The Sandcastle (12 page)

had
occurred and the whole thing would soon be
buried in the past. Except for a few inevitable social meetings he would see no
more of Miss Carter, and that would be that. Mor echoed again his words to Tim
Burke: ‘We won’t speak of it again’ - and this seemed to be the right note to
strike. Mor knew he could trust Tim’s tact and discretion absolutely. Whereas,
if he told Nan, Mor knew that really, in one way or another, he would never
hear the end of it, and that the incident, even against his will, would then be
lent a permanent and indelible significance.
When he entered the house he had still not resolved the problem. He was met in
the hall by Nan, who said, ‘Well, dear, you’re home at last, are you, I thought
you were never coming. Look, your supper’s in the oven, and I’ve made a cake, which
is on the sideboard, if you want some. Felicity’s had her supper and gone to
the pictures, and I’ve got to go out this very minute to see Mrs Prewett. You
can imagine how delightful that prospect is! It’s Women’s Institute tomorrow
night and she wants to hear my views on how to get the women to come along
other than by dances and film shows. I told her over the phone that there isn’t
any other way, but she still wants me to come over. I hope I won’t be long, but
you know how that woman pins one down!’ And a minute later Nan had gone out of
the front door.
Mor sat down to his supper. He felt that that, in effect, decided the matter.
If he had been going to tell the truth that was the moment for telling it. But
the moment had passed now. Nan had accepted the fiction, and it was better that
he should not upset her view. If she had questioned him he would have owned up.
As it was, he would leave things as they were. After he had cut the cake,
however, it occurred to Mor that there was something else that needed doing,
and that was to let Miss Carter know that he had changed his mind about telling
his wife. If he did not do this, and do it soon, she might drop a brick. He
paused to ponder over this. Then he began to wonder whether she would have told
Demoyte about their outing. This notion made Mor uneasy. He thought, I must see
her tomorrow, find out whether she’s told Demoyte, and if necessary shut them
both up. Mor knew that he could rely on Demoyte’s discretion also; but he could
not help hoping that the old man was not to be in the secret. He could imagine
the sarcasms which he would have to suffer if he was. He thought it just
possible that Miss Carter would not have told him. She was a curious
independent sort of girl and would know how to keep her own counsel.
On further reflection Mor decided that since the matter was of a certain
delicacy it was quite likely that Miss Carter would not have told Demoyte about
it. It also occurred to him that it might be difficult, in the nearer future,
to procure a long enough interview alone with Miss Carter to make the matter
decently clear. He was teaching most of tomorrow, and could only be sure of
getting away at some time in the evening, when Miss Carter was likely to be in
company, at least with Demoyte, and perhaps with other people too. He knew that
it was hardly safe to ring her up, since with Handy as intermediary no
embarrassment would be spared. Mor decided that the most sensible thing to do
was to write a letter, to carry it in person over to Demoyte’s house, to see
Miss Carter alone if possible, and if not to find some opportunity of passing
the letter to her unobserved.
Mor found these speculations extremely absorbing. Once the matter was settled,
of course, he would have no more to do with the young lady, and would scarcely
see her except at a party or two and at the ceremonial dinner. There was no
problem about that. All the same, when it seemed to him that it was necessary
to write her a letter he found that this prospect was not unpleasant. He went upstairs
to his bedroom, which also served as his study, collected plenty of paper, and
settled down to draft the epistle. It was not a simple task. There were
interesting problems about how to begin and end it, how much to say, and how
exactly to say what was said. Mor had several tries. What he wrote at first
was:
Dear Miss Carter,
When I arrived back last night I found that the friend whom I had intended to
visit had officiously supported my false story. So in the circumstances I have
decided not to tell the true one. I hope you will understand - and excuse me
for having involved you in this decepdon.
I hope that the car is all right. It grieved me to leave you like that. insist
on being allowed to pay the bills. Yours sincerely.
Yours sincerely,
William Mor
Mor looked at this for a while, crossed out ‘It grieved me, etc.’, and finally
tore the whole thing up and sat, brooding. He reflected that if he was indeed
to pay the bills he would have to have further clandestine converse with Miss
Carter. He could of course simply tell her to send him the bills. But would
she? That girl, of course not. Alternatively, he could send her a sum of money.
