*chapter Xvii*
*BACK TO THE HAPPY VALLEY*
Roger, ever since he returned from Scotland, resolved that a break with Sibyl should come as soon as he could see before him the re-opening of an African career. Only fortified with such a resolve could he face his wife’s candid eyes and her unquestioning trust in him—or Maud’s more quizzical gaze and occasional sardonic remarks… “That old fox, MacNaughten,” he said to himself, “had determined all along to evade the well-meant suggestions of candidates from the Foreign, Colonial, and India Offices, and as soon as he got his Baronetcy (which came with the New Year’s honours) to take a line of his own.”
However, Fate for once hastened the denouement by causing Roger’s father to catch cold over the excavation of the Basilica at Silchester, to neglect his cold, and to die of double pneumonia in the week preceding Christmas, 1890. Roger could not help being profoundly grateful to his archaeological parent for dying before rather than after Christmas, because this decease, with the conventions in force, and Queen Victoria behind the conventions, absolutely freed him from the obligation to attend the elaborate Christmas and New Year festivities ordained by Sibyl at Engledene. She had set aside a suite of rooms—bedroom, sitting-room and office—at 6A, Carlton House Terrace, and would no longer hear of his staying at Pardew’s Hotel when in London to transact business with her. There were times when he seriously considered shooting himself—and strange to say, all through this period of episodical infidelity he had never loved Lucy better, or found her smiling silence or unimportant, unexacting conversation more soothing.
Her approaching confinement and his father’s death together constituted a barrier of reserve that even Sibyl was bound to respect. He therefore utilized this respite to work assiduously at his plans for flight from the enchantress. He was most anxious after he was gone that no one should say with justification that he had let Lady Silchester down, had treated her badly, got things into a muddle, and then bolted.
As far back as the preceding October he had brought his younger brother, Maurice, the barrister into the Estate Office to be his assistant. Sibyl could suggest no one else and told him he could make what arrangements he liked—if only—if—only he would not be cruel to her, not talk of going at the end of the trial year. As he had not complete confidence in Maurice becoming efficient for the head post, he had entered into a provisional arrangement for a first-class man to put over Maurice, selecting him at the Institute of Land Agents’ recommendation…
So much therefore had been done to safeguard h employer’s interests.
Then as to his own. The administration of his father’s estate would eventually secure a total sum of L4,300 to each of the four children of the Rev. Ambrose Brentham, including the amount they had recently received by deed of gift. This with other odds and ends of savings, gave Roger a capital of L5,000 to draw on.
As soon as Lucy was well over her accouchement in January (1891), he had several long and confidential conversations with Arthur Broadmead, that friend in need to so many men who had fallen into holes of their own digging, and who sought rectification by extending the bounds of empire and making two blades of grass to grow where but one had grown before. Several great Anglo-German financiers were seen in the City. The specimens and the School of Mines’ report thereon were left in their hands: with the result that a small and select Anglo-German Syndicate was formed to prospect in the northern part of German East Africa. Into this pool Captain Brentham put L2,000 and was constituted for three years head of the enterprise with a good salary and very large discretion as to means and methods of developing the Happy Valley.
To Maud he next imparted his plans, and to his surprise they were received with cordial approval.
“You’re quite right, Roger, I’m sure you’ve taken the road that will most probably lead to happiness and fortune. Lucy is certain to fall in with your scheme. She can stay on in England till her baby’s weaned—it was sweet of you both to call it after me—I was so certain you were going to name it ‘Sibyl’! Then she can place both the children with their grandparents at Aldermaston and come out and join you. And what is more, I will come too! I should love to!”
There now remained—he could not say “only remained,” it was too portentous a crisis—the final scene with Sibyl. He thought it over many a night when he could not sleep, many a morning when he was going through estate business with her and she was leaning unnecessarily over his shoulder or furtively pinching the lobe of his ear. A written good-bye, and then immediate departure, would be cruel, and Sibyl might afterwards revenge herself on Lucy, left behind defenceless; or on Maurice. There were, besides, points of business he must discuss with her before leaving; at any rate give her the chance of asking questions and receiving answers.
