Brenda Last Character Analysis

When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it.

When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. “... Now cut to me again,” he was saying, “and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die.”

“Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious.”

“But don't you like the house?”

“Me? I detest it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't all, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course.”

“What's all the news?”

“Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again”

“Nothing much has happened,” said Tony. “We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?”

But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone […] The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips.

“You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored…”

“Nothing could have been more fortunate,” Brenda said. “If I know Tony, he’ll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come.”

“But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... Why, daddy?”

“It would take too long to explain.”

“This has been a jolly weekend”

“I thought you were enjoying it”

“Just like the old times—before the economics began”

She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. “John… John Andrew… I… Oh thank God…” Then she burst into tears.

“But it’s not true, is it?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time.”

But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda.

“How’s the old boy taking it?”

“Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast,” said Brenda.

“Is it absolutely safe?”

“Oh, I imagine so. The whole world is civilized now, isn’t it—charabancs and Cook’s offices everywhere.”

For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down and turning over buried her face in her pillow, in an agony of resentment and self-pity.

When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walled garden; he visited the hothouses and picked himself a buttonhole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it.

When Tony came back they were sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. “... Now cut to me again,” he was saying, “and I'll see if it's any clearer... Oh yes... there is going to be a sudden death which will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman... yes, a woman... then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die.”

“Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious.”

“But don't you like the house?”

“Me? I detest it... at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't all, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course.”

“What's all the news?”

“Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again to-day and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again”

“Nothing much has happened,” said Tony. “We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?”

But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone […] The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips.

“You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored…”

“Nothing could have been more fortunate,” Brenda said. “If I know Tony, he’ll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come.”

“But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her?... Why, daddy?”

“It would take too long to explain.”

“This has been a jolly weekend”

“I thought you were enjoying it”

“Just like the old times—before the economics began”

She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. “John… John Andrew… I… Oh thank God…” Then she burst into tears.

“But it’s not true, is it?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time.”

But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda.

“How’s the old boy taking it?”

“Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast,” said Brenda.

“Is it absolutely safe?”

“Oh, I imagine so. The whole world is civilized now, isn’t it—charabancs and Cook’s offices everywhere.”

For weeks past she had attempted to keep a fair mind towards Tony and his treatment of her; now at last she broke down and turning over buried her face in her pillow, in an agony of resentment and self-pity.