They were unspectacular as falls in that country go — a drop of ten feet or less — but they were enough for Dr. Messinger. At their foot the foam subsided into a great pool, almost still, and strewn with blossoms from the forest trees that encircled it. Dr. Messinger's hat floated very slowly towards the Amazon and the water closed over his bald head.
Brenda went to see the family solicitors.
“Mr. Graceful,” she said, “I've got to have some more money.”
Mr. Graceful looked at her sadly. “I should have thought that was really a question for your bank manager. I understand that your securities are to your own name and that the dividends are paid into your account.”
“They never seem to pay dividends nowadays. Besides it's really very difficult to live on so little.”
“No doubt. No doubt.”
“Mr. Last left you with power of attorney, didn't he?”
“With strictly limited powers, Lady Brenda. I am instructed to pay the wage bill at Hetton and all expenses connected with the upkeep of the estate — he is putting in new bathrooms and restoring some decorations in the morning room which had been demolished. But I am afraid that I have no authority to draw on Mr. Last's account for other charges.”
“But, Mr. Graceful, I am sure he didn't intend to stay abroad so long. He can't possibly have meant to leave me stranded like this, can he? … Can he?”
Mr. Graceful paused and fidgeted a little. “To be quite frank, Lady Brenda, I fear that was his intention. I raised this particular point shortly before his departure. He was quite resolved on the subject.”
“But is he allowed to do that? I mean haven't I got any rights under the marriage settlement or anything?”
“Nothing which you can claim without application to the Courts. You might find solicitors who would advise you to take action. I cannot say that I should be one of them. Mr. Last would oppose any such order to the utmost and I think that, in the present circumstances, the Courts would undoubtedly find for him. In any case it would be a prolonged, costly and slightly undignified proceeding.”
“Oh, I see … well, that's that, isn't it?”
“It certainly looks as though it were.”
Brenda rose to go. It was high summer and through the open windows she could see the sun-bathed gardens of Lincoln's Inn.
“There's one thing. Do you know, I mean, can you tell me whether Mr. Last made another will?”
“I'm afraid that is a thing I cannot discuss.”
“No, I suppose not. I'm sorry if it was wrong to ask. I just wanted to know how I am with him.”
She still stood between the door and the table looking lost, in her bright summer clothes. “Perhaps I can say as much as this to guide you. The heirs presumptive to Hetton are now his cousins, the Richard Lasts at Princes Risborough. I think that your knowledge of Mr. Last's character and opinions will tell you that he would always wish his fortune to go with the estate, in order that it may be preserved in what he holds to be its right condition.”
“Yes,” said Brenda, “I ought to have thought of that. Well, goodbye.”
And she went out alone into the sunshine.
All that day Tony lay alone, fitfully oblivious of the passage of time. He slept a little; once or twice he left his hammock and found himself weak and dizzy. He tried to eat some of the food which Dr. Messinger had left out for him, but without success. It was not until it grew dark that he realized the day was over. He lit the lantern and began to collect wood for the fire, but the sticks kept slipping from his fingers and each time that he stooped he felt giddy, so that after a few fretful efforts he left them where they had fallen and returned to his hammock. And lying there, wrapped in his blanket, he began to cry.
After some hours of darkness the lamp began to burn low; he leant painfully over, and shook it. It needed refilling. He knew where the oil was kept, crept to it, supporting himself first on the hammock rope and then on a pile of boxes. He found the keg, pulled out the bung and began to refill the lamp, but his hand trembled and the oil spilled over the ground, then his head began to swim again so that he shut his eyes; the keg rolled over on its side and emptied itself with slow gurglings. When he realized what had happened he began to cry again. He lay down in his hammock and in a few minutes the light sank, flickered and went out. There was a reek of kerosene on his hands and on the sodden earth. He lay awake in the darkness crying.
Just before dawn the fever returned and a constant company of phantoms perplexed his senses.
Brenda awoke in the lowest possible spirits. The evening before she had spent alone at a cinema. Afterwards she felt hungry — she had had no proper meal that day — but she had not the strength to go alone into any of the supper restaurants. She bought a meat pie at a coffee stall and took it home. It looked delicious but, when she came to eat she found that she had lost her appetite. The remains of that pie lay on the dressing table when she awoke.
It was August and she was entirely alone. Beaver was that day landing in New York. (He had cabled her from mid-ocean that the crossing was excellent.) It was for her the last of Beaver. Parliament was over and Jock Grant-Menzies was paying his annual visit to his elder brother in Scotland; Marjorie and Allan at the last moment had made Lord Monomark's yacht and were drifting luxuriously down the coast of Spain attending bull-fights (they had even asked her to look after Djinn). Her mother was at the chalet Lady Anchorage always lent her on the lake of Geneva. Polly was everywhere. Even Jenny Abdul Akbar was cruising in the Baltic.
Brenda opened her newspaper and read an article by a young man who said that the London Season was a thing of the past; that everyone was too busy in those days to keep up the pre-war routine; that there were no more formal dances but a constant round of more modest entertaining; that August in London was the gayest time of all (he rewrote this annually in slightly different words). It did not console Brenda to read that article.
For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down and turning over buried her face in the pillow, in an agony of resentment and self-pity.
In Brazil she wore a ragged cotton gown of the same pattern as Rosa's. It was not unbecoming. Tony watched her for some time before he spoke. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Don't you like it? I got it from Polly.”
“It looks so dirty.”
“Well, Polly travels about a lot. You must get up now to go to the County Council Meeting.”
“But it isn't Wednesday?”
“No, but time is different in Brazil, surely you remember.”
“I can't get as far as Pigstanton. I've got to stay here until Messinger comes back. I'm ill. He told me to be quiet. He's coming this evening.”
“But all the County Council are here: The Shameless Blonde brought them in her aeroplane.”
Sure enough they were all there. Reggie St. Cloud was chairman. He said, “I strongly object to Milly being on the committee. She is a woman of low repute.”
Tony protested. “She has a daughter. She has as much right here as Lady Cockpurse.”
“Order,” said the Mayor. “I must ask you gentlemen to confine your remarks to the subject under discussion. We have to decide about the widening of the Bayton-Pigstanton road. There have been several complaints that it's impossible for the Green Line Buses to turn the corner safely at Hetton Cross.”