The Child From the Sea

by Elizabeth Goudge

  “What does it mean, to impeach a man?” Lucy had demanded of Mr. Gwinne on the day after they had heard about Dr. Cosin. They were facing each other in his library and for once Mr. Gwinne was not submerged in his scholar’s serenity. He was irritable, unable to concentrate, his hands continually moving among the objects on his desk.

  “It is to accuse him of treason,” said Mr. Gwinne.

  “What is treason?”

  “Violation by a subject of his allegiance to king or state, punishable by death.”

  His restless movements upset the wafer box and it fell to the ground. The spilled wafers made a red stain on the carpet and they both looked at it and for a few moments could not look away. All the colour ebbed out of Lucy’s face and Mr. Gwinne continued hastily, “An impeached man is brought to trial, of course. The trial can last for months and he may be acquitted at the end of it.”

  Lucy looked up, her colour coming back. “Doctor Cosin will be acquitted,” she said. “I remember now that Nan-Nan had a seeing about him. She saw him being kind to me when I am grown a woman.” She went down on her hands and knees to pick up the wafers and did not see the expression of scepticism as to Nan-Nan’s seeings which momentarily clouded Mr. Gwinne’s face. When she looked up again it had passed and his hands were quieter. “I still hope for peace between the King and his Parliament,” he said. “A divided state is like a severed body. We cannot be loyal both to the head and the feet and so it makes traitors of us all.”

  “Or of none of us,” said Lucy.

  Her grandfather looked at her. He very often spoke his thoughts aloud to her but her understanding of them never failed to astonish him. “I pray that your point of view may prevail in the forthcoming trials,” he said gravely. “If it does not, then they will be punished for all of us who are of their opinion.”

  “Scapegoats,” said Lucy, and looked round at the rampart of books which walled them in. “Why should you and I be safe in here?” she demanded.

  “We are the lesser mortals,” explained Mr. Gwinne. “We are the people for whom it has always seemed expedient that one man should die.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Nor do I,” said Mr. Gwinne, and suddenly he abandoned the whole controversy and opened the book in front of him. Lucy could almost see him submerging like a turtle. He would not come to the surface again. He was far more comfortable down below.

  But it was not only the realization that terrible things could happen not only to people in the distance but to people whom one knew that was making Lucy afraid, but also the fact that Nan-Nan was not well. She had no illness, they told Lucy comfortingly, there was nothing to worry about, it was just that she was old. But Lucy did not feel happy and was making the housewife in a spirit of defiance. Nan-Nan would get well and do the mending again.

  She could no longer see to sew and the growing chill of the room reminded her that in Nan-Nan’s room there would be a fire and lighted candles, and the reassuring sight of Nan-Nan herself, smiling at her. She would go and show her the Christmas gifts. Laying aside the housewife she put the rest in her sewing bag, slung it over her shoulder and went quietly down the passage to her mother’s bedchamber.

  Nan-Nan was sitting propped up in the fourposter. Her tiny face, framed in the white frills of her cap, seemed to be all of her that there now was; and that little would scarcely have been there, Lucy felt, without the nightcap to hold it. Yet her eyes in the candlelight were very bright and alert and her voice, always so light and soft, was scarcely changed, and she went instantly to the point.

  “You must be a good girl to madam your mother, Lucy fach,” she said. “You will have children of your own to care for in the years to come but now it is your mother who must be your child.”

  “But oh, Nan-Nan,” she cried. “I wish it was my father!”

  “Do not separate them in your mind and heart, cariad,” said Nan-Nan. “Whatever they do to themselves, and each other, do not you do it to them too. Never take care of the one without remembering the other.”

  “Will my father come for Christmas?” whispered Lucy.

  “It would not surprise me,” said Nan-Nan. “Made his gift, have you?”

  Lucy spread the gifts out on the bed, the gloves, the kerchiefs, the posy and the silk bag. Nan-Nan was pleased with them; though she detected crooked stitches here and there.

  “Did you make a gift for that boy?” she asked.

  “For Justus? You are holding it, Nan-Nan.”

  “Not Justus. The dark boy on the white pony.”

  For a moment Lucy was still with astonishment, then she reached into the recesses of the bag and brought out the green leather purse and unfolded the square of silk in which she had wrapped it. Nan-Nan held it for a long time and the silver web sparkled in the candlelight. Seeing it in her hands Lucy noticed for the first time that wherever one thread met another a silver star gleamed at the meeting point. Tears came into her eyes and the silver began to dazzle, and the candlelight set rainbows in the dazzle until it seemed that the little purse was all made of light. Between Nan-Nan’s hands it was ethereal as the human soul, its value indescribable, its light reflected up into the intent and compassionate old face. There seemed no sound in the house, no sound in the whole world except the soft settling of ash in the grate. At last Nan-Nan looked across at Lucy and would have spoken, but they both heard something, the sound of wheels coming down the lane, an ordinary sound yet sharing tonight the magic of the light brimming over in Nan-Nan’s cupped hands. Lucy wiped the dazzling tears out of her eyes and her cheeks grew rosy. “Justus,” she said.

