The Hireling (24 page)

But he wouldn’t give it to her under Hughie’s eyes. He would post it to her, with a note enclosed, so that she got it on Friday, the day before her wedding.

For the wedding would take place: he had made up his mind to that. She would pay no attention to the anonymous letter. Why had he ever thought she would? As soon as he heard it drop in the letter-box he knew at once that it would have no effect: it was the responsibility and the decision - the responsibility for the decision - that had been weighing on him. He felt she ought to know. Now the responsibility had been taken from him, it had passed into other hands, and in those other hands (whose ever they were) it would be taken care of. And that meant - well, it meant that nothing unpleasant would happen to Lady Franklin. It couldn’t happen, because he didn’t want it to. He had written the letter expressly so that nothing unpleasant should happen. When she read it, if she did read it, she would have a good laugh and throw it on the fire: that was what people did with anonymous letters. She would not let it worry her; she would not believe it for a moment. If by any chance she mentioned it to Hughie, which she wouldn’t, he would laugh too, and stifle her inquiries with a kiss. Was it likely that she would believe the letter, which she didn’t want to believe, and not Hughie, whom she wanted to believe?

The knowledge that he, Leadbitter, was in the clear, put everybody else in the clear, too.

One thing he couldn’t get out of his mind, though it was utterly irrational. He felt that this was the last time he would take Lady Franklin out. Why should it be? He had parted from her on the best of terms; why should she not continue to be his customer? Like several of his customers, she had a car of her own in the country but like them she never used it in London: she preferred to hire. So why not hire him? He had never made his dislike of Hughie clear to Hughie, Hughie could have no grudge against him.

Was it the feeling that until her marriage she was his, and afterwards she would belong to someone else, that gave such a sense of finality to this journey? Was his preoccupation with the wedding-present a way of getting her out of his system, of saying good-bye to her with the best grace he could - before beginning a life in which his imagination would be free of her? Was he assisting at the death of his romantic longings? For the first time since he had met her, she seemed to be outside his calculations; she was being wafted to another sphere where his imagination could not reach her. His presents were to help to usher her into happiness, they could follow her there, but he could not. He had been a foul-weather friend, blown to her by the ill-wind of her unhappiness. As a fair-weather friend she could have no use for him. This he realized and it might have saddened him but it didn’t; he had the feeling of having accomplished a mission, he was happy in her happiness, of which he now almost believed himself the architect; and if no other mission lay before him, no other outlet for his emotions, no one for him to identify himself with, well, it was just too bad.

But he was not so friendless as he thought. While walking to the garage, holding in his hand the envelope that held St Christopher, a giant carrying a giant, he felt the tingling of expectancy. The car, the limousine, was exerting its magnetic pull; once with it, once alone with it, once part of it, self-contained and car-contained, he would be independent of the world. No more emotional experiments!

He wasn’t quite happy with the gears: how could he be? - but the movement and feeling of the car delighted him. He drove it slowly - more slowly than the prescribed rate of thirty miles an hour - devouring his sensations. Seeing a pillar-box he stopped and slipped the slender envelope in; it weighed hardly more than a letter.

‘To Lady Franklin, with best wishes, hoping it may bring you luck, my lady. From S. Leadbitter,’

What a different communication from the last one! And yet he got the same thrill from sending it - so great a thrill that he didn’t notice that the box had been cleared and the medallion wouldn’t go until tomorrow. But he still had something left to tell her, something he must tell her before their account was closed. He wouldn’t be content unless he did. What was it? he wondered, driving slowly on, for the first time without St Christopher.

When one has made up one’s mind that things are going well, and that one has helped to make them go well, it takes some time to realize that in fact the opposite is true, and that things are not going well.

Behind his rather stony mask Leadbitter was an acute observer of human nature, but his mind’s eye was so firmly fixed on the ideal picture he had conjured up that he didn’t suspect that it might differ from actuality. He did just notice that Hughie got into the car without saying ‘good evening’ to him, but put this down to natural preoccupation and the painter’s casual manners.

