The Passionate Year (30 page)

“Pritchard! Pritchard!—What’s he got to do with it?”

“Ask Clare.”

“Why should I ask her?”

“Because, maybe, on the spur of the moment she wouldn’t be able to think
of any satisfactory lie to tell you.”

He felt anger rising up within him. He detested Pritchard, and the mention
of his name in connection with Clare infuriated him. Moreover, his mind,
always quick to entertain suspicion, pictured all manner of disturbing
fancies, even though his reason rejected them absolutely. He trusted Clare;
he would believe no evil of her. And yet, the mere thought of it was a
disturbing one.

“I wouldn’t insult her by letting her think I listened to such gossip,” he
said, rather weakly.

There followed a longish pause; he thinking of what she had said and
trying to rid himself of the discomfort of associating Pritchard with Clare,
and she watching him, mockingly, as if conscious that her words had taken
root in his mind.

Then she went on: “So now you can suspect somebody else instead of me. And
while we’re on the subject of Pritchard let me tell you something else.”

“
Tell me
!” The mere thought that there was anything else to tell in
which Pritchard was concerned was sufficient to give his voice a note of
peremptory harshness.

“I’m going to leave you.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Well?”

“And you can divorce me.”

He stamped his foot with irritation. “Don’t be ridiculous, Helen. A
divorce is absolutely out of the question.”

“Why? Do you think we can go on like this any longer?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that nothing in the circumstances
provides any grounds for a divorce.”

“So that we’ve got to go on like this then, eh?”

“Not like this, I hope. I
still
hope—that some
day—”

She interrupted him angrily. “You
still
hope! How many more secret
visits to Clare do you think you’ll make,-how many more damnable lies do you
think you’ll need to tell me—before you leave off still hoping? You
hateful little hypocrite! Why don’t you be frank with me and yourself and
acknowledge that you love Clare? Why don’t you run off with her like a
man?”

He said: “So you think that’s what a man would do, eh?”

“Yes.”

“One sort of a man, perhaps. Only I’m not that sort.”

“I wish you were.”

“Possibly. I also wish that you were another sort of woman, but it’s
rather pointless wishing, isn’t it?”

“Everything is rather pointless that has to do with you and me.”

Suddenly he said: “Look here, Helen. Let’s stop this talk. Just listen a
minute while I try to tell you how I’m situated. You and I are
married—”

“Really?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be stupid about it! We’re married, and we’ve
got to put up with it for better, for worse. I visit Clare in an entirely
friendly way, though you mayn’t believe it, and your suspicions of me are
altogether unfounded. All the same, I’m prepared to give up her friendship,
if that helps you at all. I’m prepared to leave Millstead with you, get a job
somewhere else, and start life afresh. We
have
been happy together,
and I daresay in time we shall manage to be happy again. We’d emigrate, if
you liked. And the baby—our baby—our baby that is to
be—”

She suddenly rushed up to him with her arms raised and struck him with
both fists on his mouth. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop that sort of talk! I
could kill you when you try to lull me into happiness with those sticky,
little sentimental words!
Our
baby! Good God, am I to be made to
submit to you because of that? And all the time you talk of it you’re
thinking of another woman! You’re not livable with! Something’s happened to
you that’s made you cruel and hateful—you’re not the man that I married
or that I ever would have married. I loathe and detest you—you’re
rotten—rotten to the very root!”

He said, icily: “Do you think so?”

She replied, more restrainedly: “I’ve never met anybody who’s altered so
much as you have in the last six months. You’ve sunk lower and lower—in
every way, until now—everybody hates you. You’re simply a ruin.”

Still quietly he said: “Yes, that’s true.” And then watching to see the
effect that his words had upon her; he added: “Clare said so.”

“What!” she screamed, frenzied again. “Yes,
she
knows!
She
knows how she’s ruined you! She knows better than anybody! And she taunted
you with it! How I loathe her!”

“And me too, eh?”

She made no answer.

Then, more quietly than ever, he said: “Yes, Clare knows what a failure
I’ve been and how low I’ve sunk. But she doesn’t think it’s due to her, and
neither do I.”

