§ 17

A few days before Easter, Peter came suddenly to Fourhouses. He came early in the afternoon, and gave no explanation either of his coming or of his staying away. Jenny was upstairs, helping her mother-in-law turn out the conjugal bedroom, when she heard the sound of hoofs in the yard. She ran to the window, thinking it was Ben come home unexpectedly from an errand to Wickham Farm, but had no time to be disappointed in the rush of her surprise at seeing Peter.

“There’s Peter—my brother—come at last!” she cried to Mrs. Godfrey, and, tearing off her dusting cap, she ran downstairs, still in her gingham overall. She wanted to open the door to him herself.

He could not have expected her to do this, for he was staring uninterestedly at his boots. Her gingham skirts evidently suggested a servant to him, for he lifted his eyes slowly, then seemed surprised to see her standing all bright and blowzed before him.

“Jenny!”

“Hullo, Peter! So you’ve come to see me at last.”

He mumbled something about having been passing through Icklesham.

“Won’t you come in?—the man’ll take your horse. Hi! Homard—take Mr. Alard’s horse round to the stable.”

“I can’t stop long,” said Peter awkwardly.

“But you must, after all this time—come in.”

She had meant to ask him why he had kept away so long and why he had come now; but when she found herself alone with him in the kitchen, she suddenly changed her mind, and decided to let things be. He probably had no reasonable explanation to offer, and unless she meant to keep the breach unhealed, she had better treat this visit as if there was nothing to explain about it.

“How’s Vera?” she asked.

“She’s getting on splendidly, thanks.”

“And the baby?”

“That’s getting on too.”

“Do tell me about it—is it like her or like you?”

“It’s like her—a regular little Yid.”

“Never mind—she will probably grow up very beautiful.”

Peter mumbled inaudibly.

Jenny looked at him critically. He seemed heavier and stupider than usual. He gave her the impression of a man worn out.

“You don’t look well.... Are you worried? I do hope you aren’t dreadfully disappointed the baby’s a girl.”

“It doesn’t really matter.”

“Of course not. The first one never does. You’re sure to have others ... boys.”

Peter did not answer, and Jenny felt a little annoyed with him. If this was the way he behaved at home she was sorry for Vera. It was curious how nervy these stolid men often were....

“How are Father and Mother?” she asked, to change the subject—“I suppose you go up to Conster every day.”

“Twice most days. They’re not up to much—at least Father isn’t. He’s had some pretty good shocks lately, you know. He was dreadfully upset the baby’s being a girl—and that fool Gervase’s business was a terrible blow for him.”

“It was a blow for me too. I did my best to put him off it, but it was no use. My only comfort is that apparently it’ll be some time before he’s really let in for it. He may come to his senses before then.”

“I don’t think so. He’s as obstinate as the devil.”

“What—have you tried arguing with him?”

“Yes—when I heard what he’d done, I drove over to Thunders Abbey or whatever it’s called, and did my level best to bring him back with me. But it was all no good—you might as well try to argue with a dead owl.”

“Good Lord!—you went over to Thunders, and tried to bring him back! Poor old Peter! But do tell me how he is, and what he’s doing. What sort of place is it?”

“Oh a great big barrack, spoiling the country for miles round. But they’ve got some fine land and absolutely all the latest ideas in farming—motor traction and chemical fertilisation and all that.”

“And was Gervase working on the farm?”

“No, Brother Joseph—that’s what the fool’s called now—Brother Joseph, when I saw him, was scrubbing out the kitchen passage on his hands and knees like a scullery maid. A dignified occupation for an Alard!”

“Poor old Gervase, how he’d hate that! But he’ll be all the more likely to come to his senses and give it up, especially when he’s got over his disappointment about Stella. I feel it’s really that which was at the bottom of it all.”

Peter did not speak for a moment. He leaned back in his wooden armchair, staring at the fire, which was leaping ruddily into the chimney’s cavern.

“Do you mind if I light my pipe?” he asked after a bit.

“Of course not—do. I’m glad you’re going to stay.”

He took matches and his tobacco pouch out of his pocket, and she noticed suddenly that his hands were shaking. For the first time a dreadful suspicion seized her. His heaviness—his nerviness—his queer, lost manner ... was it possible, she wondered, that Peter drank?