Driving down the King’s Road towards Belgrave Square he began to look forward to the moment of presenting the new car to Lady Franklin, the moment of the dedication, the first instalment of his wedding-present. He was glad that Hughie hadn’t noticed that the car was new; it would be an anti-climax to announce the fact for the second time. Lady Franklin wouldn’t notice it either, he felt sure, but she just might, and on that depended how he should word the introduction.

A muffled voice spoke somewhere but it sounded so far away that he could not locate it. But there followed a sharp tap on the glass behind which startled him. The partition -he had forgotten the partition! Pushing it back he turned and said: ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re going the wrong way!’ cried Hughie in an irritable, agitated voice. ‘This is the second time you’ve missed the way! Don’t you know your London better than that?’

‘Aren’t we going to South Halkin Street?’ asked Leadbitter, stupidly.

‘No, no, to Campden Hill,’

‘You didn’t tell me, sir,’ said Leadbitter, sufficiently recovered to want to have the last word.

‘I thought you knew,’

But as he turned northwards into Sloane Street he was so bewildered that he still hardly knew where he was going, and bungled a gear-change. What did it mean, this extraordinary development? Were they all three going out together? For his mind was still a one-way street, leading to Belgrave Square.

‘No, not this way!’

‘Sorry sir,’ said Leadbitter, and turned once more to the left.

He wouldn’t see Lady Franklin now, that was what smarted, but underneath another thought oppressed him, a tumour swollen with intense misgiving.

Constance, as usual, was on the doorstep, a tall slim figure, looking lonely in the half-empty street. Her eyes were turned towards them but her face was turned away and seemed to have grown smaller. Leadbitter got out and opened the door for Hughie, who hesitated a moment and then swung his long legs out and stood on the pavement beside Constance.

‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ she said, lifting her head a little.

Then Hughie kissed her.

‘I knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as we thought,’ said Constance, more to herself than him.

‘Oh, that isn’t so difficult,’ said he, and followed her into the car.

‘Why, it’s a new car,’ said Constance brightly. ‘It’s got a glass arrangement, that the other didn’t have. We can be as indiscreet now as we like,’

Hughie didn’t answer.

The glass partition was still open. Leadbitter had fully

meant to shut it, to keep out those alien voices which, if they did nothing worse, interrupted his feeling of communion with his car, the voiceless colloquy which served him better than conversation. But now he didn’t want to miss what was being said, and seizing a pretext for keeping the window open, said through the aperture:

‘Where to now, sir?’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Hughie. ‘Richmond, I suppose. Does that suit you, Constance? - sweet lass of Richmond Hill?’

‘Anywhere you say,’ said Constance, chilled by his tone.

‘Richmond then,’ said Hughie. ‘Usual place,’

Leadbitter made as though to close the partition, but he left a chink that might not show in the dark.

They drove on in a silence which neither of them seemed to want to break. At last Constance said:

‘Perhaps it was a mistake for us to have come out this evening.’

‘Perhaps it was,’ said Hughie.

‘Well, darling, it was your idea. I thought that in the circumstances -‘

‘Well?’

‘Well, that it might be a little unwise,’

‘I know, and I over-persuaded you,’

‘Darling, you sound so sad,’ said Constance. ‘It was bound to be a sad occasion, wasn’t it? Certainly sad for me, and sad I think, for you. It couldn’t have been a celebration, anyway, but you wanted me to come, to show … to show ..,’

‘Yes?’ prompted Hughie.

‘To show that nothing would be changed between us,’

‘Yes,’ said Hughie. ‘But now it has been changed, at least I’m afraid so,’

‘Why,’ said Constance, and dread sounded in her voice, ‘what has changed it?’

‘Shut up, you fool,’ said Hughie. ‘He can hear us,’

‘No, no, he can’t, because he’s closed the partition. … Please, Hughie, tell me. If it’s because you feel that we mustn’t go on being … what we have been to each other, well then I understand perfectly. I wasn’t sure, you remember, that either of us would want to, after you were married. ‘But you agreed to, didn’t you?’ said Hughie. ‘Yes, I agreed to,’

‘You agreed that my marriage to Ernestine shouldn’t make any difference?’

‘In that sense, yes,’

‘Then,’ said Hughie, ‘what made you change your mind?’

