All Hallows' Eve

by Charles Williams

  The maid herself was hovering in the hall. She did not like to stay, in case Lady Wallingford came out and saw her, or to go, in case Lady Wallingford rang for her, in which case the sooner she was there the better for her. She drifted uneasily about the foot of the stairs. Presently she heard above her a door shut. She looked up. Miss Betty was coming down the stairs.

  Miss Betty was looking very much better. The maid lingered in admiration. Betty smiled gaily down at her and the girl smiled shyly back. She ventured to say, with a sense of obscure justification, “You are better, aren’t you, Miss Betty?”

  “Much, thank you,” said Betty, and added remorsefully, “I expect I’ve given you a lot of extra work, Nina.”

  “Oh no, Miss Betty,” Nina said. “Besides, I’d have liked it. My grandmother used to be with Sir Bartholomew’s mother, so in a way we’re in the family. She was your nurse, Miss Betty.”

  Betty stopped on the third stair; then in a leap she was down them, and had caught hold of the girl’s arm. Her face was alight; she exclaimed, “Your grandmother my nurse! Is she alive? where’s she living? Do tell me, Nina.”

  Nina, surprised but pleased by this interest, said, “Why, she’s living in London, over in Tooting. I go and see her most weeks.”

  Betty drew a deep breath. She said, “Isn’t that marvelous? I want to see her. Can I? can I now?”

  “She’d be very pleased if you did, Miss Betty,” Nina said. “Only,” she added more doubtfully, “I don’t know if my lady would like it. I think there was some trouble between grandmother and my lady. She was sent away, I know, but Sir Bartholomew helped her. It’s all a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” said Betty—“when I was born and before you were. That’ll be all right. Tell me the address; I’ll explain to my mother.”

  “It’s 59 Upper Clapham Lane,” Nina answered. “It was once her own boarding-house, and then my brother and his wife took it over, only he’s in Austria now. But my grandmother still lives there.”

  Betty said, “I shall go today. Thank you, Nina. I’ll see you when I come back.” She released the girl and went on into the drawing-room. She entered it, Jonathan thought, like water with the sun on it; the desert blossomed with the rose. The wild beasts in it were no less dangerous, but she was among them in the friendship and joy of a child. She slipped her hand in Jonathan’s arm and she said, smiling at them all, “Mother, I’ve just found out where my old nurse lives and I’m going to see her. Isn’t it marvelous? I’ve so often wanted to.”

  “You had better,” said Lady Wallingford’s dead voice, “have lunch here first.”

  “Oh need we?” Betty said. “Jonathan, won’t you take me to lunch somewhere and we could go on?”

  “You were going to lunch with me anyhow,” Jonathan said. “We can go anywhere you like afterwards.”

  “Do you mind, Mother?” Betty asked. “You see I really am absolutely all right.”

  As if the rock itself shifted, Lady Wallingford got to her feet. She would, under her paramour’s instruction and for his sake, have put friendliness into her voice, had it been possible. It was not. She could neither command nor beguile. She said, “When will you be back?”

  “Oh to dinner,” said Betty. “May I bring Jonathan back?”

  “No, thank you very much,” Jonathan said hastily. “I couldn’t tonight. Besides, you’re dining with me and after that we’ll see. Let’s go.”

  “All right,” said Betty. “I’ll ring you up, Mother, and tell you what we decide.”

  Jonathan looked at Richard. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Richard came lightly forward. He said to Lady Wallingford, “I’ve intruded quite long enough. It’s been quite unforgivable, and I don’t suppose you mean to forgive me, which would save us both trouble. Goodbye, and thank you so much. I’m glad that Betty is better and that Sir Bartholomew will soon be back.”

  Betty exclaimed and Lady Wallingford, still in that dead voice, said, “How do you know?”

  “Oh the Foreign Office!” Richard said vaguely. “One can pick things up. Goodbye, Lady Wallingford, and thank you again. Come, children, or we shall get no lunch.”

  But once outside the house, he disengaged himself. He sent off the two lovers and himself went on his way to his own flat. They, after the parting, went to lunch and the exchange of histories. Time was before them, and they had no need to hurry their understanding. After lunch they set out on their way to discover 59 Upper Clapham Lane. It was a largish respectable house, in reasonably good condition. Jonathan, as they looked at it, said, “Is everything brighter? or is it only being with you that makes me think so?—even than it was this morning?”