He would not say more than that. He wondered if she would perceive the
subtle innuendo which he half-meant and half did not mean; which he would not
absolutely deny, and yet would not positively affirm; which he was prepared
to hint, but only vaguely, because he was not perfectly sure himself.

Whether or not she did perceive it he was not able to discover. She was
silent for some while and then said: “Well, I repeat what I said—I’m
going to leave you so that you can get a divorce.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can leave me if you wish, but I shall not get a divorce.”

“Why not?”

“Because for one thing I shan’t be able to.”

“And why do you think you won’t?”

“Because,” he replied, coldly, “the law will not give me my freedom merely
because we have lived a cat-and-dog life together. The law requires that you
should not only leave me, but that you should run away with another man and
commit misconduct with him.”

She nodded. “Yes, and that is what I propose to do.”

“
What!
”

A curious silence ensued. He was utterly astounded, horrified, by her
announcement; she was smiling at him, mocking his astonishment. He shouted at
her, fiercely: “What’s that!”

She said: “I intend to do what you said.”

“What’s that! You
what
?”

“I intend to do what you said. I shall run away with another man and
commit misconduct with him!”

“God!” he exclaimed, clenching his teeth, and stamping the floor. “It’s
absurd. You can’t. You wouldn’t dare. Oh, it’s impossible. Besides-good God,
think of the scandals! Surely I haven’t driven you to
that
! Who would
you run away with?” His anger began to conquer his astonishment. “You little
fool, Helen, you can’t do it! I forbid you! Oh, Lord, what a mess we’re in!
Tell me, who’s the man you’re thinking of! I demand to know. Who is he? Give
me his name!”

And she said, cuttingly: “Pritchard.”

On top of his boiling fury she added: “We’ve talked it over and he’s quite
agreed to—to oblige me in the matter, so you see I really do mean
things this time, darling Kenneth!”

And she laughed at him.

Out of Lavery’s he plunged and into the cold, frosty night
of Milner’s. He had not stayed to hear the last echoes of her laughter dying
away; he was mad with fury; he was going to kill Pritchard. He ran up the
steps of Milner’s and gave the bell a ferocious tug. At last the porter came,
half undressed, and by no means too affable to such a late visitor. “I want
to see Mr. Pritchard on very important business,” said Speed. “Will it take
long, sir?” asked the porter, and Speed answered: “I can’t say how long it
will take.”—“Then,” said the porter, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting
yourself out when you’ve finished. I’ll give you this key till to-morrow
morning—I’ve got a duplicate of my own.” Speed took the key, hardly
comprehending the instructions, and rushed along the corridor to the flight
of steps along the wall of which was printed the name: “Mr. H.
Pritchard.”

Arrived on Pritchard’s landing he groped his way to the sitting-room door
and entered stealthily. All was perfectly still, except for one or two
detached snores proceeding from the adjoining dormitory. In the starshine
that came through the window he could see, just faintly, the outline of
Pritchard’s desk, and Pritchard’s armchair, and Pritchard’s bookshelves, and
Pritchard’s cap and gown hung upon the hook on the door of Pritchard’s
bedroom.
His
bedroom! He crept towards it, turned the handle softly,
and entered. At first he thought the bed was empty, but as he listened he
could hear breathing—steady, though faint. He began to be ever so
slightly frightened. Being in the room alone with Pritchard asleep was
somehow an unnerving experience; like being alone in a room with a dead body.
For, perhaps, Pritchard would be a dead body before the dawn rose. And again
he felt frightened because somebody might hear him and come up and think he
was in there to steal something—Pritchard’s silver wrist-watch or his
rolled gold sleeve links, for instance. Somehow Speed was unwilling to be
apprehended for theft when his real object was only murder.

He struck a match to see if it really was Pritchard in bed; it would be a
joke if he murdered somebody else by mistake, wouldn’t it?…

Yes, it was Pritchard.

Then Speed, looking down at him, realised that he did not hate him so much
for his disgraceful overtures to Helen as for the suspicion of some sinister
connection with Clare.

Suddenly Pritchard opened his eyes.

“Good God, Speed!” he cried, blinking and sitting up in bed. “Whatever’s
the matter! What’s—what’s happened? Anything wrong?”