This was difficult and embarrassing. To send too small a sum would be mean and
disgraceful - whereas the idea of sending a sum large enough to be sure that it
was not too small unnerved Mor, who was, if not exactly parsimonious, at any
rate extremely careful with his money. He decided eventually not to say
anything at all about paying the bills in the letter and to trust that he would
have an opportunity in the ordinary course of events to discuss this with Miss
Carter before she left. He then wrote a second letter as follows:
Dear Miss Carter,
This is just to tell you that I have decided, after all, for reasons which it
would take too long to explain, to deceive my wife. I hasten to tell you this
so that you may act accordingly; and I beg you humbly to excuse me for having
involved you in this unpleasantness. I hope that the Riley survived its strange
experience and will soon be on the road once more. I am sorry to have been, in
that adventure, so inept and so useless.
Yours sincerely,
William Mor
P.S. - Have you told Mr Demoyte about our expedition? If you
have,
I
should be grateful if you could signify as much to me, discreetly, as soon as
possible. And please burn this letter.
There’s no need to bring Tim Burke into it, thought Mor, and brevity and
vagueness, except on essential points, are what we need here. He studied this
version for some time; then he destroyed it too. It was scarcely necessary,
after all, to tell her to burn the letter. This request only made the thing
seem more significant and conspiratorial. She would have enough sense not to
leave such a document lying about. Mor started again. This time he would aim at
being very brief and business-like, and in this way he would also be able, he
felt, to strike a more sincere and serious note. He wrote as follows:
I am very sorry-I have decided after all
not
to tell my wife about our
outing. So I beg you to keep silent about it. I apologize very humbly for all
the trouble I’ve caused you, in this connexion and about the car. I hated
leaving you alone - and I hope the car will be all right.
W.M.
Mor looked at this for a while. It satisfied him, and he sealed it up in a
plain envelope. He had left out any mention of Demoyte - and thought that he
would rely on finding out somehow, from the girl or from Demoyte himself,
whether anything had been told. If he found Miss Carter alone he could ask her,
if he found her with Demoyte he could rely on the old man’s making some mocking
remark on the subject fairly quickly, if he knew anything about it. If he found
company at Brayling’s Close, that would be a problem - but one which he would
deal with as he found it. Looking at his watch, Mor discovered that he had
passed two hours in total absorption drafting the letters. Felicity had come
home and had retired to her own room. Nan was still not back. Mor hid the
envelope carefully and burnt the fragments of the earlier drafts. He felt as if
he had accomplished a good evening’s work. He went to bed and slept
excellently.
When Mor awoke in the morning he found himself much less sanguine about the
whole business than he had been the night before. He felt regret and distress
at finding that not only had he decided to deceive Nan but he had even made
complicated arrangements to do so. It also occurred to him now, and shocked
him, that he had been entirely responsible for damaging a very expensive car -
whereas yesterday evening the fate of the Riley had figured in his mind,
absurdly as it now seemed, as part of an adventure. Mor sobered himself
considerably by thinking about the bill. As for the course of action which he
had chosen, he felt himself, for all his misgivings, to be committed to it, and
indeed the tasks of the day left him little time for reflection; and as the
afternoon wore on what more and more recurred to his mind, in the intervals of
teaching, was the not unpleasant prospect of going over that evening to Brayling’s
Close and seeing Miss Carter again, and all this with a certain inevitability.
Mor had supper at home at seven-thirty, saw Nan off to her Women’s Institute
meeting, and then, at about a quarter past eight, left the house on foot. He
told Nan, who was not particularly interested, that he was going to call on
Demoyte, a thing which he often did on evenings when she was engaged. Mor
usually cycled over to the Close, but this time he felt more like walking. It
was a very clear warm evening. The good weather certainly seemed likely to
last, thought Mor, and they could even hope for a fine day for the House Match.
He walked along, wrapped in a pleasant pensive veil. The more disagreeable
aspects of the task before him were not then in his mind. He seemed to enjoy
the warmth and light of the evening with a simplicity which he had not known
for many years; and he wondered why so much of his life was passed in
fretfulness, and why moments such as these were so very rare. He walked a
little way along the main road, and then struck off it across some fields by a
path which led him eventually into Demoyte’s garden. As the low stone wall and
the mulberry trees came in sight, however, excitement and nervousness replaced
his tranquillity. The conveying of a clandestine letter was something which Mor
had not done before, and which he hoped he would not have to do again.
