The Three Sisters | Page 7

husband because she was afraid of him. He could hear
the question, "Why were you afraid?" and Robina's answer--but at that
point he always reminded himself that it was as a churchman that he
objected to divorce.
For his profession had committed him to a pose. He had posed for more
than thirty years to his parish, to his three wives, to his three children,
and to himself, till he had become unconscious of his real thoughts, his
real motives, his real likings and dislikings. So that when he told
himself that it would have been better if his third wife had died, he
thought he meant that it would have been better for her and for his
opinion of her, whereas what he really did mean was that it would have
been better for himself.
For if Robina had died he could have married again. As it was, her
infidelity condemned him to a celibacy for which, as she knew, he was
utterly unsuited.
Therefore he thought of her as a cruel and unscrupulous woman. And
when he thought of her he became more sorry for himself than ever.
Now, oddly enough, the Grande Polonaise had set Mr. Cartaret
thinking of Robina. It was not that Robina had ever played it. Robina
did not play. It was not the discords introduced into it by Alice, though
Robina had been a thing of discords. It was that something in him,
obscurely but intimately associated with Robina, responded to that
sensual and infernal tremor that Alice was wringing out of the
Polonaise. So that, without clearly knowing why it was abominable, Mr.
Cartaret said to himself that the tune Alice was playing was an
abominable tune and must be stopped at once.
He went into the drawing-room to stop it.

And Essy, in the kitchen, raised her head and dried her eyes on her
apron.
"If you must make a noise," said Mr. Cartaret, "be good enough to
make one that is less--disturbing."
* * * * *
He stood in the doorway staring at his daughter Alice.
Her excitement had missed by a hairsbreadth the spiritual climax. It had
held itself in for one unspeakable moment, then surged, crowding the
courses of her nerves. Beaten back by the frenzy of the Polonaise, it
made a violent return; it rose, quivering, at her eyelids and her mouth;
it broke, and, with a shudder of all her body, split itself and fell.
The Vicar stared. He opened his mouth to say something, and said
nothing; finally he went out, muttering.
"Wisdom and patience. Wisdom and patience."
It was a prayer.
Alice trailed to the window and leaned out, listening for the sound of
hoofs and wheels. Nothing there but the darkness and stillness of the
moors. She trailed back to the Erard and began to play again.
This time it was Beethoven, the Pathetic Sonata.

IX
Mr. Cartaret sat in his study, manfully enduring the Pathetic Sonata.
He was no musician and he did not certainly know when Alice went
wrong; therefore, except that it had some nasty loud moments, he could
not honestly say that the First Movement was disturbing. Besides, he
had scored. He had made Alice change her tune.

Wisdom and patience required that he should be satisfied, so far. And,
being satisfied, in the sense that he no longer had a grievance, meant
that he was very badly bored.
He began to fidget. He took his legs out of the fender and put them
back again. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, but without
relief. He turned over his Spectator to see what it had to say about the
Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, and found that he was not interested in
what it had to say. He looked at his watch and compared it with the
clock in the faint hope that the clock might be behindhand.
The watch and clock both agreed that it was not a minute later than
fifteen minutes to ten. A whole quarter of an hour before Prayer-time.
There was nothing but Prayer-time to look forward to.
He began to fidget again. He filled his pipe and thought better about
smoking it. Then he rang the bell for his glass of water.
After more delay than was at all necessary Essy appeared, bringing the
glass of water on a plate.
She came in, soft-footed, almost furtive, she who used to enter so
suddenly and unabashed. She put the plate down on the roll-top desk
and turned softly, furtively, away.
The Vicar looked up. His eyes were large and blue as suspicion drew in
the black of their pupils.
"Put it down here," he said, and he indicated the ledge of the bureau.
Essy stood still and stared like a half-wild