The resentment, almost amounting to rage, was the most demonic constituent of Tom’s spiritual illness. It was so unusual, so unnatural, for him to feel even ‘cross’ with anybody. Now he felt angry with John Robert, with Hattie, with George, with Emma, with himself. He puzzled and puzzled over how on earth John Robert’s ‘plan’ for him and Hattie could have become general knowledge. It was inconceivable that Hattie had talked about it. He was himself to blame for having told Emma. But he had told no one else. Emma, although he denied it, must have told somebody. Perhaps he had told Hector with whom he had become (Tom felt jealous about this) rather friendly. A letter to Tom from Hector had arrived at Travancore Avenue on Tuesday morning asking him, when he was back in Ennistone, to get in touch with Hector at once. Tom ignored the letter, but later wondered if that were the reason for it. Emma had told Hector and Hector had talked. Hector was acquainted with the Ennistone Gazette man, Gavin Oare, and had given him an interview about the play … Tom wondered if he should go and see Hector, but the idea of clarification was in itself appalling; and the idea that Emma had lied to him and betrayed him was sickeningly painful.
The chief traitor was of course himself. He ought never to have agreed to John Robert’s crazy idea. He did so, not even for a lark, but because he was profoundly flattered. Having agreed, he ought to have kept his mouth shut. And having almost at once realized that it was ‘no go’, he ought to have written to John Robert to say so and have got himself out of the whole awful mess. He ought to have stayed in London and got on with his work (how attractive the decent idea of getting on with his work seemed to him now) instead of hanging around Ennistone having ambiguous adventures. In these thoughts, Tom vacillated to and fro, between seeing himself as guilty of the most disgraceful treachery, and seeing himself as the helpless victim of a monster. Who could deal with a man like Rozanov? Rozanov had trapped him into this ghastly and ridiculous business, and was now blaming him unjustly without even listening to an explanation. The scene at the Slipper House had not been Tom’s fault, only Rozanov had been determined to see it as some sort of conspiracy. And Rozanov had dared to threaten Tom, to revile him and hate him. How could that be?
Upon the figure of Hattie an even more ambiguous and intense light was falling. What exactly had happened that night? At first, and under his guilty hat, Tom had assumed that Hattie was simply an innocent girl, affronted by what must have seemed to her (though it was really an accident) a thoughtless and cruel jape, and then by George’s intolerable intrusion. In this mood Tom felt very painful remorse: why on earth had he ever invented that ‘party at the Slipper House’, why had he actually led all those drunken people thither? It really seemed like a contrivance of the deviclass="underline" a fateful devil lurking in the unconscious darkness of his own mind. And he wanted very much to run to Hattie and explain and apologize and be forgiven. Then, as resentment filled up the scale again on the other side, he began to wonder: why had George suddenly turned up like that? Was Diane Sedleigh involved? He had seen her in the garden. Why was she there? He recalled now having heard that Pearl was related to Ruby who was related to Diane. Was Ruby involved? And Pearl? And … Hattie …? Was Hattie an innocent maiden affronted by vulgar jesters? Had Diane brought George to Hattie? Had Hattie herself invited George? Had she for some time known George, and was this the reason why she had been so offensively cold to Tom? With this hellish brew bubbling in his mind Tom tried to go to sleep again on Wednesday night. On Thursday morning he telephoned the Slipper House. Someone, he thought it was Pearl, said ‘Yes?’, and after he had said ‘It’s Tom,’ put the phone down.
Tom had not seriously thought of attempting to see Hattie on Wednesday because in another part of his crazed mind he felt that he had indeed promised John Robert not to; and in any case he was afraid of John Robert finding out, he was afraid of John Robert’s reprisals. On Thursday he was a good deal less sure that he had promised anything and a little less afraid. After the telephone call he wanted very much to run round to the Slipper House, but he did not dare to. Suppose he were to meet John Robert there? But he went on wanting to go. He wanted more and more, more than anything in the world, to see Hattie, to explain that he was innocent, and to know by looking at her clear pale face that she was.
Thursday afternoon went slowly, slowly by, and Tom continued to hide. The telephone rang but he was afraid to answer it. His days had already lost their sense, he could not read, he could not sit, the concept of ‘having a meal’ no longer existed. He drank a little whisky and tore bits off a stale loaf. He considered going to London, but he could not leave Ennistone without somehow removing these agonizing hooks and thorns from his heart. He had to ease the misery, though since he scarcely knew what it was he could not think clearly what to do about it. At last he suddenly thought, I’ll go and see William Eastcote, I’ll tell him everything and ask him what I ought to do. After all, Bill the Lizard is John Robert’s friend, he’s the only person in Ennistone that John Robert can tolerate! He might even explain to John Robert, intercede for me. Why ever didn’t I think of this before? It was evening, not yet quite dark. Tom selected one of Greg’s overcoats and one of Greg’s tweedy hats and slunk out into Travancore Avenue.
At Eastcote’s house, number 34 The Crescent, there seemed to be something happening. A number of lights were on and the door was open. A car was parked outside. Tom thought, oh hell, he’s got visitors. I must go back. Feeling intensely disappointed, he stood uncertainly at the bottom of the stone steps which led up to the door. Then he saw Anthea passing across the hall. At the same time he realized that he was standing in the light from the door and might be recognized by someone passing by. He went up the steps and into the house, closing the door behind him.
The hall was empty, full of the coloured beautiful things familiar to Tom since his childhood, when he had felt that these rugs and these tapestries and these huge bowls which Rose Eastcote used to fill with flowers existed somehow of necessity, composing an exotic place where very gentle tigers lived. The scene reassured him with a whiff from a safe authoritative world. But he felt at once that something was wrong. There was an odd silence, then lowered voices and padding. Anthea Eastcote came out of her uncle’s study. She was crying.
She saw him and said, ‘Oh Tom, how wonderful of you to come.’ She came up to him and put her arms round him, pressing her face into Greg’s coat.
Tom put his arms round her shoulders, pressing her against him, and moving his chin about in the mass of sweet-smelling brown-golden hair. He stared over her shoulder, feeling her heart beat and his own.