Two Solitudes (59 page)

The minister asked the mourners how charities could exist without such men as Sir Rupert Irons. And how, without charities, could the nation thrive? He pointed out that Irons
himself, remembering the Scriptures, had never failed to do his alms in secret. Legion though his benefactions had been, they were known only unto God and the recipients.

Everyone would recall Sir Rupert's favourite saying: “A beggar may at least spend his last ten-cent piece on a cup of coffee, but a banker must render account of the uttermost farthing!” How well had their friend lived up to that homely motto! If the financial structure of Canada was still the soundest of all nations, if she was an oasis of stability in a troubled world, the people well knew whom they must thank.

When the organ struck up the Dead March, the coffin was wheeled noiselessly down the aisle to the vestibule, then borne to the hearse by eight directors of corporations, while press photographers snapped their pictures, and policemen saluted, and thousands watched. Then a tide of bankers, brokers, governors, justices, brewers, distillers, lawyers, executives, stockholders and politicians, each with a silk hat on his head, flowed in solemn silence down the steps.

The street in that slum district was very narrow, and most of the mourners had not been within a mile of it in their lives. Now the sun gleamed sleekly on their silk hats, and the hats bobbed unevenly but with collective rhythm as they struggled up the hill after the hearse. Labourers, clerks, housewives, loafers, children and unemployed stood silently on the curb watching them. The street was utterly noiseless except for the shuffle of feet and the sigh of ponderous breathing, and as McQueen padded along and heard Chislett panting behind him, he was haunted by the thought that the man would never make Sherbrooke Street. There was no doubt about it, Chislett would be the next.

Finally they reached the boulevard. But not even in their
own preserves would the outside world let them alone. In the near distance newsboys were bawling the afternoon's headlines. McQueen heard Hitler's name repeated over and over. The newsboys came nearer, running toward the crowd. hitler sends ultimatum…hitler mobilizes…hitler says he will fight…

Why can't they leave a man alone, McQueen thought, why can't they leave us in peace?

 

FIFTY

In the hotels that line the Maine beaches from Portland to Kittery, the death of Sir Rupert Irons seemed, at least for a few hours, more important than the world crisis. Hardly a dozen of the thousands of Montrealers and Ontarians summering there had known Irons personally, but all of them had heard his name as long as they could remember.

The morning after the first Montreal papers arrived with news of the event, Heather met Mrs. Falconridge as she was leaving the dining room.

“Your Sir Rupert Irons must have been a very great man,” the American said.

“A great many people thought so,” Heather said gravely.

“It's the most amazing thing! You Canadians seem to know all about our affairs down here. I've met so many who agree with me on Mr. Roosevelt and John L. Lewis. But we simply don't know a thing about your country. You know, Heather, I'd never even heard of Sir Rupert Irons before this morning!”

“But Mrs. Falconridge–it's almost as though God had died!”

Heather caught a suggestion of understanding in Mrs. Falconridge's eyes as she left her. In the lounge the old ladies were still discussing Irons' affairs. They mentioned his devoutness. They wondered if some secret sorrow had prevented his getting married. They speculated on where his money would go, and how much the death-duties would be. One old lady remembered the time when he had defied the whole Dominion Government to do its worst. They all repeated to each other that the country would never be the same without him.

That morning Janet took her breakfast in bed. Some time after nine o'clock, Heather had poked her head in the door, seen her mother lying back on the pillows with her eyes closed, and shut the door again quietly. As soon as she had gone, Janet opened her eyes.

Never in her life had she felt more wretched. Ever since Huntly McQueen's telephone call the evening before, she had been so miserable that sleep was impossible. He had told her about Irons' death, and that he was very busy on account of the funeral. He had told her–she thought in a very off-hand manner–that as Paul Tallard had refused to take the job he had offered, there seemed nothing more he could do about the situation at present. Then he had gone on talking about Irons as if he had completely forgotten her problem. Who cared about Irons anyway, Janet thought. General Methuen had always called him a bounder. Why, General Methuen had said ever so many times that he could remember when Rupert Irons' father used to drive a wagon for one of the breweries!