  Betty pressed his arm. She said, “Everything’s always as bright as it can be and yet everything’s getting brighter. Unless, of course, it’s dark.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Why,” he said, “you should be able to see better than I—why you should have more plain observation and common understanding than I—well, never mind! Let’s ring.”

  Presently they found themselves in Mrs. Plumstead’s suite; she made it seem that by the way she welcomed them. She was a charming old lady, who was extremely touched and pleased by the unexpected appearance of Betty. She managed to treat it as at once an honor conferred and a matter of course, and made no allusion to the long separation. She did, however, with an awful aloofness once or twice allude to the parting between herself and Lady Wallingford, saying with an iciness equal to Lady Wallingford’s, “I didn’t suit my lady.” Jonathan said, in answer, “You seem to have suited Betty very well, Mrs. Plumstead,” and added ambiguously, “Without you she couldn’t have been what she is.”

  Mrs. Plumstead, sitting upright, said, “No; my lady and me—we did not suit. But there’s a thing that’s been on my mind, my dear, all these years, and I think I ought to tell you. I’m free to say that I was younger then and apt to take things on myself, which I wouldn’t do now, for I don’t think it was quite proper. Her ladyship and I did not see eye to eye, but after all she was your mother, my dear, and no doubt meant you well. And if it was to be done again, perhaps I would not do it.”

  Jonathan thought that Mrs. Plumstead at that moment might have passed for Queen Elizabeth pronouncing upon the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. And then he forgot such literary fancies in the recollection of Betty’s other life and of the lake of which at lunch she had told him, and the high sky and the wise water and all the lordly dream, if it were a dream. Betty was leaning forward now and gazing intently at the old lady. She said, “Yes, nurse?”

  “Well, my dear,” the old nurse went on and ever so faintly blushed, “as I say, I was younger then, and in a way I was in charge of you, and I was a little too fond of my own way and very obstinate in some things. And now I do not think it right. But you were such a dear little thing and I did once mention it to my lady, but she was very putting-off and only said, ‘Pray, nurse, do not interfere’—her ladyship and I never suited—and I ought to have left it at that, I do think now, but I was obstinate, and then you were such a dear little thing, and it did seem such a shame, and so—” the old nurse said, unaware of the intensity of the silence in the room—“well, I christened you myself.”

  Betty’s voice, like the rush of some waterfall in a river, answered, “It was sweet of you, nurse.”

  “No; it wasn’t right,” Mrs. Plumstead said. “But there it is. For I thought then that harm it couldn’t do you and good it might—besides getting back on her ladyship: Oh I was a wicked woman—and one afternoon in the nursery, I got the water and I prayed God to bless it, though I don’t know now how I dared, and I marked you with it, and said the Holy Name, and I thought, ‘Well, I can’t get the poor dear godfathers and godmothers, but the Holy Ghost’ll be her godfather and I’ll do what I can.’ And so I would have done, only soon after her ladyship and I didn’t suit. But that’s what happened, and you ought to know now you’re a grown woman and likely to be married and have babies of your own.
”

  Betty said, “So it was you who lifted me out of the lake!”

  Jonathan thought that Lady Wallingford’s behavior to her servants had been, on the whole, unfortunate. She had never credited the nurse she employed with such piety, decision and courage (or obstinacy, if you preferred the word). And now as in some tales Merlin had by the same Rite issued from the womb in which he had been mysteriously conceived, so this child of magic had been after birth saved from magic by a mystery, beyond magic. The natural affection of this woman and her granddaughter had in fact dispelled the shadows of giant schemes. And this then was what that strange Rite called baptism was—a state of being of which water was the material identity, a life rippling and translucent with joy.

  Betty had stood up and was kissing her nurse. She said, “Goodbye, nurse. We’ll come again soon, Jon and I. And never be sorry; some day I’ll tell you how fortunate it was.” She added, quite naturally, “Bless me, now.”

  “God bless you, my dear,” the old woman said. “And Mr. Drayton too, if I may take the liberty. And make you both very happy. And thank you for saying it was all right.”

  When they were outside the house, Betty said, “So that’s how it was! But … Jon, you must tell me about it—what it’s supposed to be.”

  Jonathan said grimly, “I don’t know that you’ll be much better off for my explaining. After all, it’s you that are happening. I’m not sure that I’m not a little scared of you, darling.”