There was a pause, after which Constance said in a hurt, bewildered voice:

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Hughie. I haven’t changed my mind. Have you changed yours?’

‘Well, yes I have,’

‘Please don’t speak like that, Hughie. It isn’t my fault I guessed you might not like it when the time came,’

‘What time?’ said Hughie. ‘When you were married, of course, darling,’

‘I’m not going to be married, as it happens,’

‘Not going to be married?’ Through the consternation of Constance’s voice sounded a faint note of relief and hope.

‘No,’ said Hughie. ‘I’m not going to get married. Can’t you guess why?’

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Constance, defending herself against the accusation in his tone.

‘Someone sent Ernestine an anonymous letter,’

‘What, about us?’

‘It named no names. It said I had a mistress, and that I meant to keep her, on Ernestine’s money, after we were married,’

‘Did she show it to you?’

‘No, she read it,’

‘And then what did she say?’

‘What I just told you - that she couldn’t marry me,’

‘But didn’t you deny it?’ Constance asked.

‘Of course I denied it. But she was too upset to take in anything I said,’

There was more bitterness than sorrow in his voice, and it silenced Constance for a moment; then she said:

‘Oh Hughie, I am so sorry,’

‘It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

‘Oh dear, it is, it is an awful mess,’ said Constance, the extent of the calamity growing on her. ‘A horrible affair, horrible for you both. I can’t quite take it in. I try to think of something to say but what can I say? - oh dear, oh dear, poor Hughie. I know you had grown fond of her - perhaps you were in love with her - I never asked you.’

‘It doesn’t much matter now whether I was or not,’ said Hughie.

‘No, I suppose it doesn’t, in a way. I was only thinking of your feelings. … But of course you must have built so much on what … on what the marriage would bring you … your whole future. Oh dear, it is too sad,’

‘Yes, it is pretty grim,’ Hughie agreed.

‘It would have given you such marvellous opportunities for seeing people, and making contacts, and getting commissions … and travelling… and so on,’

‘Yes, it would,’

‘And social life and parties, endless parties. In the old days you said you didn’t like smart parties, but I expect you were beginning to, who wouldn’t? - and being lionized, and everyone appreciating you, and telling you what a good painter you were,’

‘You needn’t rub it in,’ said Hughie.

‘No, I was only thinking what it must mean to you to have lost all that.’

‘All that and a damned sight more,’ said Hughie.

‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s the finish of a lifetime’s hopes. But, Hughie -‘

‘Well?’

‘I don’t know if it’s any consolation, perhaps it isn’t, but I never felt quite happy for you. When I said that Ernestine was corrupting, and you didn’t like it, I meant that perhaps she scattered too many prizes - how can I say it without sounding priggish - governessy? - too much unearned increment - you don’t mind my saying this?’

‘Say anything you damned well like. I can’t stop you, can I?’

‘Please, Hughie, don’t be offended - I was only looking for a silver lining. If you wanted to be a painter, and I think you did -‘

‘You never thought I was any good, though,’ Hughie said.

‘Ah well, don’t bring that up now. I didn’t want you to succeed too easily, and that’s what might have happened, if you’d married Ernestine. Social life is death to the artist, so they say. Well, I don’t know about that, but I know that Bohemian life is the artist’s natural milieu,’

‘You sound as if you hadn’t wanted me to marry Ernestine,’ said Hughie.

‘My darling, do be reasonable. How could I want you to? Of course I wished you luck - because in a way it was a marvellous thing for you -‘

‘You sound as if you were glad I wasn’t marrying her, said Hughie.

‘Darling, please don’t speak like that, of course I’m heartbroken. Don’t I seem sorry? But you couldn’t have expected me to like the marriage and … and … sharing you with Ernestine. And now .. ,’

‘Yes, now?’ said Hughie, challengingly.

‘Do you want me to say it? Won’t you say it for me?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you want me to say,’

‘Haven’t you, Hughie?’

‘No,’

‘Well, we still have each other,’

There was a long silence after this, which Leadbitter thought would never be broken. But at last Hughie said, in a detached speculative voice, and as if opening another subject: