No More Parades, Ford Madox Ford [best ereader for pdf TXT] 📗

had adhered to that old story, at any rate till that interview. He had said nothing at all. Not one word⁠ ⁠… At the end of the interview, when he had risen and produced from an adjoining room a bowler hat and an umbrella, saying that he must now go to his office, he had put to her without any expression pretty well what stood in the letter, as far as business was concerned. He said that she could have Groby, but she must understand that, his father being now dead and he a public official, without children and occupied in London with work that suited him, Groby was practically Christopher’s property to do what he liked with as long as⁠—which he certainly would⁠—he kept it in proper style. So that, if she wished to live there, she must produce Christopher’s authorization to that effect. And he added, with an equableness so masking the proposition that it was not until she was well out of the house and down the street that its true amazingness took her breath away:

“Of course, Christopher, if what you say is true, might want to live at Groby with Miss Wannop. In that case he would have to.” And he had offered her an expressionless hand and shepherded her, rather fussily, through his dingy and awkward front passages that were lit only from ground-glass windows giving apparently on to his bathroom⁠ ⁠…

It wasn’t until that moment, really, that, at once with exhilaration and also with a sinking at the heart, she realized what she was up against in the way of a combination. For, when she had gone to Mark’s, she had been more than half-maddened by the news that Christopher at Rouen was in hospital and, although the hospital authorities had assured her, at first by telegram and then by letter, that it was nothing more than his chest, she had not had any knowledge of to what extent Red Cross authorities did or did not mislead the relatives of casualties.

So it had seemed natural that she should want to inflict on him all the injuries that she could at the moment, the thought that he was probably in pain making her wish to add all she could to that pain⁠ ⁠… Otherwise, of course, she would not have gone to Mark’s⁠ ⁠… For it was a mistake in strategy. But then she said to herself: “Confound it!⁠ ⁠… What strategy was it a mistake in? What do I care about strategy? What am I out for?⁠ ⁠…” She did what she wanted to, on the spur of the moment!⁠ ⁠…

Now she certainly realized. How Christopher had got round Mark she did not know or much care, but there Christopher certainly was, although his father had certainly died of a broken heart at the rumours that were going round about his son⁠—rumours she, almost as efficiently as the man called Ruggles and more irresponsible gossips, had set going about Christopher. They had been meant to smash Christopher: they had smashed his father instead⁠ ⁠…

But Christopher had got round Mark, whom he had not seen for ten years⁠ ⁠… Well, he probably would. Christopher was perfectly immaculate, that was a fact, and Mark, though he appeared half-witted in a North Country way, was no fool. He could not be a fool. He was a really august public official. And, although as a rule Sylvia gave nothing at all for any public official, if a man like Mark had the position by birth amongst presentable men that he certainly ought to have and was also the head of a department and reputed absolutely indispensable⁠—you could not ignore him⁠ ⁠… He said, indeed, in the later, more gossipy parts of his letter that he had been offered a baronetcy, but he wanted Christopher to agree with his refusing it. Christopher would not want the beastly title after his death, and for himself he would be rather struck with the pip than let that harlot⁠—meaning herself⁠—become Lady T. by any means of his. He had added, with his queer solicitude, “Of course if you thought of divorcing⁠—which I wish to God you would, though I agree that you are right not to⁠—and the title would go to the girl after my decease I’d take it gladly, for a title is a bit of a help after a divorce. But as it is I propose to refuse it and ask for a knighthood, if it won’t too sicken you to have me a Sir⁠ ⁠… For I hold no man ought to refuse an honour in times like these, as has been done by certain sickening intellectuals, because it is like slapping the sovereign in the face and bound to hearten the other side, which no doubt was what was meant by those fellows.”

There was no doubt that Mark⁠—with the possible addition of the Wannops⁠—made a very strong backing for Christopher if she decided to make a public scandal about him⁠ ⁠… As for the Wannops⁠ ⁠… the girl was negligible. Or possibly not, if she turned nasty and twisted Christopher round her fingers. But the old mother was a formidable figure⁠—with a bad tongue, and viewed with a certain respect in places where people talked⁠ ⁠… both on account of her late husband’s position and of the solid sort of articles she wrote⁠ ⁠… She, Sylvia, had gone to take a look at the place where these people lived⁠ ⁠… a dreary street in an outer suburb, the houses⁠—she knew enough about estates to know⁠—what is called “tile-healed,” the upper parts of tile, the lower flimsy brick and the tiles in bad condition. Oldish houses really, in spite of their sham artistic aspect, and very much shadowed by old trees that must have been left to add to the picturesqueness⁠ ⁠… The rooms poky, and they must be very dark⁠ ⁠… The residence of extreme indigence, or of absolute poverty⁠ ⁠… She understood that the old lady’s income had so fallen off during the war that they had nothing to live on but what the girl