Point Counter Point - Aldous Huxley [202]
‘Elinor!’ he called, thinking that she must be upstairs. ‘Elinor!’
There was still no answer. Or was she playing a joke? Would she suddenly pounce out at him from behind one of the screens. He smiled to himself at the thought and was advancing to explore the silent room, when his eye was caught by the papers pinned so conspicuously to a panel of the screen on the right. He approached and had just begun to read, ‘The accompanying telegram will explain…’ when a sound behind him made him turn his head. A man was standing within four feet of him, his hands raised; the club which they grasped had already begun to swing sideways and forward from over the right shoulder. Everard threw up his arm, too late. The blow caught him on the left temple. It was as though a light had suddenly been turned out. He was not even conscious of falling.
Mrs. Quarles kissed her son. ‘Dear Phil,’ she said. ‘It’s good of you to have come so quickly.’
‘You’re not looking very well, mother.’
‘A little tired, that’s all. And worried,’ she added after a moment’s pause and with a sigh.
‘Worried?’
‘About your father. He’s not well,’ she went on, speaking slowly and as if with reluctance. ‘He wanted very specially to see you. That was why I wired.’
‘He isn’t dangerously ill?’
‘Not physically,’ Mrs. Quarles replied. ‘But his nerves…. It’s a kind of breakdown. He’s very excited. Very unstable.’
‘But what’s the cause?’
Mrs. Quarles was silent. And when at last she spoke it was with an obvious effort, as though each word had to force its way past some inward barrier. Her sensitive face was fixed and strained. ‘Something has happened to upset him,’ she said. ‘He’s had a great shock.’ And slowly, word by word, the story came out.
Bent forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, Philip listened. After a first glance at his mother’s face, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He felt that to look at her, to meet her eyes would be the infliction of an unnecessary embarrassment. Speaking was already a pain to her and a humiliation; let her at least speak unseen, as though there were nobody there to witness her distress. His averted eyes left her a kind of spiritual privacy. Word after word, in a colourless soft voice, Mrs. Quarles talked on. Incident succeeded sordid incident. When she began to tell the story of Gladys’s visit of two days before, Philip could not bear to listen any longer. It was too humiliating for her; he could not permit her to go on.
‘Yes, yes, I can imagine,’ he said, interrupting her. And jumping up, he limped with quick nervous steps to the window.’don’t go on.’ He stood there for a minute, looking out at the lawn and the thick yew-tree walls and the harvest-coloured hills beyond, on the further side of the valley. The scene was almost exasperatingly placid. Philip turned, limped back across the room and standing for a moment behind his mother’s chair laid a hand on her shoulder; then walked away again.
‘Don’t think about it any more,’ he said. ‘I’ll do whatever has to be done.’ He looked forward with an enormous distaste to loud and undignified scenes, to disputes and vulgar hagglings. ‘Perhaps I’d better go and see father,’ he suggested.
Mrs. Quarles nodded. ‘He was very anxious to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t quite know. But he’s been insisting.’
‘Does he talk about…well, this business?’
‘No. Never mentions it. I have the impression that he forgets about it deliberately.’
‘Then I’d better not speak about it.’
‘Not unless he begins,’ Mrs. Quarles advised. ‘Mostly he talks about himself. About the past, about his health—pessimistically. You must try to cheer him.’ Philip nodded. ‘And humour him,’ his mother went on;’don’t contradict. He easily flares up. It isn’t good for him to get excited.’
Philip listened. As though he were a dangerous animal, he was thinking; or a naughty child. The misery of it, the anxiety, the humiliation for his mother!