The Conscience of the Rich (17 page)

Standing in front of a pot of geraniums, Mr March himself was telling Sir Philip an anecdote with obscure glee. It was the obscure glee that usually possessed him when someone committed a
faux pas
against the Jewish faith. ‘The new parson from the church round the corner paid me a visit the other day,’ said Mr March. ‘I thought it was uncommonly civil of him, but I was slightly surprised to have to entertain anyone of his persuasion. The last parson I was obliged to talk to descended from the ship at Honolulu when I was going round the world in ’88. He was an extremely boring fellow. Well, as soon as I decently could, I asked this one why he had given me the pleasure of his company. And he had an unfortunate stammer, but gradually it emerged that he wanted a contribution for his Easter offering. So I said, I should like to be informed if you still pray on certain occasions for Jews, Turks, and other infidels. He had to admit that he did. I replied that being a Jew I might be excused for finding the phrase a little invidious, and I couldn’t make a donation for his present purposes. But I didn’t want to embarrass him because he’d chosen an unfortunate occasion. So I said: “Come again at Christmas. We’ve got some common ground, you know. I’ll give you something then.”’

Just then Caroline’s son Robert brought Ann to be introduced to Sir Philip. As usual, she was one of the smartest women in the room; as usual, she stayed quiet, let Sir Philip and Robert talk, got over her shyness just enough to put in a question. Mr March broke in: ‘This is the first time I have seen you since you were good enough to come to my house after a concert, which you possibly remember.’

‘Yes, Mr March,’ said Ann.

‘She is rather competed for, Uncle Leonard,’ said Robert. He was a middle-aged man, bald, with a face more predatory than any other of the Marches – predatory but not clever. As soon as he spoke, Mr March resented his flirtatious air; and Mr March’s own manner became more formidable and at the same time more intimate.

‘I am well aware that it would be astonishing if she had time to spare for elderly acquaintances,’ he said brusquely and, ignoring Robert, turned to Ann. ‘I take it that my son Charles has been lucky enough to secure a certain fraction of your leisure.’

‘I’ve seen him quite often,’ she said.

‘I assumed that must be so.’

Then the music started up. Robert took her on to the floor. I went to find a partner. As the first hour passed and I danced with various March cousins and visitors, I noticed that Charles and Ann had danced together only once. Whoever they had as partners, they were each followed by a good many sharp, attentive eyes. She was striking-looking in any company. And to some there, particularly among the women, he was the most interesting of the younger Marches.

Katherine and Francis, on the other hand, had decided that it was no use pretending to avoid each other. It seemed the sensible thing to take the polite average of dances together. As they did so, one could not fail to realize that some of the March aunts were watching them. Several times I saw Caroline’s lorgnon flash, and even to me she shoved in an enquiry, when we happened to visit the refreshment table at the same time.

‘How well do you know this young fellow Francis Getliffe?’ she said.

I tried to pass it off, for she was too deaf to talk to quietly, and there were several people round us.

‘I want to know,’ said Caroline, ‘whether he’s engaged yet?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘Why isn’t he? He must be getting on for thirty. What has he been doing with himself?’

I smiled: it was easier than producing a non-committal shout.

She went on with the interrogation. She had hoped that Francis might be entangled elsewhere. That hope extinguished, she was framing her plan of campaign.

When I returned to the drawing-room, Ann was dancing with Albert Hart, and Charles with the cousin for whom the dance was being held, a good-looking, strapping girl. For the first time that night, I found Katherine free. She whispered at once, as we went on to the floor: ‘It’s slightly embarrassing being under inspection, isn’t it? You would have expected Francis to mind tremendously, wouldn’t you have expected him to? But he seems to be enjoying himself.’

She was so happy, despite her anxiety, despite the prying eyes, that it was obvious how well – when she and Francis were together – the night was going. She went on: ‘You know, I wish Charles and Ann would decide what they want to happen. They’ve got to settle down some time, and it won’t get any easier. It’s preposterous that she should have this man Porson trailing after her tonight.’

She looked up at me. ‘I think she enjoys it – am I being unfair? I expect I envy her, of course. Mind you, I know she’s made a colossal difference to Charles.

