movement, and the legitimacy of Anglican claims. This was above the canon's head and he said:

‘Our boys' religion must be that of the knight, not of the monk.'

‘But surely, sir,' I asked, ‘without the monks we would have had no civilization, only battles?'

‘And what's wrong with that?' he replied, screwing up his eyes in an uneasy smile. ‘We must fight for the right.'

I felt in him the same xenophobia as in the boys, and I suppose that I carried with me the aroma of the weak coffee in which I had been dipped, or was like the captive seagull, who escapes back to its fellows carrying the taint of humanity. In spite of it he asked me to stay to luncheon, but I refused, telling him that I had to be back in time for my cousin's wedding.

‘Whom is she marrying?' he asked.

‘A man called Wentworth McLeish,' I said.

‘Not one of the McLeishes of Coira Plains?'

‘I think that is the place he comes from.'

‘She's making a very grand match,' he said, obviously impressed.

I was shocked that the prevailing veneration for wealth as the sole good had infected even a man whose life was supposed to be devoted to religion and education. I also felt the spluttering indignation that had seized me when Aunt Mildy gave the same opinion.

At luncheon Aunt Mildy talked of the sumptuous preparations at the Craig's house. There was a marquee on the lawn, lined with pink net and decorated with almond blossom. The presents were magnificent, laid out in the billiard room and guarded by two plain clothes detectives, and there would also be some men with violins.

We drove to St John's, Toorak, in a large motor-car which Mildy had hired for the afternoon, and when we stepped out one of her friends standing near said:

‘Why, you look like the bride and bridegroom yourselves,' which delighted Mildy, but gave me the same feelings as when they talked about my entering Helena's bedroom.

I was an usher, and had a task which should have been most gratifying to me, that of separating the early gentry from the nouveaux riches. The friends and relations of Helena sat on the left, and those of Wentworth on the right of the main aisle, and I had to conduct them to their places. I may now be using my adult glaze, but I believe that I could have divided the guests without asking their names, or looking at my list. The extreme contrast to the upholstered ladies was Aunt Diana, who had a knack of wrapping herself in old black lace, caught together with the diamonds and pearls which Alice had given her when she had hoped to launch her in European society, and which she had refused to sell, even when they were so poor that Uncle Wolfie had to tune pianos. Dressed in this fashion, with her disdainful and dramatic air, she had a look of great distinction, though Baba may not have thought it smart.

Aunt Diana had a strong look of Mrs Dane, though she was not actually related to her. One does not know the extent of pre-natal influences, but she was born in the year after Alice had spent her first romantic interlude with Aubrey Tunstall, Ariadne's brother, in Rome, which, however, we know was innocent. In the same way it does seem that the differences in our own family correspond with the differences in the places where Laura spent the years before our respective births. Bobby with his charming nature was born in the first flowering of their love, Dominic after her loneliness in the harsh Australian countryside, not dissimilar from the landscape of Spain, Brian in the conventional atmosphere of an English country house, whilst my own pre-natal influences were, I am afraid, those of the Riviera.

When the church was full it was as if two armies had come together to negotiate a treaty of reconciliation. All these people who were accustomed to mingle at parties and race meetings were now clearly divided into their separate elements. As I conducted an upholstered lady to her pew, I intercepted the wondering glance of Miss Vio Chambers who smiled faintly and lifted her eyebrows. But the two armies were united in a pervading sense of excitement. Where a number of rich people are dressed in the finest clothes they can obtain, they give a powerful impression of pleasure. The church glowed with the beautiful stuffs of their clothes, and while they talked in subdued tones, frequently turning to see who was arriving, their hats full of flowers and ribbons and ostrich feathers, danced like a bed of double asters in a breeze. There was a faint delicious scent from the women's perfume, and from the pillars of the church, around which Aunt Diana had fixed branches of almond blossom in which were embedded great clusters of daffodils. One upholstered lady said:

‘Dear me, pink and yellow together!' But her friend replied:

‘Nature never clashes.'

Outside many cars, polished and glistening in the spring sunlight, stretched down Albany Road, and Brian had drawn my attention to the quiet purring of their engines, symptom of the advance of civilization, though there were also a few broughams and landaus, their horses slowly pacing up and down on the opposite side of the road. In the vestry the choirboys were standing quiet and orderly, so as not to crumple their fresh surplices.

I had now finished my duties and I joined my parents in the second pew. In front of us were Aunt Maysie, our great-uncles Arthur and Walter, and cousin Hetty of the same generation. As I climbed past Laura, stepping over her feet, she asked:

‘Where's Dominic?'

‘I don't know,' I replied. ‘Didn't he come with you?'

‘No. Perhaps he's not coming,' she said, and she looked a little sad.

The garden of hats danced and shimmered, and turning I saw that Wentworth McLeish had arrived. His best man was with him, and though no doubt their morning coats with white piqué accessories were from the best Melbourne or possibly London tailor, they looked rather as if they were in fancy dress. They sat down across the aisle, and chatted unconcernedly while they awaited the coming of the bride.

Brian muttered to me:

‘No man should look as self-satisfied as that when he's just going to be married,' which made me realize that there were all kinds of good manners outside the definite rules. There was another flutter of hats when the bridesmaids arrived, and waited in the porch, as the same car had to go back for Uncle Bertie and Helena. There was a long interval, but Wentworth continued to chat imperturbably, though he did take out his watch and glance at it, as if he feared he might be late for another appointment. People began to fidget more noticeably, and the subdued murmur of conversation increased. Aunt Maysie turned round and said to Laura:

‘I hope that nothing has gone wrong with her dress.'