So he summoned up courage one morning and telegraphed he wished to see her that afternoon in London. She was up for the “little season” which follows Christmas.
He was shown into her library at 6A, Carlton House Terrace. She had come in from skating at Princes, had changed into a wonderful tea-gown and was lying on a long couch over which a magnificent tiger skin had been thrown. A small inlaid Moorish table held a tea-tray.
Sibyl: “Have some tea? Tell him before he goes out” (referring to the retreating footman).
Roger: “Thanks very much, no. I have had tea and I’ve got a lot to tell you. So I don’t want to lose time.” (The door clicks to.)
Sibyl: “Well. You’re very solemn. Draw up a chair. Come to give me a month’s warning? But to do that you ought to stand…”
Roger: “That’s exactly what I have come for…”
Sibyl: “Roger! Don’t make horrid jokes. You wouldn’t be so base—so—ungrateful—as that…”
Roger: “It isn’t an act of baseness, that’s certain; and as to ingratitude, I think by going away I am doing the best thing altogether, so far as you are concerned. No!” (she is rising and pushing the tea-table out of her way as a preparation for drama). “You must let me explain myself—and do let us discuss this quietly, not as though we were acting a scene on the stage. Sibyl! Really the least said, soonest mended. We are in an impossible position… I blame myself more than you…” (Sibyl: “Thank you!”) “I am a cad … an utter cad. I loathe myself sometimes so much I can’t look at my face in the glass or meet my wife’s eyes. I am going back to Africa … going out of your life… You must forget all about me … and marry some decent man.” (His voice sounds strangled and he turns away to recover himself.)
| Sibyl: “It seems to me it is you that are becoming stagey. | What does | |
| all this mean? | Has Lucy found out we’ve been lovers and made a fuss? | |
| … Or is it money? | Have you got into debt? | Do be explicit!” |
Roger: “It’s none of these things. I only mean I have out-stayed my year with you, my trial year, and now I claim my liberty. I am going once more to try for a career in Africa … and…”
Sibyl (white with anger): “Well, go to Africa! I never wish to see you again! Go! Go! Go!” (She half rises as if to expel him with her hands, but he saves her the trouble, takes up his hat, gloves and stick, walks out, closes the door of the library gently and lets himself out of the house.)
The next day he leaves at the door a tin despatch box and a letter containing its key. The box has amongst its contents the bunch of keys he has used on the Estate, a great bundle of accounts, notes, and suggestions for the immediate future. In the letter which accompanies this box he tells Sibyl all about the arrangement he has made in her Estate Office, advises her to keep on his brother Maurice who shows signs of uncommon ability, but for some time yet to retain as Head Agent Mr. Flower, provisionally engaged for a year, who is highly recommended by the Institute of Land Agents. Both alike are now well acquainted with the affairs of the Silchester Estate… He asks her to be kind to Lucy who will remove as soon as she is strong enough to Aldermaston and meantime remains at the Lodge under Maud’s care. Later on, when her child is old enough to be left in the grand-parents’ keeping, Lucy and Maud will join him in East Africa. His address in London till he leaves for Marseilles on February 28 will be Pardew’s Hotel…
He will never forget her kindness … never … at a critical time in his life. And will not say “good-bye,” because when he has “made good” in Africa he will come back on a holiday and hope to find the Estate flourishing and Silchester grown into a sturdy boy.
From what I knew of Sibyl I should say she at first took the breaking off of their relations very hardly… “Agony, rage, despair” … much pacing up and down the library… Passionate letters half-written, then torn up into small fragments and thrown into the fire. Then—for she was a slave to her large household and magnificent mode of life—her maid Sophie enters the library and reminds My Lady that she is due that night to dine at the Italian Embassy. So Sibyl has to submit to be coiffed, dressed, jewelled, and driven off in a brougham—a little late, and that intrudes on her mind, because she has heard you should never be late to an Ambassador’s invitation, it is a sort of lese-majeste. But to cope with the demands made on her, she has to force her heart-break to the back of her mind and sustain her reputation for gay beauty, daring expression, and alert wit—in French as well as English. There was a Royalty there to whom she had to curtsey and with whom she had to sustain a raillery, shot with malice, which required considerable brain-concentration; for though the retorts must call forth further bursts of laughter from the chorus that watched the duel, they must be free from the slightest impertinence.