Then she glanced across the room, where Francis was talking to Mr March.

‘But it is a superb party, don’t you think?’ she burst out. ‘Francis dances abominably, but I forgive him even that. It means that I’m nothing like so jealous when I see him dancing with other women. I can always console myself with how disappointed they must be when they get a fairly nice-looking young man for a partner – at least I think he’s fairly nice-looking – and he promptly insists on putting his foot on their toes.’

She was bubbling with happiness.

‘It is a superb party, Lewis,’ she said. She was silent for a moment, and I saw that she was smiling.

‘What are you thinking?’ I said.

She chuckled outright.

‘I’ve remembered what I used to feel about the young men Charles brought to the house. I never believed that they could possibly want to see me. I thought they only came because they wanted to see Charles or needed a house to stay in when they were in London.’

I was sorry when the dance ended; at that time, as I watched others happy in love, I was sometimes envious – but not of Katherine. It was difficult to begrudge her any luck that came her way.

The next dance I watched by the side of Mr March and Sir Philip. Mr March was studying his dance programme before the band began.

‘Though why they find it necessary to issue programmes to the superannuated members of the party, I have never been able to understand,’ he said to me. ‘Possibly so that the superannuated can imbibe the names of these productions that your generation are accustomed to regard as tunes.’

The band struck up, couples went on to the floor; Charles was dancing with Ann, Katherine with Francis. Mr March stopped talking; he let his programme swing by the pencil; he watched them. Katherine was smiling into Francis’ face; Charles and Ann were dancing without speaking.

Philip also was watching.

‘How many times,’ he asked Mr March, ‘has Katherine been to the regular dance this year?’

‘She has missed occasionally.’

‘How many times has she been?’

‘I can’t be expected to recollect particulars of her attendance,’ said Mr March.

Philip went on asking; Mr March fidgeted with his programme and gave irascible replies. If he had been suppressing his knowledge about Katherine and Francis, he could do so no longer.

Philip’s glance followed Katherine round the room. But even as he answered the questions, Mr March did not look in her direction. His expression was fixed and anxious: he had eyes for no one but his son.

‘I should like you to meet Ronald Porson,’ Ann said, as shortly afterwards I delivered a girl to her partner in the corner of the room. Ann, sitting with Porson close by, smiled at both him and me, making herself act as though this was a casual night out.

‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Porson. ‘Don’t you go about picking up the pieces after Getliffe? I suppose I oughtn’t to speak to you about your boss–’

‘Yes, I’ve been with him since I came to London,’ I said.

‘You have my blessing,’ said Porson. ‘And by God you’ll need it.’

His voice was loud, his manner hearty and assertive, though tonight he was preoccupied. He kept looking at Ann, but his eyes flickered nervously away, if he caught hers. His appearance surprised me after what I had heard; he was a short, plethoric man with a ruddy face. His left cheek often broke into a twitch which, instead of putting one off, happened to make his expression companionable and humorous.

The room had cleared for an interval, and Charles was almost alone on the floor. Several times Ann’s attention strayed to him, and then she said to Porson: ‘Have you ever met Charles March, by any chance? He’s the nephew of your host tonight. You’ve heard me talk about him. Perhaps you ought to be introduced.’

‘I might as well,’ said Porson.

He did not glance at Charles; I was sure that he had already identified him. Ann beckoned to Charles: Porson went on talking to me as he came up. It was not until they shook hands that Porson raised his eyes and looked into Charles’ face.

‘Are you enjoying this do tonight?’ he said. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

For a moment Charles did not answer. Before he spoke, Ann had turned to him. ‘Ronald is thinking of starting a practice in London,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him that before he makes up his mind he really must get some up-to-date advice. He happens to know Getliffe, I mean Herbert Getliffe, quite well. He doesn’t think much of him, but I don’t see that ought to matter: he might be useful.’

‘Getliffe’s not gone far enough,’ said Ronald. ‘I dislike crawling unless it’s worth while.’

‘It can’t do any harm.’ Ann looked at Charles.

‘It can’t do any harm,’ said Charles. ‘Isn’t that the point? I know it’s an intolerable nuisance, going to people for this kind of purpose–’

‘I dislike crawling in any case,’ said Ronald. ‘Particularly to men I don’t care for and whose ability I despise.’

‘He’s climbing pretty fast, isn’t he?’ Ann was asking me.

‘There are private reasons, which you know enough to guess,’ Ronald said to her, ‘which make it certain that, before I asked Getliffe for a favour, I’d sooner sweep the streets.’

I said: ‘There are plenty of other people you could talk to, aren’t there?’

‘Albert Hart would give you a pretty sensible judgement,’ said Charles. ‘If ever you’d like me to introduce you–’

‘I’m not prepared to go on my knees except for a very good reason.’

‘I should feel exactly the same,’ said Charles. ‘But still, that never prevents one, does it, from pointing out that someone else is doing too much for honour.’

Ronald laughed. After his first remark, he seemed surprised that he was actually liking Charles’ company.

‘Ah well, my boy,’ said Ronald, ‘I might stretch a point some day. But I insist on tapping my own sources first–’ Then he turned to Ann: ‘I’m going to take you home soon, aren’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Ann.

‘Are you ready to come now?’

‘I think I’d like to wait half an hour,’ said Ann.

‘You’ll be ready then? You’ll remember, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Ann.

His masterfulness had dropped right away; suddenly he asserted himself by saying to me in a loud voice:

‘Well, my lad, I’m going to take you away and give you some advice.’

We went to the study, where whisky bottles and glasses were laid out. Ronald said: ‘Now you must develop a master plan too. Of course, you can’t expect it to be on such a scale as mine, but I’m damned if we can’t work out something for you. We must use some of my connections.’

He was at home, now he was giving help instead of taking it. His smile became domineering and good-natured; he could even put aside his obsession with Ann while he was giving me advice. Yet, though his connections were genuine enough, the advice was vague; his voice was throaty with worldly wisdom, but he was really an unworldly man. He was far more lost than Ann believed, I thought.

In time he left off advising me, took another drink, put an arm round my shoulders as we stood by the mantelpiece, told me a dirty story, and confided his ambitions. ‘It’s incredible that they shouldn’t recognize me soon,’ he said in his masterful tone. Those ambitions, like the advice, turned out to be quite vague; he was forty, but he did not know what he wanted to do. When I enquired about details his manner was still overbearing, but he seemed to be longing for something as humble as a respectable status and a bare living at the Bar.

Soon he said, with a return of anxiety: ‘We’d better be making our way back, old boy. Ann wants me to take her home tonight.’

When we returned to the dance-room, Ann and Charles were standing together. Ronald said to her: ‘Do you feel you can tear yourself away yet?’

‘I’d just like the next dance with Lewis,’ said Ann.

Ronald gave an impersonation of nonchalance, heavy and painful.

‘In that case I can use another drink,’ he said.

He went away before the band began to play.

Neither Charles nor Ann spoke. When she looked at him, he gave her a smile which was intimate but not happy. Then Charles’ gaze was diverted to the other end of the room, where his aunt Caroline had just buttonholed Mr March. He watched them walk up and down, Caroline protruding her great bosom like a shelf as she inclined her less deaf ear to catch Mr March’s replies. Charles had no doubt that she was catechizing him about Katherine.

‘I was afraid that they wouldn’t leave him in peace,’ he said.

As Ann and I were dancing, I asked her what Mr March would be forced to do. But she was scarcely attending: her mind was elsewhere: all she said was: ‘Charles has too much trouble with his family, hasn’t he?’

We danced round, the conversation ground to a stop. Then, to my surprise, she settled more softly in my arms, and said: ‘I shan’t be sorry when tonight is over.’

‘What’s the matter?’

She looked straight up at me, but slipped away from the question.

‘I always used to dread meeting people till I got in the middle of them, didn’t you?’

‘Not much,’ I said.

‘Don’t you really mind?’

‘I’m nervous of lots of things you’re not,’ I said. ‘But not of that.’

‘Do you know,’ said Ann, ‘I used to make excuses to stay by myself. Not so long ago, either. As a matter of fact, last summer, I very nearly didn’t go to Haslingfield.’

As we danced on, she said in a low voice: ‘Yes. I very nearly didn’t go. That would have altered things.’