Chapter VIII

1

That August, Ivor Marlay’s car--as swift and handsome a two-seater as any could be at that primitive time of motoring--became almost an institution to the little boys along the London road, from Sonning to London and from London to Sonning, which is by no means the same distance. The conventions had naturally to be observed in some degree, but what time he didn’t spend at Camelot was certainly spent in getting to or away from it. Many people came down to stay with Magdalen, but now and again there would be a divine _hiatus_ between those who had just gone and those who were about to come, and it was Ivor’s business to fill that _hiatus_ as speedily as he might. Magdalen was very good at arranging the frequent occurrence of these _hiatuses_, but not, she insisted, half so good as Ivor was in filling them up, for his car seemed to swing into the drive within a minute of her having telephoned to London to say: “There is bed and board at Camelot, Ivor....”

But of what happened at Camelot near Sonning during that brilliant August of 1913 when England really showed the world what it could do in the way of Augusts: how those days, stolen from Magdalen’s friends, days of leisure and love and talking--but how they talked, and seriously!--passed like fantasies of sunlight, so bright and quick: how they walked through the lush of August nights in the gardens of Camelot, “towards the moon and back,” and were content in this plenitude of companionship: and how they would sometimes be sad in passing silences, each knowing that these hours could have no parallel and that nothing repeats itself except regret: and how each would sometimes mystify and torture the other by a shadow over the face.... And how, among others, came Rodney West, K.C., as calmly genial as ever, and how the great friendship between him and Magdalen, estranged this past year, was plain to see: and how people wondered at this perfect attainment of peace with honour, but Ivor was glad of it: and how they stole nights together until sunrise, and so wonderfully that even a sunrise by Turner would have been a colourless thing beside the dawn of their awakening. It was all very good, this way and that way and every way....

But to tell of what happened at Camelot near Sonning during that all-too-short month would fill a book. Whereas our way lies, less lyrically, in the direction of disenchantment and death. There’s a pinnacle reached (by the adventurous) and life breathlessly surveyed thence, and found to be but the servant of this moment on this pinnacle; but then there is the coming down from that high estate, two deities becoming every moment more mortal, the one suppliant and the other satiate, or both satiate, which is perhaps even more horrible. Mediæval words there are to fit the case, full-blooded words like treachery and betrayal and dishonour, but nowadays a broken vow does not mean a broken head; it means a headache to the one and a long walk for the other, “to get rid of all this....”

2

The climax was at Camelot, it was there they climbed the ultimate mountain. But the descent took them several months, and the New Year of 1914 was come before the thing was over. And the damnable part of it was that it was he who seemed to change, and not she!

She remained, as always, his perfect friend; to the naked eye nothing strange could be seen to be happening in her, there were noticeable about her not one of those subtle signs that are supposed to mark a tired woman; and none of the primary emotional stars were seen to stop in their courses. But Ivor’s eyes were not naked, they were jaundiced with love, and he saw that something was happening in Magdalen, from October onwards. He saw it, but of course he didn’t believe it; and he was unpleasant, in the vague way in which men are unpleasant about vague suspicions. In fact, of all the mistakes that a man can make in trying to win back a woman, Ivor neglected to make not one: from suspicion to bitterness by way of silence, from bitterness to suspicion by way of indifference, and a lot of other unpleasantries as well. He was going through hell, and there is nothing more tedious than the company of a sensitive young man who is going through hell....

But Magdalen, if she thought that, thought it philosophically. It was most usual in men.... She bore with him patiently, insufferable though he was. “Waste, waste!” he would say, among other silly things. “To think that all this has been waste!” She assured him that it wasn’t waste, that fine things aren’t wasted. He rounded on her about the “fine” things, and she was quite silent, and then he was ashamed. Poor Ivor! He was spared nothing, for she would tell him of her great affection for him, the like of which she had never felt for man or woman before, it was so great and understanding and unending--the only thing about me that is unending, she said bitterly. She shouldn’t have told him of her affection, she should have kept it secret, she should have pretended to have grown to detest him; so that he could have turned on her and cursed her and gone his way. Poor Magdalen! She couldn’t pretend. And it was her avowed fondness that continually gave him hope, it was the great rock on which he built castle after castle, each to tumble down at sight of her lustreless eyes in his arms....

Magdalen couldn’t help herself--how could she, she was as she was!--but she did try to help him. She was the confidante of his misery about her; she was the great friend to whom he told his griefs about her; and she it was who tried to soothe him about the imperfections of his mistress. But she could never convince him that his mistress was worthless, too used in the traffic of love to be worthy of being so loved; and she utterly failed to convince him that life was worth living in spite of the inconstancy of one wretched woman....

An entirely unmoral woman Magdalen was, but she had a firm etiquette of the heart: and this made her pre-eminent in a man’s regrets, for that etiquette of the heart is the rarest of all things--unless it is, however, that it is rarely observable in good women simply because of the many other commendable qualities that crowd one’s vision of them. Magdalen was a woman of honour in everything but honour. And Magdalen grew in Ivor’s mind to symbolise civilised women, in all the grace of kindness and imperfection, but he was to find that civilised women aren’t really like that; he was to find that the nicest women grow vindictive when they are bored (it is understood that men, when they are bored, just go away, extremely strong and silent); and that their unwilling constancy is often the cause of innumerable little antagonisms and caddishness, and that they are seldom dignified in their sudden dislike of an intimacy. They wish to draw back, that’s what it is. But Magdalen wished only to go on, “to find out.” And Ivor, to these later women, would speak of Magdalen, revenging himself on their crudities. He would not refer to her by name, of course, he would just suggest her somehow, a nameless and polite figure of his past, or he would rather bluntly say, “a woman I knew once,” and fix his dark eyes almost contemptuously on his listener--who perhaps, it was not impossible, knew that he was speaking of Magdalen Gray; and maybe she pitied him for being a fool about such a woman, or maybe she vaguely respected him for she didn’t quite know what. But, anyway, it was after he had known Magdalen Gray that Ivor grew to be vaguely spoken about as one of those men who are “nice about” women: a not unpleasing distinction, though of course vague....

Thus, tiresome though he was throughout that winter, Magdalen bore with him. It was he who finally could not bear with her.... Had she been unfaithful to him? He was her friend--that is what she said. But he knew that he was not her friend--not yet, anyway. He didn’t know how to be.... Had she been unfaithful to him? “What would you like me to answer?” she asked him, in the light of the “very shaded” lamp.

“If it will cure you of loving me,” she said thoughtfully, “I will tell you that I have been unfaithful to you....”

“If it will not cure you but only hurt you,” she said thoughtfully, “I will tell you that I have not been unfaithful to you....”

“It does not matter, anyway,” she said. “This infidelity business ... between you and me.”

And then they were silent for a long time, thinking how it didn’t matter--anyway. But of course it didn’t matter, this “infidelity business”--it was just a thing of the body, almost an accident, but love was a thing of the spirit. Love just swept it aside, love was everything, love took no stock of infidelity at all. Some women simply couldn’t be bodily faithful, that’s what it was; thank Heavens there were only a few women like that, but they were splendid in other ways, divine ways, and love must overlook infidelity. But love simply wouldn’t soar, it descended into the abyss and consorted with infidelity, and together they made a maelstrom that whizzed about young Ivor’s head and sickened him of life and love and himself--particularly of himself. For his supreme misery was not that Magdalen might have been unfaithful to him, but that he was unfaithful to himself.

She had wanted to be ravished, like a woman in a dream; and when the dream faded he found a friend, just a friend....