At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [93]
‘But—’
‘You haven’t heard the rest of the story yet. I came down to breakfast early on Sunday morning. I thought I’d have a stroll in the garden, and have another look at those hothouses. What do you think I found? Widmerpool in the hall, making preparations to leave the house. Some story about a telephone call, and being summoned back to London. Fellow looked like death. Shaking like a jelly and the colour of wax. Told me he’d slept very badly. Hardly closed his eyes. I’m quite prepared to believe that. Alice Sleaford won’t use the best bedrooms for some reason. Never know where you are going to be put.’
‘And did he go back to London?’
‘Drove off, there and then, under my eyes. Whole house had been turned upside down to get him away at that hour on Sunday morning. Left a message for the host and hostess to say how sorry he was, neither of them having come down yet. Never saw a man more disgruntled than the Sleafords’ chauffeur.’
‘But what had happened? Had there really been a telephone call? I don’t understand.’
‘There had been some telephoning that morning, but the butler said it had been Widmerpool putting the call through. Only heard the true story that afternoon from Mildred when we were walking together in the Dutch garden. She didn’t make any bones about it. Widmerpool had been in her room the night before. Things hadn’t gone at all well. Made up her mind he wasn’t going to be any use as a husband. Mildred can be pretty outspoken when she is cross.’
The General said these things in a manner entirely free from any of those implied comments which might be thought inseparable from such a chronicle of events. That is to say he was neither shocked, facetious, nor caustic. It was evident that the situation interested, rather than surprised him. He was complete master of himself in allowing no trace of ribaldry or ill nature to colour his narrative. For my own part, I felt a twinge of compassion for Widmerpool in his disaster, even though I was unable to rise to the General’s heights of scientific detachment. I had known Widmerpool too long.
‘Mildred told me in so many words. Doesn’t care what she says, Mildred. That’s what young people are like nowadays. Of course, I don’t expect Mildred appears young to you, but I always think of her as a young woman.’
I did not know what comment to make. However, General Conyers did not require comment. He wished to elaborate his own conception of what had happened.
‘Widmerpool’s trouble is not as uncommon as you might think,’ he said. ‘I’ve known several cases. Last fellows in the world you’d suppose. I don’t expect the name Peploe-Gordon means anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Dead now. Had a heart attack in the Lebanon. I remember it happened in the same week Queen Draga was murdered in Belgrade. At Sandhurst with me. Splendid rider. First-class shot. Led an expedition into Tibet. Married one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. Used to see her out with the Quorn. He had the same trouble. Marriage annulled. Wife married again and had a string of children. This is the point I want to make. I saw Peploe-Gordon about eighteen months later at the yearling sales at Newmarket with another damned pretty girl on his arm. Do you know, he looked as pleased as Punch. Didn’t give a damn. Still, you don’t know what neuroses weren’t at work under the surface. That is what you have got to remember. Looking back in the light of what I have been reading, I can see the fellow had a touch of exaggerated narcissism. Is that Widmerpool’s trouble?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. As I said before, I