For a few days nothing seemed to change. Roy did not often dine in hall, but I listened in dread for each rumour about him: when I saw Arthur Brown walking towards me in the court, intending to carry me off for a confidential talk, I wanted to shy away — but it was only to consider whether the time had come to “ventilate” the question of a new fellow. Wars might be near us, but Arthur Brown took it for granted that the college government must be carried on. I asked Bidwell each morning how Mr Calvert was. “He’s not getting his sleep, sir,” said Bidwell. “No, he’s not getting his sleep. As I see it, sir — I know it’s not my place to say it — but it’s all on account of his old books. He’s overtaxed his brain. That’s how I see it, sir.”
Then, as a complete surprise, I received a note from Lady Muriel. She was staying at the University Arms: would I excuse the short notice, and go to the hotel for tea? I knew that she had arrived, I knew that Roy had given her dinner the night before: but I was astonished to be summoned. I had never been exactly a favourite of hers. I felt a vague malaise: I was becoming morbidly anxious.
Lady Muriel had taken a private sitting-room, looking out upon Parker’s Piece. She greeted me as she used to in the Lodge; she seemed almost to fancy that she was still there.
“Good afternoon, Mr Eliot. I am glad that you were able to come.” Her neck was stiff, her back erect as ever; but it took more effort than it used. Trouble was telling, even on her. “I will ring at once for tea.”
She asked about my work, my pupils and — inexorably — my wife. It all sounded like the rubric of days past. She poured out my cup of Indian tea; it was like her, I thought, to remember that I disliked China, to disapprove of my taste and attribute it firmly to my lowly upbringing, and yet still to feel that a hostess was obliged to provide for it. She put her cup down, and regarded me with her bold innocent eyes.
“Mr Eliot, I wish to ask you a personal question.”
“Lady Muriel?”
“I do not wish to pry. But I must ask this question. Have you noticed anything wrong with Roy?”
I was taken aback.
“He’s desperately overstrained,” I said.
“I considered that you might have noticed something,” said Lady Muriel. “But I believe it is worse. I believe he has some worry on his mind.”
She stared at me.
“Do you know what this worry is, Mr Eliot?”
“He’s very sad,” I began. “But—”
“Mr Eliot,” Lady Muriel announced, “I am a great believer in woman’s intuition. Men are more gifted than we are intellectually. I should never have presumed to disagree with the Master on a purely intellectual matter. But it takes a woman to see that a man is hiding some private worry. Roy has always been so wonderfully carefree. I saw the difference at once.”
She sighed.
“Is it because of some woman?” she said suddenly.
“No.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“We must put our finger on it,” said Lady Muriel. She was baffled, distressed, unhappy; her voice was firm and decided, but only by habit; her whole heart went out to him. “Surely he knows we want to help him. Does he know that I would do anything to help him?”
“I am quite sure he does.”
“I am very glad to hear you say that. I should like to have told him. But there are things one always finds it impossible to say.”
She turned her head away from me. She was looking out of the window, when she said: “I tried to get him to confide this worry last night.”
“What did you do?”
“I used a little finesse. Then I asked him straight out.”
She burst out: “He put me off. I know men like to keep their secrets. But there are times when it is better for them to talk. If only they would see it. It is so difficult to make them. And one feels that one is only an intruder.”
She faced me again. Then I knew why she had averted her eyes. She was fighting back the tears.
She collected herself, and spoke to me with exaggerated firmness, angry that I had seen her weak.
“There is one thing I can do, Mr Eliot. I shall ring up my daughter Joan. She knows Roy better than I do. Perhaps she will be able to discover what is wrong. Then between us we could assist him.”
I used all my efforts to dissuade her. I argued, persuaded, told her that it was unwise. But the only real reason I could not give: and Lady Muriel stayed invincibly ignorant.
“Mr Eliot, you must allow me to judge when to talk to my daughter about a common friend.” She added superbly: “My family have been brought up to face trouble.”
On the spot, she telephoned Joan, who was in London. There could be only one answer, the answer I had been scheming to avoid, the answer which Joan would want to give from the bottom of her heart. It came, of course. Joan would catch the next train and see Roy that evening.
Lady Muriel said goodbye to me.
“My daughter and I will do our best, Mr Eliot. Thank you for giving me your advice.”
I went straight from the hotel to Roy’s rooms. It was necessary that he should be warned at once. His outer door was not locked, as it was most evenings now — but he himself was lying limp in an armchair. There was no bottle or glass in sight; there was no manuscript under his viewing lamp, and no book open; it was as though he had lain there, inert, for hours.
“Hullo,” he said, from a far distance.
“I think you should know,” I said. “Joan will be here in an hour or two.”
“Who?”
I repeated my message. It was like waking him from sleep.
At last he spoke, but still darkly, wearily, from a depth no one could reach.
“I don’t want to see her.”
Some time afterwards he repeated: “I don’t want to see her. I saw her in Berlin. It made things worse. I’ve done her enough harm.”
“Roy,” I said, pressingly, “I’m afraid you must.”
His answer came after a long interval.
“I won’t see her. It will be worse for her. It will be worse for both of us. I’m not fit to see anyone.”
“You can’t just turn her away,” I said. “She’s trying to care for you. You must be good to her.”
Another long interval.
“I’m not fit to see anyone.”
“You must,” I said. “You’ve meant too much to her, you know.”
Up to then I had had very little hope. In a moment I should have given up. But then I saw an astonishing thing. With a prodigious strain, as though he were calling frantically on every reserve of body and mind, Roy seemed to bring himself back into the world. He did not want to leave his stupor: there he had escaped, perhaps for hours: but somehow he forced himself. The strain lined him with grief and suffering. He returned to searing miseries, to the appalling melancholy. Yet he was himself normal in speech, quiet, sad, able to smile, very gentle.
“I need to put a face on it,” he said. “Poor dear. I shouldn’t have brought her to this.”
He glanced at me, almost mischievously: “Am I fit to be seen now?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve got to look pretty reasonable when Joan comes. It’s important, Lewis. She mustn’t think I’m ill.” He added, with a smile: “She mustn’t think I’m — mad.”
“It will be all right.”
“If she thinks I’m really off it,” again he smiled, “she will want to look after me. And I might want her to. That mustn’t happen, Lewis. I owe her more than the others. I can’t inflict myself upon her now.”
He went on: “She will try to persuade me. But it would do us both in. I was never free with her. And I should get worse. I don’t know why it is.”