Janet thought back on what a horrible night she had spent. Around two in the morning she had made up her mind that McQueen had let her down. At one of the most important moments in her life, Huntly had been so engrossed in his own selfish affairs that he had forgotten all about her! And
after all the plans they had made together! Over the phone he had also wasted good time talking about the war news from Europe, as if she were incapable of reading the papers for herself. By three in the morning, Janet began to have serious doubts about McQueen's sincerity. He was a selfish old bachelor. If he hadn't been so engrossed in his own comfort he would have married long ago and had a family. What did he understand about what a woman–any woman–has to suffer?

When dawn came, Janet was so restless she took a warm bath. It did nothing to make her feel any better. Heather was her own daughter, she was all she had left, she had given that child her whole life and now Heather never gave the slightest thought for her happiness. It was nothing new. Heather was always criticizing her. She had sent her to college and after that the child had felt superior. As if she didn't understand her own daughter like an open book! Heather was always quoting outrageous opinions from things she read and expecting her to be impressed by them. It was a disgrace the sort of things they gave immature girls to study in college these days. Florence Murdoch had been saying that very thing only yesterday. They went to college and came out of it ungrateful, callous and selfish. They thought they knew more than their elders because some glib young professors without a penny to bless themselves with taught them a jargon nobody else could understand.

Now, at nine o'clock, after having nibbled at dry toast and sipped some tepid coffee, Janet got out of bed and went to the dressing table. On the way she put on a sheer black negligee and the black jet beads she wore at all times to hide the scar on her neck where a goiter had been removed. Carefully she creamed her face, patted the skin with an expensive tonic, put on a layer of foundation cream, and then
added a nearly-white powder. She refrained from using the merest touch of the rouge she generally wore.

As she studied her face in the glass she decided she looked ghastly. She wasn't well, and no wonder. She sat very still and listened intently to the beat of her heart. She sighed heavily, and slowly began to arrange her hair. As the brush swept back and forth fifty times, her mind examined every aspect of her immediate problem. She felt she was studying it with deliberate craft, softly entering into every corner of it, like a cat discovering a strange room.

She had taken too much for granted all her life, that was her trouble. Because she had sacrificed her entire life for her children, she had naturally expected a dutiful affection in return. And now she was faced with this! If Harvey were alive…

Tears stood in her eyes and she allowed them to rest there; they brimmed and overflowed and she sat quite still watching them erode the white powder on her cheeks. She was not well. She was all alone in the world and unwell, and at this particular moment Heather was deliberately taking advantage of her. All her life she had tried so hard; so hard she was really quite exhausted. She had always been ten times more careful to do the right thing than anyone else she knew. It was utterly heartless of Heather to disregard her at a time like this, only a few months after her two grandfathers had died.

Janet enlarged on the picture of her own desolation. One by one they had left her. First her mother, then Harvey. Then Daphne: she might as well have died as gone off to England. Then the general, her own father, and now Heather! Last of all Huntly McQueen had abandoned her.

A fury of rage shook her body as she thought about McQueen. After all these years–good heavens, after a quarter
of a century! Who was Huntly McQueen, anyway? Where would he have been today if it hadn't been for her? He owed his entire social position to her and to the Methuens. He thought he was very clever, but she knew, she could see through him. And now, just because Rupert Irons was being laid away in state…

She had learned her lesson, and she wouldn't be fool enough to believe what anyone told her after this. She was a sick woman, and she had to think of her health.

Janet gave a final pat to her well-combed hair and went back to bed. She arranged the sheet, the blanket and the counter pane neatly across her extended legs, smoothed the folds of the negligee across her flat chest, and then picked up the phone beside the bed. She asked the desk-clerk if her daughter could be found and sent to her at once. While waiting for Heather to arrive, she counted her pulse.

When the door opened, Janet's head was on the pillows and her hands were lying limply at her sides. “Come in, dear,” she murmured. “Shut the door and sit down. I–we must have a talk. It's too late to put it off any longer. I didn't sleep all night.”

