Portrait of a Family

Chapter One

CHRISTOPHER MAINWARING leant back in the corner of his railway carriage and gazed unseeingly at the kaleidoscope of woodland, meadow, town, and village that flashed by. He was a tall spare man of about sixty, with a thin delicately modelled face, mobile lips, hollowed temples, and kind dreamy eyes. It would have been difficult to say in what feature—if in any—lay the hint of weakness that the face undoubtedly conveyed. There was, moreover, a look of strain upon it now, a suggestion of suffering, and, beneath the suffering, fear. His neat grey suit was well brushed and well pressed, the edge of a silk handkerchief showed above the breast pocket, there came from him a faint perfume of eau-de-Cologne, but it was obvious that the care he had given to his toilet was mechanical, the result of the habits of a life-time rather than a token of any present interest in his appearance. His eyes, despite their dreaminess, were bright and restless, and he was obviously unaware of everything around him—the railway carriage, the kaleidoscopic landscape, his fellow-passengers.

He took out his watch with a quick nervous movement. Only a quarter of an hour now. . . . He wondered if anyone would be at the station to meet him. He hoped not. . . . He had written to the children to tell them not to come. In any case, of course, Derek and Frank would be at their work, and Joy would be busy with her children. It was Saturday, so perhaps they would come to see him this evening. Susan had made a ceremonial rite of the Saturday evening family assembly. Nothing had ever been allowed to interfere with it. She had loved to have the children about her—Derek and his wife Olivia, Frank and his wife Rachel, Joy and her husband Bruce. On the whole, he hoped that they would not come to see him this evening. It would be too painful for all of them.

The last time they had met, Susan had been there,—childishly pleased as ever to welcome them, radiantly pretty despite her fifty-five years. Then again he changed his mind and hoped that they would come. The thought of the lonely house filled him with strange panic and set his heart racing in his thin breast.

They had all written to him regularly while he was away—dutiful, bright, little letters, letters that carefully avoided any mention of Susan, and that were too obviously meant to cheer him up. Lethbridge had written also. Perhaps Lethbridge would be at the station to meet him.

For no particular reason he took out his pocketbook and looked at the date. September 15th. . . . Just a month since that garden-party at the Rectory. He remembered standing on the edge of the lawn and watching Susan, who was the centre of a little group beneath the cedar tree. Their eyes had met suddenly, and hers had smiled—an intimate smile, amused, tender, half mischievous, as if she both enjoyed this popularity of hers, and laughed at it, as if only he really understood. He had been married to her for thirty years, but that look had thrilled him as if he were a boy.

His thoughts went back over their married life. It had been unclouded by a single quarrel or even misunderstanding. They had not been as intimate as married people generally are, perhaps. There had always been something elusive and withdrawn about Susan. It had been her greatest charm to him. And he, on his side, had been a romantic, idealising every situation, so that he preferred to worship her on his knees at a distance.

The moments when they drew together in passion had been precious to him, but they had meant less than the normal relations that existed between them—his worship and the veil of glamour and romance that had hung about her in his eyes ever since his first meeting with her. Even after she had borne three children, she had seemed to him in her essence virginal and untouched. Yet she had loved her children, pouring out over them a gay and radiant tenderness that secretly he marvelled at. Motherhood had seemed natural to her, as fatherhood had never seemed natural to Christopher.

His thoughts returned to the garden-party at the Rectory. She had coughed a little that night, and he had listened to her uneasily. The next day he had called in Lethbridge, who diagnosed a slight congestion of one lung. Within a week she was dead.

The day after the funeral Lethbridge had said to him:

Look here, old man, you’ve got to get right away for a change at once, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.

He had protested, but Lethbridge had waved aside his protests.

I understand. I’ve been through it, though I had a bit more warning than you had. When you look forward now you see your life as a damned stretch of day after day without her, and you feel that you can’t go on. Well, you’ve got to get away from it all,—the house and everything that reminds you of her—and when you come back things won’t seem quite so bad. You’ve not been sleeping, have you?

No.

You’re thinking of her all the time?

Yes.

You look ten years older than you did this time last week. You’re not really strong, you know. Making a wreck of yourself won’t bring her back. You’re thinking of her continually. You’re going over every minute of your married life with her. You’ve not slept a wink since she died. Well, you’re a doctor, and a better one than I am, and you know where that sort of thing ends. You’ve got to take yourself in hand.

After Lethbridge had gone, Christopher had felt a sudden impulse to laugh. It was so funny that Lethbridge should have said, You’re going over every minute of your married life together.

He was, of course. . . . But Lethbridge did not know why. Lethbridge did not know what Susan had said to him just before she died.

He had stood by the bed looking down at her as she lay unconscious, her face incredibly altered by the last few days’ suffering. He was realising that she was dying, and that the children, who had been sent for hurriedly, would probably be too late. And, at the same time, he was trying to believe that it was all a dream from which he was just on the point of awakening. It couldn’t be true. . . .

