But what did Emma want? He found her behaviour puzzling. She was glad to see him, more glad, he suspected, than she allowed officially to appear. Yet she kept him provocatively at Anns' length. He had been delighted by her wish to go to Grayhallock, though a little, and ineffectually, ashamed of taking her. Her conduct when there had been most unaccountable. She had banished him from her company and spent hours, before and after lunch, talking to Ann, to the children, to anyone but him. Then there had been the exasperating arrival of Mildred and the others, Mildred's raised eyebrows and Emma's honeyed wit. The Finch contingent had tactfully not stayed to lunch, but they had appropriated the later part of the morning, and Hugh had had to attend to Mildred's chat about art exhibitions in London and other nonsense, while watching from the comer of his eye Emma disappearing through the beech trees on the arm of Felix Meecham. The only part of the day which had been satisfactory was the journey, during which Hugh had held Emma's hand on the dual carriageways and they had talked about old times.
She had refused to dine with him and he had delivered her back to the flat just after seven. There Lindsay Rimmer had greeted them with ebullient cheerfulness and embraced Emma as if she had been away for a twelvemonth. The immodest displays of affection on both sides made Hugh uneasy; but he observed Lindsay and thought her very beautiful. She was certainly all of a glow at Emma's return and the two of them laughed together a great deal. Since then Hugh had been allowed to see Emma only twice, when he was invited to tea, and on each occasion Lindsay had been present nearly the whole time. Hugh felt excited, restless and cross, and told himself afterwards that soon he must' take a firm line'. But, taking a firm line was likely to be difficult since he realized how far he was from understanding what it was that confronted him.
Now that Randall had positively named the two women Hugh felt rather relieved than otherwise. It was suitably late, there would be no time for protracted conversation, and it would have been too unnatural for them to part without some such reference. Also given the friendliness of the earlier part of the evening, some mention of these awkward topics might constitute, for the topics themselves, a civilizing touch. Hugh hated to have unmentionable things about him.
So he now responded cheerfully enough to Randall, 'Lindsay and Emma? Yes, they are devoted, aren't they. Lindsay was so pleased to see Emma back that day I took her to Kent.
'Was she? said Randall. He laughed. He added, 'Emma's very attached, anyway. She depends dreadfully on Lindsay!
'I dare say, said Hugh unenthusiastically. And then, 'Lindsay is very beautiful, I must say!
'Yes I' said Randall, and sighed. 'Emma must have been very beautiful too when she was young. She has a fine face.
Hugh did not want to take this turning of the conversation, so he said nothing, and went to stand in front of the Tintoretto, absorbed instantly into its honeyed being. He stared into it and then touched it with his finger. It was strange to think that it was simply made of paint.
'May I have some more brandy? said Randall.
'Help yourself, help yourself'.
There was a distant murmuring which increased to a drumming and filled the room with its noise. It was the rain.
'That's the end of the warm weather, I suppose, said Hugh. 'Too bad. He reached behind the curtains to close the window and then gave himself some more brandy too. The rain was beating down, wrapping the room with its dim lamps and its glowing picture in a curtain of sound which made it solitary.
'But she was beautiful, wasn't she?
Hugh was annoyed at Randall's repetition of the question. He glanced quickly at his son and decided that he was more than a little drunk. He remembered thinking when Randall first arrived that the boy must have had a few somewhere else before coming along. If Randall now wanted a maudlin conversation about 'women we have loved' it would be time to turn him out.
Hugh said in an unencouraging tone, 'Oh yes, indeed, yes. He went to the window and jerked back the curtain. A flash of lightning suddenly revealed the gleaming dome of the Oratory and the car encumbered square running with water. Then after some moments the thunder rumbled distantly. 'I'd better order you a taxi to go home. He turned back to the room, leaving the curtains open.
Randall seemed not to hear him. He was slouched on the sofa, his head fallen back against the cushions, his eyes closed, the brandy glass tilting in his hand. His big large-nosed face was pale and slightly puffy, his curly dark hair, grown a little longish, fanned out above his head as he sank comfortably lower. He looked a harmless degenerate Dionysus with already the faintest touch of Silenus. Hugh looked at the plump cheeks. He wondered if his son had fallen into a drunken slumber.
When Randall spoke again however, although he did not open his eyes, his voice was clear and his tone positively careful, as of one who has for some time been thinking out what to say. What he did utter took Hugh's breath away. 'Are you sorry that you didn't go away with Emma in the old days?
Hugh was deeply shocked and immediately angry. He turned away again to the window and stood with his back to the room. The rain fell steadily, noisily, out of a dark reddish-blue sky.
Hugh's first feeling was of the unutterable impropriety of discussing his former mistress with his son. The shade of Fanny rose before him and his anger mingled with a deep painful distress. All this was nothing to do with Randall. But then at once he thought: yet it was, it is, to do with Randall. He knew about it, it must have some significance for him, some effect on him, since after all I am his father.
Randall then spoke again. 'Don't be angry. My imagination has worked on this matter. Inevitably. I couldn't not think about it.
This was true; and the word' imagination' suddenly touched Hugh to a further vision. What Randall had suffered as a child from what he could discover about his father's conduct Hugh would never know. But Randall as a man would have seen the thing with other eyes. He would have asked himself more objective questions. Randall the child had suffered from his father's temporary unfaithfulness; Randall the man must have meditated on the significance of his father's ultimate faithfulness. And it came to Hugh in a moment: he stands now where I stood then.
This, together with the tone of Randall's last remark, steadied Hugh, and he thought: he deserves the truth. Then he wondered: what is the truth? And before he could ponder further something wild and almost delighted in him spoke. 'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry. He turned— back to the room.
Randall was sitting up now, open-eyed, and as he surveyed his father he gave a sort of relieved sigh, such as an interrogator might give who has extracted the vital admission, perhaps in a garbled form, almost without the victim realizing it. There was another flash of lightning and the thunder nearer.
Hugh, his hands behind his back, looked at him for a moment with drooping head. As their eyes briefly met Hugh felt, almost shyly, the touch of an old deep attachment to his son. He felt too, as his gaze sought the Tintoretto, elderly and morose and sad.
Randall hitched himself up against the cushions, slopping his brandy, his legs stretched sideways on the sofa, his eyes fixed on his father. He said very softly, 'Thank yon. And then 'Shall I leave Ann?