A Prayer for My Son — Hugh Walpole

This moment of anticipation was the worst of her life--never beforehad she been so utterly alone.Her loneliness now was emphasized by the strange dead-white glowthat seemed to bathe her room. She had just switched off theelectric light, and the curtains were not drawn upon the long gauntwindows. Although it was after five on that winter afternoon, thelight of the snow still illuminated the scene. Beyond the windowsa broad field ran slowly up to a thin bare hedge; above the hedge,the fell, thick in snow, mounted to a grey sky which lay like oneshadow upon another against the lower flanks of Blencathra.Rose had learnt the name of this mountain from the first instant ofher arrival at the Keswick station. She had not known whether shewould be met or not, and she had asked a porter whether he knew ofScarfe Hall. He knew of it well enough. It lay near theSanatorium right under Saddleback. And then, because she wasobviously a stranger, and he unlike many of his countrymen wasloquacious, he explained to her that Saddleback was the common namefor Blencathra. 'What a pity,' she murmured. 'Blencathra is muchfiner.' But he was not interested in that. He found the motor-carfrom the Hall and soon she was moving downhill from the station,turning sharply to the left by the river, and so to herdestination.She had had tea alone with Janet Fawcus in the drawing-roomdownstairs; such a strange, old-fashioned, overcrowded room, withphotographs in silver frames and a large oil painting over themarble fireplace of Humphrey's father. So odd, Rose thought, tohave so large a painting of yourself so prominently displayed. Shehad seen before, of course, photographs of Humphrey's father andhad always liked the kindliness, the good-humour in his roundchubby face, the beautiful purity of his white hair, his broadmanly shoulders, but this oil painting, made obviously a number ofyears ago, gave him a kind of dignified splendour. She had alwaysthought him like Mr. Pickwick, but now he was a Mr. Pickwick raisedto a degree of authority that yet had not robbed him of hisgeniality.So she and Janet Fawcus had shared an embarrassed tea. It was nosurprise to her to discover in Janet the perfect spinster--that is,a woman of middle age whose certainty that virginity is a triumphis mingled with an everlasting disappointment. Janet was dressedin the hard and serviceable tweeds of the English dweller in thecountry. She talked to Rose with all the kindliness of a hostessand the patronage of a successful headmistress. Rose saw at oncethat Janet had always hated her and that meeting her had notweakened that emotion.However, she had expected this, counted on it, in fact, and she satnow in this old curiosity shop of a drawing-room, the heavy, dark,ancient curtains drawn against the snow, brightly and falselyamiable about Geneva and the League of Nations and the selfishnessof France, and what a pity it was that despotism was beginning torule the world. It was explained to her that young John was outwith his tutor skating on some pond towards St. John's in the Valeand that Colonel Fawcus himself was at a meeting in Keswick aboutpylons, and that was why Janet must do the honours alone. 'But, ofcourse,' Janet said, 'you will see John when he comes in. He is soexcited about your coming.' In that last sentence Rose knew therewas something sinister; that immaculate tweed-clad virgin would notgive an inch. 'But then,' Rose thought, 'I have no intention ofasking her. I have not come here to fight. There is no battle inthe air. John's grandfather has invited me out of kindness andgenerosity. There was nothing in the signed agreement whichcompelled him to do this. It has been simply warm-hearted kindnesson his part. I am not here to fight. I am not here to get my sonback. I am not here to win his affection away from anyone else.He is not mine. I surrendered him deliberately, fully knowing whatI was about. I am not here for any contest of any kind with thisunagreeable, tiresome, self-satisfied prig of an Englishwoman.'But as she smiled and said that, yes, she would have another cup oftea, and how good it was after a long cold journey--she was forcedto repeat to herself: 'I am not a mother. I surrendered John notonly because it would be for his good, and because he would begiven so many many things I could never give him, but also becauseI was not meant to be a mother. There were other things that Icould do better. I am not maternal. I am a modern woman of mytime. I do not wish to be hampered with a child.