The Sea, The Sea - Iris Murdoch [192]
‘Good. You stay here, I’ll go and brief Peregrine.’
In the afternoon I had talked with Hartley. I did not admit it to James, but his ‘discussion’ had helped me to see certain things more clearly, or had battered certain ideas into my head; or else I had in any case reached a certain decisive point of despair. That terrible ‘let me out, let me out’ had cracked my faith and my hope. I asked her if she really wanted to go home. She said she did. I said all right. I did not make any more appeals or offer any more arguments. And as we looked at each other, silently, neither venturing to add to the words firmly spoken, I felt a fresh barrier rise between us. Before, I had thought our communication difficult. Now I realized how close we had been.
The plan was that Peregrine should go to the village and telephone Ben and say that Mr Arrowby and his friends would be bringing ‘Mary’ back. Would Ben say, ‘Go to hell, I don’t want her now’? No. Very unlikely. Whatever he ultimately wanted he would not oblige me by that move. But perhaps he would be away, perhaps he would have disappeared, perhaps when it came to it Hartley would change her mind . . . But by now anything was better than hope.
James was re-appearing, leaping over the rocks.
My heart beat violently, sadly.
‘It’s all right, he says bring her round, but he says tomorrow morning, not tonight.’
‘That’s odd. Why not tonight?’ His woodwork class perhaps!
‘He wants to pretend he doesn’t care. It’s an available insult. He wants to make it clear we come at his convenience. It’s just as well. It gives you more time to write that letter. It might be as well to deliver the letter before we all arrive, he’ll be more likely to read it.’
‘Oh, James—’
‘Not to worry. Sic biscuitus disintegrat.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the way the cookie crumbles.’
Dear Mr Fitch,
This is not a very easy letter to write. I just want to make a number of things quite clear. The main thing is that I brought your wife to my house and kept her there against her will. The fact that she did not even take her handbag with her is proof, if proof be needed, that she was not ‘running away’. (Forgive me if I say the obvious, I want this letter to be a final and definitive account of what has happened.) I decoyed her into my car by telling her that Titus was at my house, which he was. When she arrived I locked her up. So you were right to charge me with having ‘kidnapped’ her. She has not ceased to ask to go home. It goes without saying that I have had no ‘relations’ with her. She has throughout resolutely resisted all my proposals and plans and has desired simply to be allowed to return to you. She is therefore totally blameless in this matter. My friends Mr Opian and Mr Arbelow, and my cousin General Arrowby, who have been here with me in the house throughout, will vouch for the truth of what I say.
There is no point in apologies and little point in further explanations. I have been in a state of illusion and caused much fruitless distress to your wife and to yourself, which I regret. I did not act out of malice, but out of the promptings of an old romantic affection which I now see to have nothing to do with what exists at present. And perhaps at this point I should add (again something obvious) that of course I have not seen or communicated with your wife in any way since she was a young girl, and our recent meeting was completely accidental.
I trust and assume that since you are a reasonable and just man you will take no reprisal against your wife who is completely innocent. This is a matter of deep concern to me, my cousin and my friends. She has been perfectly loyal to you in word and deed and deserves your respect and gratitude. As for myself, I trust you will feel that I have suffered enough humiliation, not least in consciousness of my folly,
Yours truly,
Charles Arrowby.
It was just as well that I had the extra time since it took me all the evening to compose this letter. It was indeed a difficult letter to write and