“Have you heard when the Mounts are leaving?” she asked him, stifling her thoughts.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Stella was here three days ago, and she said that they’ve at last settled about the practice. She seemed to think they might be free to go at the end of May.”

“Oh.”

“I expect Vera’s glad they didn’t go off in a hurry, and leave her with a new man for the baby. Dr. Mount’s the best maternity doctor for miles round.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

He was falling back into silence, and no remark of hers on any topic seemed able to rouse him out of it, though she tried once or twice to re-animate him on the subject of Gervase. He lounged opposite her in his armchair, puffing at his pipe, and staring at the fire, now and then painfully dragging out a “yes” or a “no.” She was beginning to feel bored with him and to think about her work upstairs. Was this all he had to say to her after three months’ estrangement?—an estrangement which he had never troubled to explain. She had been weak with him—let him off too easily—she ought to have “had things out with him” about her marriage. She had a right to know his reasons for forgiving her just as she had a right to know his reasons for shunning her.... He had treated her inexplicably.

She was working herself up to wrath like this when Peter suddenly spoke of his own accord.

“This place is like what Starvecrow used to be.”

“Used to be?—when?”

“Before Vera and I came to it—when the Greenings had it. Do you remember the kitchen fireplace?—it was just like this.”

“Starvecrow is far grander than Fourhouses now. I’m just a plain farmer’s wife, Peter—I’m never going to pretend to be anything else.”

“And Starvecrow was just a plain farm; but we’ve changed it into a country house.”

“Mary’s been wanting me to do the same for Fourhouses, but I’ve told her I’d be very sorry to. I like it best as it is.”

“So do I.”

“Then are you sorry you’ve altered Starvecrow?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s a lovely place, Peter. You’ve made a perfect little country house out of it. I’m sure you wouldn’t be pleased to have it the ramshackle old thing it used to be.”

“Yes, I should.”

“Well, Vera wouldn’t, anyhow. You and she are in a totally different position from us. I’m not keeping Fourhouses as it is because I don’t think it’s capable of improvement, but because I don’t want to put myself outside my class and ape the county. You’re just the opposite—you’ve got appearances to keep up; it would never do if you lived in the funny hole Starvecrow used to be in the Greenings’ time.”

“I loved it then—it was just like this—the kitchen fire ... and the fire in the office—it used to hum just like this—as if there was a kettle on it. The place I’ve got now isn’t Starvecrow.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know—but it isn’t Starvecrow. I’ve spoilt Starvecrow. I’ve changed it, I’ve spoilt it—Vera’s people have spoilt it with their damned money. It isn’t Starvecrow. Do you remember how the orchard used to come right up to the side wall? They’ve cut it down and changed it into a garden. The orchard’s beyond the garden—then it doesn’t look so much like a farm. A country house doesn’t have an orchard just outside the drawing-room windows....”

He had left his chair, and was pacing up and down the room. His manner seemed stranger than ever, and Jenny felt a little frightened.

“I’m glad you don’t want me to change Fourhouses,” she said soothingly—“I must tell Mary what you’ve said.”

“But I do want you to change it,” he cried—“I can’t bear to see it as it is—what Starvecrow used to be.”

“Don’t be silly, Peter. Starvecrow is much better now than it ever used to be.”

He turned on her almost angrily—

“Goodbye.”

She felt glad he was going, and still more glad to hear her husband’s voice calling her from the yard.

“There’s Ben. Must you really be going, Peter?”

“Yes—I must.”

He walked out of the room, and she followed him—both meeting Ben on the doorstep. Young Godfrey was surprised to see his elder brother-in-law—he had made up his mind that Peter would never come to Fourhouses. He was still more surprised at his abstracted greeting.

“Hullo, Godfrey. Glad to see you—that’s a fine mare. Jenny, will you tell them to bring my horse round?”

“Yes.... Carter! Mr. Alard’s horse.... Peter can’t stay any longer, Ben. I told him you’d be sorry.”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Sir”—he blushed at his slip into deference, but was quite unable to say “Peter”—“Is Mrs. Alard doing well?” he asked clumsily.

“Very well, thank you.”

“I hope you’ll come and see us again soon,” said Jenny—“I’d like to show you the house.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” he returned absently, and went to meet his horse, which was being led to him across the yard.