Heather's voice was quick with sympathy. “Mummy!”

“I don't want to frighten you, dear. Now sit down and don't worry.”

Heather's voice showed alarm. “Mummy–is anything the matter?”

“No. No, I don't think…Please sit still and I'll be all right. I'm sure I will.”

Heather sat down. “I didn't sleep much either, I'm afraid. It makes the morning after feel pretty rocky.”

Janet sighed heavily, and her escaping breath had a break in it. “I'm glad you've been thinking things over too, dear.”

“Mummy–you're really all right, aren't you?”

Heather looked at her mother anxiously. Janet's face was like chalk and her eyes staring out of it were unnaturally large.

“Now dear, before…but I'd like you to tell me something first.”

“First?”

Janet made a movement with the fingers of one hand, as if she were too weak to do anything more. She forced the beginning of a smile. “I'd like you to tell me that you didn't really mean what you said to me the other night. I felt sure you'd think much better of it, once you realized how impossible it was.”

Heather pulled a package of cigarettes out of her purse, extracted one and lit it. Janet watched every movement closely. Heather exhaled the first breath of smoke and said quietly, “I'd have been quite willing to tell you about Paul. But you didn't ask, and you showed as clearly as you could that you didn't want to discuss him. Instead you had to call Huntly down from Montreal and make some plans of your own behind my back. I don't want to be unpleasant, Mummy, but that's exactly what you did. I don't think you'd have appreciated it if your mother had done the same thing when you told her you intended marrying Father.”

Janet's right hand moved with a spasmodic jerk to her left breast. She clutched herself and an expression of sharp and sudden agony flashed across her face. “How can you! How can you say such a thing to your own mother!”

“It seems quite a natural thing to say. Mummy–what's the matter?”

“I don't know.” Janet's voice seemed to be forcing itself out through an excruciating pain. “I'm…I'm…in pain! It's…” She whispered, “It's my heart!”

Heather went to the bed and laid her hand under her mother's left breast. She felt the beat; it was distinct and regular. “It's probably the lobster you ate last night,” she said. “Would you like some soda?”

Janet began to moan.

“Please, Mummy! Please–don't go to pieces so easily. Tell me what it is and I'll do the best I can to help you.”

“How can anyone be so callous!” Janet cried at her. She sat straight up in bed. “Such a tone of voice from my own daughter! I've done everything for you all my life. How can you!”

Heather frowned as she looked at her mother more closely. “Mummy–please! I can't help how my voice sounds. I'm sorry. I thought you'd excited yourself. Where's the pain?” She placed her hand over her mother's stomach.

Janet shrank away. “Don't! Don't touch me! Please sit down. It will pass in a moment. Sit down, Heather, and don't be so fidgety. I–I must talk to you–in spite of it.”

Heather still watched her. “Would you like a doctor?”

Janet shook her head from side to side. “No. I don't think so. Sit down. Don't stand like that.”

Heather sat down and her mother swallowed heavily, coughed slightly, and then lay back with her eyes closed. Presently she opened them and sighed. “The pain is a little better now.”

“That's good.”

After another moment, Janet said, “Huntly telephoned last night.” As Heather made no reply she continued, “I'm afraid he's very upset. He has so much on his mind these days, and it was such a pity that–that rudeness and ingratitude should make it worse for him. Huntly's always been so sensitive–much more than people realize.”

“I've no doubt,” Heather said.

Janet's eyes were quite normal now, and so was her voice. “He got in touch with the Tallard boy, exactly as he promised. Something exceptionally good turned up in British Columbia–a school. Huntly offered him a fine position there, teaching French.”

“At a thousand dollars a year?” Heather asked quietly.

“He didn't mention the salary to me. Your young man was so rude I very much doubt if Huntly even mentioned it to him. He practically told Huntly to mind his own business.” Seeing the trace of a smile on Heather's lips, Janet raised her voice. “He actually refused to discuss terms with Huntly at all. Huntly is furious and I certainly don't blame him!”