Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

‘I’m immensely glad,’ said Demoyte. ‘You’ll get out of this hole, away from pious Evvy and dreary Prewett, and dotty Bledyard, up to London, where you’ll meet all sorts of people. And women. Out of this hole, where all one can do is pass the hours until it’s time to die.’

Nan had called Demoyte morbid. Mor himself knew something of the old man’s moods, and of the melancholy which afflicted him when he was alone. He said briskly, ‘Come, sir, none of that. I certainly don’t despise this place. I only hope I’ll be up to the other job. And by the way, please don’t mention this to anyone just yet, not till it’s officially made public.’

‘With an M.P.’s salary,’ said Demoyte doggedly, ‘you can send Felicity to college.’

‘That’s just what I think I can’t do,’ said Mor. ‘It’s too risky. In my present situation at least I know exactly how much money I can reckon on. But in that job, with unpredictable expenses, it’ll be a long time before I know where I stand. Anyhow, Nan would never agree. It’ll be hard enough to get her to accept the M.P. plan at all - and she’d never agree if we were going to run this extra financial risk as well. I might get away with one of these things, but not with both.’ As he put it thus, it occurred to Mor that in a way he was sacrificing Felicity’s future to his own. This was an extremely unpleasant thought.

‘Oh, Nan, Nan, Nan!’ said Demoyte. ‘I’m tired of that woman’s name. Who is she that she has to be consulted about every damn thing that you do?’

‘She’s my wife,’ said Mor.

‘You’re as timid as a water-snail,’ said Demoyte, ‘and a meaner man with money I never encountered. Pah! I despise this meanness. Felicity must have her chance. Listen, and don’t turn down this proposal because I’ve been rude and you feel you have to put up a show of pride. Think of your daughter’s future instead. I’ll pay for Felicity to go to the university. She’ll get a county grant anyway, so it won’t be much. I’ve got a pile of money in the bank, and there’s nothing to spend it on in this God-forsaken backwater, and as you know I hate travelling, and as you also know I’ll very shortly be dead. So let’s have no false reluctance or other posturing. I want that girl to go to college and there’s an end to the matter. I shall be wretched if she doesn’t. Don’t cross me here.’

Mor sat rigid, leaning forward and still staring into his glass. He suddenly felt as if he wanted to weep. He didn’t dare to look at Demoyte. ‘You are immensely good, sir,’ he said, ‘and I am very moved indeed, I think you know how much, by your saying this. I won’t pretend that I just couldn’t accept the offer. But it needs some thinking over. I might be able to afford it myself. Also, quite honestly, I’m not sure that Nan would agree to our accepting money from you.’

‘Oh, give me patience!’ said Demoyte. ‘Then deceive her, boy! Tell her it’s a bonus from Evvy, tell her you found it in the street, tell her you won it on a horse race! Deceive her, deceive her! Only don’t bother me with this nonsense.’

‘I’ll think it over, sir,’ said Mor. Demoyte then filled up Mor’s glass and they began to talk about something else.

It was about an hour later that, rather full of brandy, Mor decided that he must go home. Demoyte was already getting sleepy, and Mor saw him up the stairs to his bedroom. Then he came down again, put on his coat, and let himself quietly out of the front door.

He had to pause immediately when he got outside, so brilliant and heavily perfumed was the night. The moon was rising, and was visible as a great source of light behind the trees, and there was an immense concourse of stars, crowding up towards the milky way. It was one of those nights, so rare in England, when the stars give positive light to the earth. The garden was present on either side of him, dearly visible and, although he could feel no breeze, rustling softly. He looked up and could see the light on in Demoyte’s room, above the door on the left. The right-hand window was the end window of the library, which stood above Handy’s boudoir. It was dark. Mor walked across the gravel on to the grass and passed through the door which led to the big lawn at the side of the house, outside the drawing-room window. As he walked, the moon rose above the trees and cast his shadow before him. He paused, enjoying the sensation of walking quite silently upon the moonlit grass, and turned to see his footsteps left behind him, clearly marked in the dew and revealed by the moon. He felt an extreme lightness, as if he had become a spirit. Very distantly the traffic rumbled upon the main road. But here the silence hung in the air like an odour. He moved out into the middle of the lawn and looked up at the house.

The room at the end of the house to his right, which adjoined the library and had one window looking out at the back and one window looking on to the lawn, was the best guest-room. There was a light on in this room. The curtains were tightly drawn. That must be Miss Carter’s room, thought Mor. She hasn’t gone to bed after all. It must have been a fiction, about being tired. She must have been fed up with Demoyte. Or with me, he thought ruefully. Then quite unexpectedly Mor was struck with a dolorous pain. He was really unsure at first whether it was a physical pain or some sort of thought, so quickly did it come upon him. He realized in a moment that it was an agonizing wish to see Miss Carter again, to see her soon, to see her now. Mor stood quite still, breathing rather fast. I’m drunk, he said to himself. He never remembered feeling quite like this before. He wanted terribly, desperately, to see Miss Carter. I must be ill, thought Mor. He wondered what to do. It was all so inexplicable. He thought, it would be quite easy to go back into the house. The front door is still unlocked. And go up the stairs and along the corridor and knock at her bedroom door. At the thought that this was possible and that absolutely nothing stopped him from doing it if he wished Mor felt so amazed that he swayed and almost fell. The pain of knowing that it was possible was for a moment extreme.

As he recovered himself and turned slightly he saw that someone was watching him, standing in the shadow of one of the trees. Mor froze with fear and indecision. He took a step or two back. Then the figure began to move and come towards him, gliding forward noiselessly across the grass. For one wild moment Mor thought that it was Miss Carter. He tried to say something, but the silence stifled his voice. Then he saw that the figure was too tall. It was Miss Handforth.

‘Why, it’s Mr Mor!’ said Miss Handforth in her sonorous voice, scattering the moonlit night about her in fragments. ‘You gave me quite a turn, standing there so quiet.’

Mor turned about and began to walk quickly back towards the front of the house. He didn’t, above all, want Miss Carter’s attention drawn to the fact that he had been standing outside looking up at her window. The strange sensation had quite gone. Now he only wanted to get away, and not to have to hear Miss Handforth’s brassy voice echoing through the darkness.

She followed him, still talking. ‘I saw you out of the drawing-room window as I was pulling back the curtains, and I said to myself, there’s an intruder out there on the lawn. So I had to come out and see who it was.’

‘That was very brave of you, Handy,’ said Mor in a low voice. They had reached the front of the house now, and Mor had gone a little way down the drive, followed by Miss Handforth. He saw that Demoyte’s light was out.

‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Miss Handforth. ‘There really are some odd characters about. There’s someone been reported hanging around this vicinity lately, a vagabond man, a gipsy. Probably waiting to see who he can rob.’