He entered the hall without ringing, and was greeted by Miss Handforth, who
told him, ‘His Lordship is in the library.’ Mor mounted the stairs, but found
the library empty. It was dark now, lowering with books, and melancholy. Its
silence caught Mor, and half relieved he sat down for a moment beside one of
the tables. Then Handy returned, and sticking her head round the door
announced, ‘Sorry, he’s down in the drawing-room with Miss Thingumajite.’
Mor went down, knocked at the drawing-room door, and entered. The drawing-room
was softly lit by many lamps and the curtains were drawn across. Demoyte was
standing, lean ing against the mantelpiece, and Miss Carter was sitting in a
chair, enthroned upon a sort of white sheet beside an easel which was erected
in one comer of the room. Mor was surprised and pleased to see the easel. It
was the first time that he had had any material evidence that Miss Carter was a
painter.
‘Good evening,’ said Mor, ‘good evening. I see the picture has begun.’
‘Begun!’ said Demoyte. ‘I’ve been sitting all day for a portrait of one of my
rugs. Come and look at this masterpiece!’
Miss Carter rose and stood aside. Mor came and looked at the canvas. It seemed
to be empty, except for one small finely worked square of colour in the corner.
A few faint lines were scattered about on the rest of the expanse. It looked
odd to Mor, but he supposed Miss Carter knew what she was doing.
‘Well, well,’ said Mor.
Demoyte laughed explosively. ‘He can’t think of anything to say,’ he said.
Never mind, missie, they’ll all be crawling to you later on.‘
Mor was irritated. Demoyte was making it look as if he had been rude. ‘Miss
Carter knows I have complete faith in her talent,’ said Mor. This sounded
idiotic. He tried to help it out by giving Miss Carter a rather rueful and very
friendly look. She smiled back with such warmth that Mor was quite consoled.
‘That’s cant,’ said Demoyte. ‘You know nothing whatever about Miss Carter’s
talent or anyone else’s. This man doesn’t know a Rubens from a Rembrandt. He
lives in a monochrome world.’
Mor felt this was cruel, as well as being unjust. He tried to carry it off. ‘I
spoke of faith,’ he said. ‘Blessed is he who has not seen, but has believed! I
believe in Miss Carter.’ This was weak, but Miss Carter was still smiling at
him in an encouraging way and that seemed to make the words stand up.
‘Oh well,’ said Demoyte, ‘now you’re talking about Miss Carter, not her talent.
This conversation is degenerating into imbecility. Have you dined?’
‘Thank you, sir, yes,’ said Mor.
‘So have we,’ said Demoyte, ‘and Miss Carter was painting until a few minutes
ago. I suggest we all have some brandy. Miss Carter must be exhausted. She’s
been painting, or pretending to paint, for about six hours.’
‘I
am
tired,’ said Miss Carter. ‘Mr Demoyte doesn’t believe it, but I’ve
done a great deal of work today.’
Mor was surprised to hear this. He had vaguely imagined that after the trials
of yesterday Miss Carter would have spent today lying down in a state of
collapse. He gave her a look of admiration, which he hoped she was able to
interpret. Miss Carter was wearing her trousers, and had tossed off her overall
soon after he entered to reveal a plain white cotton shirt. With her short dark
hair and the strong dusky red of her cheeks she looked like Pierrot, and had,
it suddenly seemed to Mor, something of his grotesque melancholy.
Mor and Miss Carter moved to chairs beside the hearth. Demoyte was fiddling in
a comer cupboard. ‘Where the hell are the brandy glasses?’ he said. ‘Handy will
use them for drinking lemonade out of in the kitchen. I must go and find them.
You two can amuse yourselves.’ He turned and went out of the door, leaving it
open.
Mor knew that now was his chance to give Miss Carter the letter. He was
overcome with confusion and stood up, blushing violently. Miss Carter looked up
at him, a trifle surprised. Mor fumbled in his pocket for the letter, and took
a moment or two to find it. Then he drew it forth and threw it quickly on to
her knee. It fell to the floor, and she picked it up with a puzzled look. As
she did this, a movement caught Mor’s eye and he looked over Miss Carter’s head
to see that Demoyte was standing at the open door and had witnessed the scene.
Miss Carter, who had her back to the door, had not observed him. She put the
letter quickly into her handbag, which lay beside her, and looked up again at
Mor. Demoyte withdrew for a moment and then re-entered the room noisily bearing
the glasses.