I cannot remember how long it was after the bridesmaids had come that Uncle Bertie strode up the aisle. It seemed to be a very long time, as every minute was lengthened by our anxiety, and by the mounting distress of Aunt Maysie. He was without his top hat and gloves, and he did not look to either side, but went straight up to her and announced:

‘She's gone off with Dominic.'

He then turned to Wentworth and said with a curtness which forbade the inadequacy of any apology:

‘I'm afraid there'll be no wedding.'

Aunt Maysie nodded her head, not as if accepting easily Uncle Bertie's statement, but with an inherited habit of nodding in moments of grief and misfortune as if saying to herself:

‘Yes, this is what I must expect of life.'

Her kind maternal cheeks sagged heavily. Uncle Bertie said:

‘Come, Mother,' and he took her arm and they walked away down the church. I had never before heard him call her ‘mother,' and at any other time would have thought it a very bourgeois way for a man to address his wife. Now it made the tears start to my eyes, as it revealed the force of the blow that my aunt had suffered, and also showed Uncle Bertie to have a sublime sensibility, for in spite of his extreme Protestantism, he had seen in his wife the inescapable sorrow of womanhood, of which the eternal symbol is the Stabat Mater.

The incident also showed me how little we know what we really believe and desire. A few hours earlier, walking down Kew Hill, I had wished that this marriage could be prevented. That it had been now appeared to me a supreme disaster. I was too upset to notice anything more in the church, as I saw that what I had dreaded all my life had at last happened, that one day Dominic would deal an irreparable blow at those whom I most loved, and would be unable to protect, as Steven and Laura now had a look of wretchedness greater than I had ever seen on their faces.

* * *

To satisfy any curiosity as to how this last scene came about I shall add what I gathered from various sources during the following years. Before leaving the scene in the church we may note its correspondence with something that happened half a century earlier. Cousin Hetty who was seated, a formidable widow in the front pew, must have felt a melting of her respectable bones when she heard that the bride had fled, as on the day of her wedding she had urged Austin, who was giving her away, to take her to the railway station instead of the church, which, fortunately for us, he refused to do. Or did she feel satisfaction that the pattern which in 1860 had failed, in 1911 had repeated itself with complete and dramatic effect? Her impassive alpaca back revealed nothing.

The hour following the débacle was like that following a street accident. One hardly knows what has happened until the ambulance has driven away and the crowd of sightseers and loiterers dispersed. For the rest of the day members of the family continually rang each other up, or visited each other's houses, and gradually, though confused with much error and speculation came into possession of the facts.

Although Dominic, on our arrival in Melbourne, had been sent down to stay with the Flugels at Brighton, he had met Helena two or three times in the days immediately succeeding Baba's party. Whoever witnessed these meetings saw that what the family had feared was very likely to happen. Uncle Bertie gave Helena a solemn lecture on her duty. She was divided in her feelings, but still imagined that she was in love with Wentworth, and that the only proper course was to respect her engagement. She promised Uncle Bertie that she would not see Dominic again before her wedding. Then Baba had obligingly opened her eyes to the popular view of the match, which also enlightened her as to her own true feelings, and she gave me the note to take to Dominic, in which she said that she did not want to marry Wentworth.

It was almost impossible for them to meet privately, but they had two or three telephone conversations, and on the morning of the wedding day they met in the garden of an empty ‘Boom' mansion, which adjoined the Craig's. It must have been then that they made their arrangement. Dominic's behaviour was in character, but it seems extraordinarily callous of Helena to have exposed Wentworth to the ridicule of ‘Society,' and to have caused her parents so much humiliation and distress by going ahead with the pretence of the wedding. It was inconsistent with her usual courage, though it would have needed almost superhuman strength of mind to go to Uncle Bertie on that very morning and tell him she would not marry Wentworth. The only alternative was to clear out and leave the appalling mess.

She may not at first have intended to go with Dominic. Then why did she write to him? Perhaps only on an impulse of anger with Aunt Baba. There in the garden of the mansion he realized that he was losing forever all that he valued in life, and as he had said to me about Sylvia, ‘it was his life,' and he saw no reason to stop him taking the most drastic and immediate steps to secure her. Nothing that happened to either of them could be worse than allowing the wedding to proceed. He combined in this Langton logic and Teba passion. One could not wreck one's life to avoid a social contretemps.

We may here guess the subject of his long conferences with Ariadne Dane in Florence. Nothing could have given her greater satisfaction than to explore to the depths the emotional disturbances of a handsome young man with more than a touch of Southern fire in his appearance and his temperament. No one could have more thoroughly imbued him with the feeling that all was fair in love and war.

After lunching at Uncle Bob's house, he disappeared, presumably to change, but in reality to drive to Toorak in a hansom, which he had ordered to wait for him at the corner of the street. Here he entered the deserted garden and stationed himself in a tree, from which he was able to see the Craig's front gate, and the cars arriving and departing. At last he saw the bridesmaids leave and he knew that Helena would be alone in her room. Uncle Bertie would probably be downstairs in one of the sitting-rooms on the other side of the house. He had to risk that, but Helena had told him that as soon as she was alone she would appear at the window. When this happened he would climb up to help her down, with the gardener's ladder if possible, but he was an expert climber, and could scale any reasonable wall.