Balantyne worked on his military papers in the afternoon, because they were something he was sure of; perhaps in time Augusta would explain herself, or else the matter would fall into recess of memory and cease to be important.
It was early evening, and already dark and turning very cold when Max announced Robert Carlton. Balantyne had always liked Carlton, he was a man whose quiet confidence and dignity appealed to him, the best type of Englishman, who followed the military into all the corners of the empire to govern and teach civilization where it was hitherto unknown. They were two partners to the same cause, and he felt they had an instinctive understanding, an inbred sense of duty and justice.
This evening he was especially pleased to see him because the mass of papers palled on him. It was more difficult without Miss Ellison to assist him, and in truth, gave him less than the usual satisfaction. He stood up with a smile, his hand out.
“’Evening, Robert, come in and warm yourself. Best fire in the house. Have a sherry, or whisky if you like? It must be about that time,” he glanced at the brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece. How he hated the ormolu one in the withdrawing room and the fat cherubs round it; it did not even keep correct time!
“No, thank you, not yet.”
Balantyne looked at him in surprise, then saw his face clearly for the first time. There were gray lines under his eyes and a flat, bare look about his whole aspect. Augusta would have been subtle, but he was incapable of it.
“For heaven’s sake, man, have one, you look as if you need it! What’s the matter?”
Carlton stood by the fire, unsure how to begin, and Balantyne realized he had embarrassed him by noticing a private distress he was not yet able to put into words. He was in turn embarrassed by his own clumsiness. Why could he not be warmer, more instinctive? He knew how to act in a crisis, but so often not what to say.
The silence hung between them, growing worse.
It was Carlton who resolved it.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I would like a whisky. I’m a little upset this evening-” he stopped, still looking not at Balantyne but at the fire. “Am I holding you up from changing to dine?”
“No, no. Plenty of time. Going to the Campbells.”
“Oh yes, of course. So are we. Forgot.”
Balantyne poured two whiskys from the decanter on the sideboard and passed him one. Surely Carlton wanted to discuss whatever it was? Was that not why he had come?
“Anything wrong in particular?” he asked.
“Had that police chap, Pitt, round again.”
Balantyne opened his mouth to ask if the servants were upset, then realized that such a domestic disturbance would hardly cause the distress he thought he saw. He remained silent, waiting for Carlton to frame whatever it was that lay so close under the surface.
It was a few minutes before it came, but this silence was one of patience.
“I think they suspect Euphemia,” Carlton said at last.
Balantyne was stunned. He could think of nothing coherent to say. How could they possibly suspect Euphemia Carlton? It was preposterous. He must have misunderstood: especially since the more he thought about it, the more he honestly believed it was most likely to be some indulgence of Reggie’s, and Reggie knew it, which was why he was in such a sweat.
He suddenly remembered that Reggie had wanted him to get Carlton to have the investigation suppressed! It was ludicrous.
“They can’t,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t make any sense at all, and Pitt’s an ordinary sort of chap, but he’s not a fool. They wouldn’t let him be an inspector if he made wild charges like that. You must have misunderstood something. Apart from anything else, Euphemia could have no reason!”
Carlton still looked into the fire, keeping his face away.
“Yes, she has, Brandon. She has a lover.”
From many men that would have meant little, as long as it were not publicly known, but to Carlton it was a sacrilege against his home, his most private person. Balantyne understood that much, although he could not feel the same inner injury to purity and pride himself. If Augusta had betrayed him, he would have been above all surprised; and yes, angry too; but not wounded except on the surface.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” Carlton accepted it with the same politeness he might have received a compliment or a glass of wine, but Balantyne could see the pain in his drawn face. “You see,” Carlton went on, “they think she might have got rid of the children, in case the-made her-her situation obvious.”
“Yes, of course. But surely, you would have known? I mean-a woman you live with-your wife! If she had been with child-?”
“I do not ask a-a-great deal of Euphemia,” Carlton said awkwardly, his shoulders stiff, his face turned away. “I am considerably older than she is-I do not-like to-” he could not find words to finish, but his meaning was obvious.
Balantyne had never been so delicate about feelings, least of all Augusta’s, and suddenly he saw himself as a boor. He was ashamed for himself, and for Carlton he was inexplicably hurt. How could Euphemia, with a man so sensitive to her, loving her so deeply, have behaved like this? But neither his anger nor his disgust would be of any ease to Carlton now.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Do you know who?”
“No. It is all very-discreet still. The police say as little as they can.”
“Do you know if she-cares for him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You haven’t asked her?”
Carlton turned and sheer surprise, for a moment, superseded the pain in his face.
“Of course not. I couldn’t-speak-to her of it. It would be-” he held out his hands helplessly.
“No.” Balantyne had no idea why he agreed. He was agreeing for Carlton, not for himself-he would have had a blazing row about it-but he could see that this quiet man, with whom he had thought he had so much in common, was utterly different. “I’m awfully sorry, Robert. I wish I knew what to say.”
For the first time Carlton smiled very faintly.
“Thank you, Brandon. There really isn’t anything to say. I don’t know why I bothered you with it, except that I felt like speaking to someone.”
“Yes,” Balantyne suddenly found his awkwardness again. “Yes, yes, of course. I-er-”
Carlton drank the last of his whisky and put the glass down.
“Better get back home. Must be toward dinner time. Got to change. Give my regards to Augusta. Good night, and thank you.”
“Good night-” he let out his breath again. There was nothing to say.
He thought several times of mentioning the subject to Augusta, but somehow could not bring himself to do it. It seemed a private matter, between men. For another woman to have known would have compounded the injury.
It was still at the back of his mind when Miss Ellison arrived on Monday morning to continue with the papers. He was surprisingly pleased to see her, perhaps because she was outside the family, and knew nothing of Callander Square or its wounds. Added to which she was cheerful, without being in the least coquettish. As he grew older he found coquettish women increasingly offensive.
“Good morning, Miss Ellison,” he smiled without thinking. She was a pleasing creature, not conventionally beautiful, and yet there was a richness about her, the wealth of mahogany-colored hair, the clear skin, and the intelligence in her eyes. For a woman, she talked remarkably little nonsense; funny, she was probably not more than four or five years older than Christina, who seldom spoke of anything but gossip or fashion, and who might marry whom.
He realized with a start that she was waiting for him to instruct her as to what he wished her to do.
“I have a box of letters here,” he fished it out, “from my grandfather. Would you please sort them out, those that refer to military matters from those that are purely personal.”