Suddenly she opened her eyes. She was smiling—just as she had smiled at him across the Rectory lawn. A feeling of hysterical relief seized him. It was all right. She couldn’t be dying if she smiled at him like that. She began to speak, but so faintly that he had to bend down his head to hear what she said.

Did you—never guess?

What? he said breathlessly.

About Charlie—and me.

Then her eyes closed and she lay motionless, as if her looking at him and speaking had been an illusion.

Immediately the door opened, and Lethbridge came in with the nurse and the oxygen tube.

Christopher gave his help mechanically, moving silently and deftly about the sick-room. And, as he moved about the room, the monstrous meaning of the words Susan had said forced itself slowly upon his brain.

They had put aside the oxygen tube now and stood by the bed, looking down at the strange grey face that was Susan’s. Lethbridge had his hand on her pulse.

There was silence in the room, but Christopher could still hear the words:

Did you—never guess—about Charlie and me?

Suddenly his stunned senses recovered from their paralysis, and a sort of madness seized him. He must know what she meant. Nothing in the whole world mattered but that one thing. He dropped on to his knees by her bed.

Susan! he said, Susan . . . tell me. . . .

Lethbridge put a hand on his shoulder. She’s gone, old man.

Chapter Two

AT first he had tried to believe that she was delirious, or that, if she were not delirious, in the weakening of her faculties her mind had gone back to some trick that she and Charlie had played on him, and that he had never discovered. Charlie had been fond of practical jokes. Once he had dressed up as an old woman, and had come to consult him in his surgery. Probably he and Susan had played a trick of that sort on him. Did you never guess about Charlie and me?

He had even tried to persuade himself that she had never said the words at all, that the whole episode was an illusion of his overwrought nerves. But he could not persuade himself of that, and, as he moved about in a sort of dream, making arrangements for her funeral, interviewing their lawyer, answering letters of condolence, his mind was ceaselessly going over every detail of the days of his friendship with Charles Barrow.

The friendship had been a curious one, for the two men were as unlike in temperament as it is possible almost for two men to be. Christopher was sensitive and reserved, and, in his youth at any rate (they met as medical students at Bart.’s), intensely shy. Charles had been boisterous, full-blooded, instinct with a crude robust joy of life. He lived wholly and vitally in each moment as it passed. He was carelessly kindhearted, prodigally generous, imperturbably good-humoured, and, despite his striking good looks, devoid of vanity.

His friendship with Christopher had been in the nature of an assault. He had simply taken possession of him, ignoring his timidity, laughing at his shyness, overruling his shrinking from intimacy.

After the first surprise Christopher had found it a relief to be thus taken possession of, to have, as it were, a ready-made friendship thrust upon him without the agonies, the heart-searching, the doubts and apprehensions, that in his former experience had been friendship’s growing pains. He need not torture himself by fears that Charlie could not possibly like him, because Charlie so obviously did like him; he need not anxiously guard his every shade of manner for fear of hurting Charlie, because Charlie never noticed shades of manner. The friendship had probably been of more value to Christopher than a friendship with a man of his own kind would have been. Charlie’s strength had been a corrective to his weakness; Charlie’s robust healthy-mindedness a corrective to his tendency to morbidity.

The two had shared rooms, and, when Christopher had obtained his medical degree and removed to his newly-bought practice in Ravenham, he had felt at first curiously lost and bewildered without Charlie. Charlie, too, had qualified, but had not taken up any work. His father had died, leaving him a small estate in Surrey and an ample income, and he had decided to travel abroad for a year or two. It was while he was away that Christopher met and married Susan.

Christopher remembered his feeling of exultant proprietary pride when Charlie appeared a year after their marriage—handsome, exuberant, charming, full of entertaining accounts of his travels, more like a high-spirited school-boy than ever.

The day of that first visit of Charlie’s, after his return, stood out vividly in Christopher’s memory. Susan had worn a new dress with a tiny waist, a dress that swept in flounces about her feet, and had looked her prettiest. Christopher had watched the two of them with almost breathless eagerness, so great was his anxiety that they should make a good impression on each other. They were the two people he cared for most in the world, and their meeting was of vital importance to him. He could see Charlie quite clearly even now, lounging back in an arm-chair, wholly at his ease, making everything around him look rather small, talking, laughing, his bold twinkling eyes fixed on Susan. He could see Susan, too, seated gracefully, with her air of poised immobility, on an upright chair, watching Charlie with her faint unfathomable smile. He remembered his relief when Susan told him afterwards that she liked Charlie. . . .

Charlie had stayed with them for a few days, then, quite suddenly, had gone abroad again and spent two years in Africa. After that he had returned and settled down on his estate in Surrey. He was a frequent week-end visitor to them, and they often spent their holidays with him. Latterly, the old friendship between the two men had waned. Christopher’s character had mellowed and strengthened. He had left behind him the introspectiveness and super-sensitiveness of his youth, and, as his need for the virile strength that lay behind them faded, the other man’s boisterousness and irresponsibility began to jar on him.