  Whatever Nan-Nan had been about to say she did not say it, but gently wrapped the little purse up in its square of silk. “Go down to him, child,” she said.

  Lucy put her presents away in the bag, kissed Nan-Nan and made up the fire. Then she went out on to the landing. Downstairs doors were opening; the door of the parlour where Mrs. Gwinne and Elizabeth had been sitting, the library door and the kitchen door. It was an exciting Christmas sound. Through the opened doors firelight and candlelight flooded into the dark house, and through the kitchen door came a blast of spicy warmth from the oven where the cakes were baking. Lucy flew down the stairs just as Tabitha came running to open the front door, and saw them standing against the blue twilight, Richard tall and beautiful, his eyes looking over Lucy’s head to his mother, and Justus rosy and dumpy and just the same. She had him in her arms whether he liked it or not. But he seemed to like it. He was a little taller and a little broader, and he had a black eye from a recent fight, but he was still himself, still Justus, with his broad wise forehead and clear eyes and wide grin. She took him by the hand and led him straight up the stairs to Nan-Nan and stood him by her bed in the candlelight.

  “He’s the same,” she said.

  Nan-Nan touched the black eye with a tender finger. “Witch-hazel,” she said. “Of course my boy is the same. Justus will never change.”

  2

  Christmas Eve was fine and frosty and passed into a clear moonlight night. At midnight Lucy put her cloak round her, opened her window and leaned out. Over her head the vast sky was ablaze with stars and she thought they were like the web that had gleamed and sparkled in Nan-Nan’s hand. That had been the web of human loving but this was God’s web and each star was ablaze with how much he loved it. People said the stars sang for joy of the love, and Lucy listened intently, but all the bells of London began to ring and she heard them instead. She did not know it, but they were ringing in England for the last time for many years, for next year London would be a Puritan city. The sound came over the frosted fields crystal-clear but far away, with the sorrow of distance, and she remembered again that Nan-Nan was old and that her father had not after all come home for Christmas. She felt hollow with longing for him and the tears blinded her so that the starlight ran together and the web of the heavens had rainbows
in it, as the little one had done.

  Then the bells seemed to grow less sad and reminded her that tonight, at this moment, she and her father were on the same star, the one where the baby had been born. Robert had called it the green star, as though its colour made it special, but it was the baby who made it special for he had come here to stay, never to be driven away while there was one person left upon this star who longed for him. The fact of this, slowly expanding like a flower in the hollow space, filled the emptiness with beauty and she knew it for the central and redeeming fact of human life. She closed the window and went back to bed and after she fell asleep bells and the sound of a trotting horse made magic in her dreams, and her sleep was happy.

  Christmas Day passed joyously for the children with nothing forgotten to which they were accustomed; hymn singing in the village church, present-giving, the kissing ring, all the right things to eat, and the grown-ups, at least outwardly, smiling and festive and extraordinarily appreciative of the gifts the children gave them. Nan-Nan made some miraculous effort and sat up in bed lively as a cricket with all her presents strewn over the counterpane, Lucy’s housewife between her hands. Aunt Byshfield and her husband and two boys came to dinner and the health of absent members of the family was drunk in Canary wine, not forgetting the health of Uncle and Aunt Barlow in Wales and Uncle and Aunt Gosfright in Holland. William’s name was not mentioned and after the last toast Lucy choked over her wine and could not finish it, but looking round she saw her grandmother leaning towards her, and that there was still some wine in the bottom of her glass. She raised it and Lucy raised hers and smiling at each other they drank silently.

  And so it was a happy day, with the climax coming after dark when the candles were put out and the children played snapdragon, snatching raisins from the great dish of burning brandy. The four boys were making so much noise that they did not notice when Lucy left them and slipped behind the window curtains. It was the quiet that she wanted, and to look at the frosty stars now they had come back again. They were not so easy to see from downstairs, yet they looked very wonderful shining through the branches of the leafless trees, and they looked much nearer, as though the sparkling web was resting on the tops of the trees. She leaned on the windowsill and she wanted her father. It was still wonderful to her that she was on the same star with him, yet all the same she wanted him and pressed her fingers against the bulge in the bodice of her dress where his gloves were hidden. It had been comforting to carry them about with her all day, because though ungiven they were his. She could hear horses on the road coming from London, and they brought back the memory of her happy dreams, but there were many riders backwards and forwards today and so she did not at first connect the sound with herself. Not until she saw the dark shapes of two horsemen pass behind the trees, and saw them stop at the gate.

  Only her grandmother saw her slip from the room, and she held her peace. The front door had been locked and Lucy’s shaking fingers took a little while to undo the bolt and chain. When at last she got the door open the crunching feet had already reached the porch and a tall cloaked man stood in front of her, light from the hall shining full upon his smiling face. It was Uncle Barlow of Slebech. The shock and disappointment were for the moment dreadful, but Uncle Barlow put his hand on her shoulder and bent down to whisper to her.

  “Your father’s at the gate,” he said. “Do you go down to him.”

