So much for the days. Anna spent a lot of time in the shops. She walked with Matthew in the streets and in the parks. She went with him to a theatre or to a cinematograph, or she sat with him in the ponderous, stuffy lounge of the hotel, or at meals in the dark dining-room, always alone with him. And he was attentive to her, very agreeable and obliging, though with a permanent look of reproach in his blue eyes. He contrived to make it clear that he considered himself very badly used. And at night, as bed-time drew near, the look of hurt reproachfulness deepened; he would stare and stare at her with an expression hovering between accusation and magnanimity. He was quiet and well-behaved. He made no more scenes. But each time that she went alone into her ugly bedroom she was conscious of his melancholy stare burning her retreating back. Silent and reproachful he was; he said nothing to her. But he never forgot, not for a single minute, his grievance against her. Nor did he allow her to forget.
Outwardly, officially, all was forgiven. He was very much the little Sir Galahad in his behaviour. The aggravating beam of Christian charity was in his eye again. And he was firmly seated on his chivalrous mount. He never followed her into the bedroom. Nevertheless, Anna felt herself threatened. She wondered when the bully would oust the knight-errant, and become active again. But it was not really the bully in him that disquieted her. There was something, ultimately, much more alarming: his complacency. She shuddered sometimes when she saw him smile, because he was so certain, so sure of everything. He could afford to let magnanimousness triumph over reproach, because he was so confident. It had never occurred to him, really, that he might not conquer her. In the end he was bound to get what he wanted. He simply waited. His waiting was so patient, so mindless, like a force of nature, unconscious. Would she be able to resist it for ever? She shuddered, and was afraid.
Matthew wanted to leave London. He was rather out of his element amongst all the traffic and the high houses; a bit washed out. He could not feel himself sufficiently important. So he wanted to go home, back to his own roost, where he really was somebody. He wanted to show off Anna, his wife, the new acquisition. But he was a little nervous of suggesting the move to her. A little afraid of being thought mean at thus curtailing their stay in town. He was very conscious of the money going out all the time.
Anna was rather relieved, if anything, when he made the proposal. The stuffy hotel, where the air came stalely, as if filtered through innumerable double windows, was becoming rather a nightmare to her. As was this prolonged solitude à deux. She wanted to get into a house with other people again, other human beings. Matthew’s strange inarticulateness had given her a craving for intimacy of speech. Not that she was likely to find it in the bosom of his family. She was rather curious to see the native haunts of this very queer specimen.
Matthew’s mother was fanatically Irish; the real Irish mixture of thriftlessness and enthusiasm, with a makeweight of mysticism thrown in. His father, dead some years, had belonged to a more devitalized type. The widow lived quite alone with her only other child — a daughter — in a big, inconvenient house at Richmond. But it was her son to whom she was really devoted. She willed him to come back to her.
CHAPTER 9
MATTHEW took Anna to Richmond on the District Railway; which was a new experience for her. She was rather intrigued by the blunt-snouted electric trains nosing in and out of the tunnels. Hitherto her experience of travel had been mainly limited to motor-cars and first-class compartments.
Matthew was a little apologetic about it all. His eyes had a curious expression, humble and resentful together, as though the memory of the luxury to which she was accustomed had suddenly begun to insult him.
‘I’m afraid it won’t be quite the sort of life you’ve been used to,’ he said, with a sort of defiant humility. ‘You must take us as you find us.’
She understood that he was apologizing for his home. It surprised her rather. Were these things so important? She had never had any cause to consider them.
About three o’clock in the afternoon they arrived at Richmond station. Winter was very near. All was grey and dismal. Anna felt that the place repudiated her. If possible, she would have taken the next train back to town.
Matthew made some arrangement about the luggage, while she stood still, watching a man who was wheeling two bicycles up the platform. She felt cut off from every support. In her discouragement she looked at Matthew.
‘Shall we walk? It is only a little way,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ she agreed, spiritless.
They went out of the station and began to walk up the street. Presently they turned to the left between some small shops, and crossed a churchyard. The gravestones were like a mouthful of irregular teeth, beginning to decay. Anna was cold and dispirited.
‘It’s not far now,’ Matthew said, scrutinizing her. He seemed slightly anxious. Did he feel her dismay? She stared away bleakly at the doddering stones. ‘We shall soon be there.’
They entered a long alley between high walls. There were gardens behind, with houses looming. Slowly they traversed the long alley. Anna felt like an insect crawling in a narrow crack. They walked fast, but seemed to make no progress. She plodded on — cold — and rather despairing.
At the end of the alley came a road with villas, and a dog barking; they crossed another road, more important, then down a steep little hill beside a tea-house, and out on to another road. They now seemed to have dropped to a much lower level. There was a low-lying mistiness in the air.
‘Here we are,’ said Matthew.
Anna saw a large square building standing on the road, with a row of dark bushes in front, evergreen shrubs and ivy. An old-fashioned bell-pull hung down dejected, beside the door. Matthew gave it a tug.
‘You must take us as you find us, you know,’ he said again. He seemed to expect her to turn up her nose at everything.
The repetition of the stupid phrase was annoying.
‘How else could I take you?’ she snapped at him.
He gave her a sharp look out of his blue eyes, censorious. Then he looked down at his hands and fidgeted. She could not tell whether he was angry or abashed. They waited a little on the bleak doorstep, by the darkly-stirring ivy.
Mrs. Kavan opened the door herself. She was expecting them, but not quite so soon, it appeared. She was one of those people who never quite manage to be in time for anything. She looked as though she had hurried into her clothes at the last minute — while the bell was still ringing. She was flushed, and rather ungainly, and excited, as she ushered them in.
‘So here you are!’ she said to Matthew, kissing him.
She couldn’t resist greeting him first, although it was not good manners. And as if she knew she had been guilty of a lapse, she released him hastily, and kissed Anna too.
‘Welcome to our house,’ she cried, rather effusively, to make up.
‘How do you do,’ said Anna, trying to look affable.
She had only seen her mother-in-law once before, for quite a short time, at the wedding. In a way, Mrs. Kavan reminded her of Rachel Fielding, although there was not the least physical resemblance between them. Matthew’s mother was a tall, sombre, weird kind of woman, lean to hungriness, with Matthew’s brown, dry skin, and the vivid blue eyes of Matthew; but something of her own added, a tense quality which the son altogether lacked. It was this intenseness that was reminiscent of Rachel. It made Mrs. Kavan seem a little creepy. And she spoke with a slight but noticeable brogue.