When Charlie had died fifteen years ago, Christopher’s sorrow had been more for the friend of his youth than for the man of later years. He had hardly once thought of him since the year of his death, till Susan’s words had brought his whole world crashing about him. And then his mind had gone back over those earlier days, groping about among them, dragging back to recollection forgotten words and incidents, trying to light up corners long dim with forgetfulness.

Opportunity? Of course, there had been ample opportunity. The two had been alone in the house evening after evening while he was in his consulting room or out with his cases. They had spent whole days together at Charlie’s house in Surrey. And yet, search as it would, his memory could find no evidence against them. They had always welcomed him on his return. They had always seemed glad when he offered to accompany them on their walks or expeditions. When Charlie died, Susan’s grief had not been excessive, and all these years she had not mentioned his name.

On the other hand, there had been a vein of dangerous irresponsibility in Charlie. The conventional codes of honour meant little to him. Christopher could imagine his arguing that, as long as he, Christopher, knew nothing of their intrigue, no possible harm was done.

And Susan? He remembered that faint enigmatic smile of hers. Was she, after all, a riddle to which he had failed to find the key, because he had not even realised that there was a key to be found? She had always been withdrawn and aloof, but perhaps she had not really wanted to be withdrawn and aloof. He had treated her throughout their life together with the reverence that had been his first emotion for her, but perhaps she had not wanted to be treated with reverence. Perhaps it was a challenge that he had failed to accept. He had left the glove lying on the ground, and someone else had picked it up. Just as he had found in Charlie what he had missed in himself, so perhaps she had found in Charlie what she had missed in him. . . . Having reached this point, his mind would fly back again into the past, and begin once more to grope in nightmare darkness for something it could not find.

And so the three weeks of his holiday at the Cornish fishing village had slipped by. He went for long walks without seeing anything; he ate his meals from habit and without knowing what he was eating; he lay awake through the long nights, or slipped into heavy unrefreshing sleep made horrible by dreams of Susan and Charlie.

And now he was on his way home. He knew that he was no better. Rather he was worse. He had deliberately let the thing become an obsession.

He must take himself in hand. He was going back to Ravenham now, where people knew him. They must not guess anything. A sudden thought struck him, bringing with it a qualm that was almost physical sickness. Suppose that they knew. Suppose that even his sons and daughter knew.

He put the suspicion behind him, and, with the effort of doing so, a strange new access of strength seemed to come to him. He determined to forget those last few minutes of Susan’s life as if they had never been.

Though dreamy, he had his mind and thoughts generally under control. He had always possessed the power of concentration. He would be master of his memories, as a man ought to be. He would think of Susan as he had thought of her till the last few minutes

of her life. He would forget Charlie as he had forgotten him these fifteen years. He would believe that Susan had died without recovering consciousness.

A sudden wave of courage and hope swept over him as the train slowed down at Ravenham station.

Chapter Three

THE first thing he saw, when the train drew in, was Lethbridge’s long rugged face with its straggling grey goat’s beard.

The two men greeted each other casually, almost as if they had met by chance. Both felt constrained and ill-at-ease, though Lethbridge’s manner displayed a professional cheerfulness that faintly amused Christopher.

I just happened to be along, he said, so I thought I’d pick you up in the car. Got your bag? Splendid.

Lethbridge’s car was, in the eyes of some of the inhabitants of Ravenham, a local jest, and, in the eyes of others, a local disgrace. It was of no known make, and had been put together by Lethbridge himself many years before the war. The whole of it, even the nickel of the radiator, was painted a battleship grey. It was very high, and extremely noisy, and, as it had been made long before the days of self-starters, Lethbridge always had to get out to crank it up when it stopped in traffic. He was completely satisfied with it, and nothing would persuade him to exchange it for a more modern make.

Christopher climbed up into it and sank into the deeply hollowed springless seat next to the driver’s. The engine started with a roar, Lethbridge took the seat beside him, and they set off noisily through the main street of Ravenham.

Christopher’s friendship with Lethbridge was of much later growth than the old friendship with Charlie. It was more a professional than a personal friendship. They discussed their cases unofficially, and, before Christopher’s retirement, had frequently called each other in for consultation. Lethbridge was as reserved as Christopher, and they had never been intimate outside their professional spheres; but, in spite of that, so real was the unspoken understanding between them that it had been to Lethbridge that Christopher’s thoughts had first turned in his trouble and bewilderment. Several times, during these weeks since Susan’s death, he had played with the idea of confiding in Lethbridge. He thought that if once he could hear Lethbridge’s slow steady voice saying, "My dear chap, what are you worrying about? It was obviously meaningless delirium. I remember an exactly similar case. . . ."—it would be all right.

But, of course, he could not help knowing that the satisfaction