Roger’s abrupt leave-taking only remained like a dull ache behind her vivid consciousness of triumph, of celebrated men, bestarred with orders, swathed with ribbons; of women sparkling with jewels and rippling in silks; of a Prince who might “make” you with a smile or “mar” you with a frown; of many enemies concealed as friends; of wonderful music and exquisite food, for which she had no appetite. It was not until she had re-entered her dressing-room to be unrobed that she had once more the mind-space to reconsider Roger’s farewell and what life would mean to her without his constant companionship. Then, foreseeing otherwise a ghastly night of turning things over and over in her thoughts, she told Sophie she had bad neuralgia; and opening a tiny little casquet with a tiny little gold key on her bangle she took from it the materials for a sleeping draught, compounded them cautiously—she was the last person in the world to commit suicide, even by mistake—swallowed the dose and half an hour afterwards slipped into oblivion.
The next morning she awoke with the inevitable headache, and the heartache returned. But there was the breakfast tray to distract her thoughts, and there were the morning letters. Among these was an invitation to meet an Oriental Potentate in very select company—an opportunity for display which she had coveted—and an invitation to dine with the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mrs. Benson, which she had sought for, as she wanted to allure the young Bensons into her circle of “souls.”
She then reflected, while having her hair brushed, that it might be just as well that the breach with Roger had come before she had been in any way tarnished by the breath of scandal. People had already chaffed her about her handsome Land Agent. She would act so as to throw dust in their eyes, and certainly not play the part of la maitresse delaissee. Later on in the morning, therefore, she wrote to Lucy saying she had accepted Roger’s resignation with the deepest regret, but would not stand between him and his beloved Africa. Yet she hoped Lucy would not think of leaving the Lodge until she was perfectly strong. She also told Roger’s successor, Mr. Flower, she had confirmed the arrangement Captain Brentham had outlined and requested him to call on her in the following week.
In the afternoon of that day she issued the instruction “Not at home,” intending to retire to her bedroom and have a good cry. But the full indulgence in this luxury was baulked by the announcement of her cousin Maud Brentham. Maud’s name some while ago had been put on the short list of people to whom “Not at home” did not apply.
Maud had really been asked to call by the timorous Roger to see how Sibyl was “taking it.” So Sibyl, divining this, received her affectionately; and only complained of the excessive brilliance of the ambassadorial party of the night before and the dead set made at her by the Prince having reduced her this following afternoon to the condition of a doll with the sawdust escaping from every seam. She talked quite calmly of Roger’s approaching departure and the arrangement of Lucy’s affairs after he had gone. “Why can’t you and she transfer yourselves from the Lodge to the House at Engledene and stay there indefinitely, till you take ship for Africa and golden joys? Lucy’s a god-send with poor nervous, peevish little Clithy. I must leave the child there a good deal at present. He looks very peeky if he comes to London. And at Easter I shall shut up this house and go off to travel for a long time…”
“But not to East Africa, I trust…?” said Maud with some anxiety.
“Maud! You’re a toad!”
When two very sad women came to Victoria on an appallingly cold and foggy morning to take leave of Roger—who was departing for Paris-Marseille to join his steamer—they were joined by a third, accompanied by an aloof footman carrying wraps; and books for Roger’s solace on the journey. Sibyl put her arm round Lucy’s waist, as they were saying farewell; and Roger having kissed his wife—most tenderly—and his sister—hesitated for one second, and then kissed Sibyl too.
From Roger Brentham to his Wife.
[Very near the second anniversary of our happy marriage. Barely two years married and already two children. I wonder how baby Maud is getting on?]