And Speed, startled out of his wits by the sudden awakening, fell forward
across Pritchard’s bed and fainted. So that he did not murder Pritchard after
all…

Vague years seemed to pass by, and then out of the abyss
came the voice of the Head booming: “Um, yes, Mr. Speed…I think, in the
circumstances, you had better—um, yes, take a holiday at the
seaside…You are very clearly in a highly dangerous—um—nervous
state…and I will gladly release you from the rest of your term’s
duties…No doubt a rest will effect a great and rapid improvement…My wife
recommends Seacliffe—a pleasant little watering-place—um, yes,
extremely so…As for the incidents during preparation last evening, I think
we need not—um—discuss them at present…Oh yes, most
certainly—as soon as convenient—in fact, an early train to-morrow
morning would not incommode us…I—um, yes—I hope the rest will
benefit you…oh yes, I hope so extremely…”

And he added: “Helen is—um—a good nurse.”

Then something else of no particular importance, and then: “I shall put
Mr.—um—Pritchard in charge of-um—Lavery’s while you are
absent, so you need not—um—worry about your House…”

Speed said, conquering himself enough to smile: “Oh, no, I shan’t worry. I
shan’t worry about anything.”

“Um—no, I hope not. I—I hope not…My wife and
I—um—we both hope that you will not—um—worry…”

Then Speed noticed, with childish curiosity, that the Head was attired in
a sky-blue dressing-gown and pink-striped pyjamas…

Where was he, by the way? He looked round and saw a tiny gas-jet burning
on a wall bracket; near him was a bed…Pritchard’s bed, of course. But why
was the Head in Pritchard’s bedroom, and why was Clanwell there as well?

Clanwell said sepulchrally: “Take things easy, old man. I thought
something like this would happen. You’ve been overdoing it.”

“Overdoing what?” said Speed.

“Everything,” replied Clanwell.

The clock on the dressing-table showed exactly midnight.

“Good-bye,” said Speed.

Clanwell said: “I’m coming over with you to Lavery’s.”

The Head departed, booming his farewell. “Good
night…My—um—my best wishes, Speed…um, yes—most
certainly…Good night.”

Then Pritchard said: “Perhaps I can sleep again now. Enough to give
me
a breakdown, I should think. Good night, Speed. And good luck. I
wish they’d give
me
a holiday at Seacliffe…Good night,
Clanwell.”

As they trod over the soft turf of the quadrangle they heard old Millstead
bells calling the hour of midnight.

Speed said: “Clanwell, do you remember I once told you I could write a
novel about Millstead?”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“Well, I might have done it then. But I couldn’t now. When I first came
here Millstead was so big and enveloping-it nearly swallowed me up. But
now—it’s all gone. I might be living in a slum tenement for all it
means to me. Where’s it all gone to?”

“You’re ill, Speed. It’ll come back when you’re better.”

“Yes, but when shall I be better?”

“When you’ve been away and had a rest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of. course I’m sure. You don’t suppose you’re dying, do you?”

“No. But there are times when I could suppose I’m dead.”

“Nonsense, man. You’re too morbid. Why don’t you go for a sea voyage? Pull
yourself together, man, and don’t brood.”

Clanwell added: “I’m damned sorry for you—what can I do? Would you
like me to come in Lavery’s with you for a while? You’re not nervous of being
alone, are you?”

“Oh no. And besides, I shan’t be alone. My wife’s there.”

“Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I was for the moment
forgetting—forgetting—”

“That I was married, eh?”

“No, no, not exactly—I had just forgotten—well, you know how
even the most obvious things sometimes slip the memory…Well, here you are.
Have you the key? And you’ll be all right, eh? Sure? Well, now, take a long
rest and get better, won’t you? Good night—Good night—sure you’re
all right? Good night!”

Clanwell raced back across the turf to his own House and Speed admitted
himself to Lavery’s and sauntered slowly down the corridor to his room.

Helen was sitting in front of the fire, perfectly still and quiet.

He said: “Helen!”

“Well!” She spoke without the slightest movement of her head or body.

“We’ve got to go away from Millstead.”