  Then he took off his hat and stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him, and Lucy flew down the garden. It was her opinion, later, that she had really flown, because when she knew where she was again she was over the gate and on top of the mounting block, and William was wrapping not only his arms but his cloak about her to keep her warm, and she had what she had been longing for all day, his rough cheek against hers. “Here is my girl,” he kept saying. “Here is Bud. It is Bud, not in dream but in truth. Warm as a glowing coal. It is a hundred years since I saw my girl. You have grown tall, Bud, and filled out. You have quite a bosom on you.”

  “It is not a bosom,” said Lucy. “It is a pair of gloves that I have made for you.”

  She pulled them out and he examined them in the moonlight and starlight, exclaiming at her cleverness, amazed at the embroidery.

  “Did you think I would come today?” he asked.

  “I hoped,” said Lucy. “Why did you not come yesterday? I was wanting you in the night.”

  “We hoped to have been here before but your uncle’s horse fell lame.”

  “Now you have come you can have my room,” she said happily. “I will sleep with my mother and Nan-Nan.”

  “Steady, Bud,” said William. “I do not know yet if I will be allowed in the house. Your Uncle Barlow and I have taken a lodging in the city.” His voice hardened suddenly. “I have not come back merely for a family reunion, I have come back to fight this lawsuit and see to it that I am not permanently separated from my children. Is Justus here?”

  “Yes, and Richard too. Father, did you bring Dewi?”

  “No, Bud. While I am away he is with my mother. Loved and well cared for.”

  “I should like to see Dewi again,” said Lucy.

  “So you shall, Bud; one of these days when the sun shines for us. Would you like to go back to the house now and ask if I may come in for a few moments? And if not, send Justus out to me.”

  “Of course you will come in!” said Lucy.

  He answered like a boy. “It is Christmas night. Miracles do happen. It is worth trying, Bud. Keep my cloak about you and do not trip over it.”

  She went joyously to the house but as she opened the front door she saw the back view of Mr. Gwinne retreating into his study, avid for immersion, and knew that something bad had been happening while she was outside. In the parlour the candles had been lit again and the fun of the snapdragon was at an end. Uncle Barlow and Uncle and Aunt Byshfield were looking uncomfortable, and her grandmother was sitting very upright in her chair by the fire and her face looked as it had done when they had heard that Dr. Cosin had been impeached. It had hollows in it, round the eyes and under the cheekbones, the fallen-in look that old people have after a bad shock. But the shock was not because her father had come back. She knew that. It was because of something her mother had said or done. She looked round for her mother but she was not there, and nor was Richard.

  “Lucy, go back again and ask your father to come in,” said Mrs. Gwinne. “Tell him, please, that it will give me great pleasure to see him.” Then she paused and the next sentence came out cut into small pieces, as though she were nearing the end of her tether. “Take Justus with you—in case—your father will want to see him. Take Justus.”

  Justus had been leaning against his grandmother and she had unconsciously been deriving comfort from the feel of his newly washed head. Now she gave him a little push and he followed Lucy out of the room. In the garden Justus ran but Lucy followed more slowly, impeded by the cloak. She let herself be impeded, for it was Justus’s turn. When she reached the gate William was sitting on the mounting block with Justus on his knee and she gave him her grandmother’s message.

  “Was your mother in the room?” he asked sharply. Lucy knew how desperately it mattered that she should be able to answer yes, and she was silent in her misery. “She had gone out of the room while you were with me?” he demanded, and he shook her arm. “Answer me, Lucy.” But Lucy began to cry and Justus followed suit.

  William was remorseful. “Christmas night!” he groaned. “Day of miracles. I was a damn’ fool to come. Even now, if she had been there. Lucy, thank your grandmother for her kindness. Tell her I will write to her. And stop crying, both of you. I will find a way to see you both. Give my love to Nan-Nan. Do not cry, I tell you. It is Christmas night and I have got you!”

  He hugged them both, hard and with joy, and his longing for them, as theirs for him, was suddenly wonderful, a part of that other longing that Lucy had known about in t
he night. The sound of bells came again from some London steeple and time became this one moment only, a centre of delight at the heart of the green star, and all the shining of it contracted to hold the three of them alone.

  Twelve

  1

  In the dusk of a February evening Robert Sidney found himself unexpectedly in Bedford Street. He had eaten his dinner with friends, stayed late in anxious talk and going home had taken a wrong turning. It was cold, with a crisp sprinkling of snow underfoot, and he shivered even in his warm cloak. There had been a Sidney family reunion at Christmas, he had been away from London for a month and had forgotten how icily the winds could sweep along the London streets. He was unhappy tonight. A peaceable, sensitive man, the increasing bitterness of the tension between the two parties in the country, and the impeachment of Strafford and the Archbishop, had filled him with grief and horror. How could these things end except in civil war, of all things the most horrible; setting men not only against their own countrymen but against their own families? Even his brother Algernon was showing signs of parliamentary sympathies. What if he should presently find himself fighting Algernon? He felt wretched and desperate, and involuntarily looked up as though he were looking for shelter somewhere; not from the wind but from himself, for he was bad company for himself when these moods of black depression came upon him.