Some Do Not …, Ford Madox Ford [free e novels .txt] 📗

with a pointed, grey face and a hard aspect; but when she was inclined to be witty or to plead earnestly she had a kind manner. The room in which they were was over a Belgravia back garden. It was lit by a skylight and the shadows from above deepened the lines of her face, accentuating the rather dusty grey of the hair as well as both the hardness and the kind manner. This very much impressed Sylvia, who was used to seeing the lady by artificial light.⁠ ⁠…

She said, however:

“You don’t suggest, Glorvina, that I’m the distressed rich with a foreign name!”

The great lady had said:

“My dear Sylvia; it isn’t so much you as your husband. Your last exploit with the Esterhazys and Metternichs has pretty well done for him. You forget that the present powers that be are not logical⁠ ⁠…”

Sylvia remembered that she had sprung up from her leather saddleback chair, exclaiming:

“You mean to say that those unspeakable swine think that I’m⁠ ⁠…”

Glorvina said patiently:

“My dear Sylvia, I’ve already said it’s not you. It’s your husband that suffers. He appears to be too good a fellow to suffer. Mr. Waterhouse says so. I don’t know him myself, well.”

Sylvia remembered that she had said:

“And who in the world is Mr. Waterhouse?” and, hearing that Mr. Waterhouse was a late Liberal Minister, had lost interest. She couldn’t, indeed, remember any of the further words of her hostess, as words. The sense of them had too much overwhelmed her.⁠ ⁠…

She stood now, looking at Tietjens and only occasionally seeing him, her mind completely occupied with the effort to recapture Glorvina’s own words in the desire for exactness. Usually she remembered conversations pretty well; but on this occasion her mad fury, her feeling of nausea, the pain of her own nails in her palms, an unrecoverable sequence of emotions had overwhelmed her.

She looked at Tietjens now with a sort of gloating curiosity. How was it possible that the most honourable man she knew should be so overwhelmed by foul and baseless rumours? It made you suspect that honour had, in itself, a quality of the evil eye.⁠ ⁠…

Tietjens, his face pallid, was fingering a piece of toast. He muttered:

“Met⁠ ⁠… Met⁠ ⁠… It’s Met⁠ ⁠…” He wiped his brow with a table-napkin, looked at it with a start, threw it on the floor and pulled out a handkerchief.⁠ ⁠… He muttered: “Mett⁠ ⁠… Metter.⁠ ⁠…” His face illuminated itself like the face of a child listening at a shell.

Sylvia screamed with a passion of hatred:

“For God’s sake say Metternich⁠ ⁠… you’re driving me mad!”

When she looked at him again his face had cleared and he was walking quickly to the telephone in the corner of the room. He asked her to excuse him and gave a number at Ealing. He said after a moment:

“Mrs. Wannop? Oh! My wife has just reminded me that Metternich was the evil genius of the Congress of Vienna.⁠ ⁠…” He said: “Yes! Yes!” and listened. After a time he said: “Oh, you could put it stronger than that. You could put it that the Tory determination to ruin Napoleon at all costs was one of those pieces of party imbecility that, etc.⁠ ⁠… Yes; Castlereagh. And of course Wellington.⁠ ⁠… I’m very sorry I must ring off.⁠ ⁠… Yes; tomorrow at 8:30 from Waterloo.⁠ ⁠… No; I shan’t be seeing her again.⁠ ⁠… No; she’s made a mistake.⁠ ⁠… Yes; give her my love⁠ ⁠… goodbye.” He was reversing the earpiece to hang it up, but a high-pitched series of yelps from the instrument forced it back to his ear: “Oh! War babies!” he exclaimed. “I’ve already sent the statistics off to you! No! there isn’t a marked increase of the illegitimacy rate, except in patches. The rate’s appallingly high in the lowlands of Scotland; but it always is appallingly high there.⁠ ⁠…” He laughed and said good-naturedly: “Oh, you’re an old journalist: you won’t let fifty quid go for that.⁠ ⁠…” He was breaking off. But: “Or,” he suddenly exclaimed, “here’s another idea for you. The rate’s about the same, probably because of this: half the fellows who go out to France are reckless because it’s the last chance, as they see it. But the other half are made twice as conscientious. A decent Tommie thinks twice about leaving his girl in trouble just before he’s killed.⁠ ⁠… The divorce statistics are up, of course, because people will chance making new starts within the law.⁠ ⁠… Thanks⁠ ⁠… thanks⁠ ⁠…” He hung up the earpiece.⁠ ⁠…

Listening to that conversation had extraordinarily cleared Sylvia’s mind. She said, almost sorrowfully:

“I suppose that that’s why you don’t seduce that girl.” And she knew⁠—she had known at once from the suddenly changed inflection of Tietjens’ voice when he had said “a decent Tommie thinks twice before leaving his girl in trouble!”⁠—that Tietjens himself had thought twice.

She looked at him now almost incredulously, but with great coolness. Why shouldn’t he, she asked herself, give himself a little pleasure with his girl before going to almost certain, death.⁠ ⁠… She felt a real, sharp pain at her heart.⁠ ⁠… A poor wretch in such a devil of a hole.⁠ ⁠…

She had moved to a chair close beside the fireplace and now sat looking at him, leaning interestedly forward, as if at a garden party she had been finding⁠—par impossible!⁠—a pastoral play not so badly produced. Tietjens was a fabulous monster.⁠ ⁠…

He was a fabulous monster not because he was honourable and virtuous. She had known several very honourable and very virtuous men. If she had never known an honourable or virtuous woman except among her French or Austrian friends, that was, no doubt, because virtuous and honourable women did not amuse her or because, except just for the French and Austrians, they were not Roman Catholics.⁠ ⁠… But the honourable and virtuous men she had known had usually prospered and been respected. They weren’t the great fortunes, but they were well-offish: well spoken of: of the country gentleman type⁠ ⁠… Tietjens.⁠ ⁠…

She arranged her thoughts. To get one point settled in her mind, she asked:

“What really happened to you in France? What is really the matter with