  “I’m not sure that I’m not a little scared myself,” said Betty seriously. “Not badly, but a little. It’s mixed up with discovering that you’re really you—wonderful, darling, but rather terrifying. Let’s go and look at your pictures, shall we? I’ve never yet looked at any of them properly and yesterday I was shaking with fear of my mother. I don’t mind her now at all.”

  “Anything,” said Jonathan, “that pleases you pleases me. And God send that that shall be true until we die—and perhaps he will. Let’s take a taxi. That’s one great advantage of being engaged—one always has a perfectly good reason for taking taxis. All these things are added to one.”

  They spent some time in his room looking at various paintings, before Betty allowed herself to look at those two which still stood on their respective easels. She lingered for a long time before that of the City-in-light and Jonathan saw her eyes fill with tears. He caught her hand and kissed it. She went close to him. She said, “I am a little scared, dearest. I’m not ready for it yet.”

  Jonathan said, holding her, “You’re ready for much more than a painting … even if the colors have really become colors.”

  “It’s terribly like a fact,” Betty said. “I love it. I love you. But I’m not very intelligent, and I’ve got a lot to learn. Jon, you must help me.”

  Jonathan said only, “I’ll paint you next. By the lake. Or no—I’ll paint you and all the lake living in you. It shall be quite fathomless and these”—he kissed her hands again—“are its shores. Everything I’ve done is only prentice work—even these things. I don’t much want to keep them any more.”

  “I’d just as soon you didn’t keep the other one,” Betty said. “Could you bear not to? I don’t really mind, but it’s rather horrid to have about—now.”

  “I could quite easily bear to get rid of it,” Jonathan answered. “What shall we do with it? Give it to the nation? as from Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Drayton on their wedding. Publicity and all that.”

  “Ye-es,” said Betty doubtfully. “I don’t think I want the nation to have it. It seems rather rude to give the nation what we don’t want.”

  “What you don’t want,” Jonathan corrected. “Myself, I think it’s one of the better examples of my Early Middle Period. You must learn to think in terms of your husband’s biography, darling. But if we’re not to keep it and not to give it to the nation, what shall we do with it? Give it to Simon?”

  Betty looked at him, a little startled; then, as they gazed, they each began to smile and Jonathan went on. “Well, why not? He’s the only one who’s really liked it. Your mother certainly doesn’t, and you don’t, and I don’t, and Richard doesn’t. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll take it down to Holborn and leave it for him. Betty, you won’t go back to Highgate tonight?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” said Betty. “Only I’ve got nothing with me, so I don’t see how I can go to a hotel, even if we could find a room. And I don’t at all mind going back.”

  “No, but I mind,” Jonathan said, seriously. “To be honest, I don’t think Simon’s going to leave it at this. I’m not particularly bothered at the moment, because after what’s happened I don’t believe he’s a chance. I think Almighty God has him in hand. But I’d like, as a personal concession, to have you under my eye. There’s my aunt at Godalming. Or there’s here. Or, of course, there’s Richard’s place. That’s an idea, if he didn’t mind; it’s more fitted out for a woman.”

  Betty said, “It would be very nice of Lester.” She did not know what Lester was now doing, but in that young and heavenly hero-worship which in heaven is always prejustified by fact and is one mode of the communion of saints, she was convinced that Lester was engaged on some great and good work. She was even willing in a modest candor to presume on Lester’s good will. But instinctively she put forward her own. She said, “And anyhow, Jon, I was going to ask if we mightn’t get Richard to come with us to dinner somewhere.”

  “I’d thought of that myself,” said Jonathan. “We might; we most certainly might. I’d hardly met his wife, but she seemed a good sort—even before all that you told me.”

  “Oh she’s a marvel,” Betty exclaimed. “She’s … she’s like the light in that picture—and very nearly like you.”

  Jonathan looked at the City on the canvas. He said, “If I’m going to start serious work, and if we’re giving Simon his picture, and if you feel like that about her—and if Richard would care for it, do you think we might offer him this? Unless you’d prefer to keep it?—as, of course, I should.”

  Betty opened her eyes. She said, “I think it’s a marvelous idea. Jon, would you? I’d always wanted to give Lester something, but I never could, and if you’d give them this, it’d be perfect. If they’d take it.”

  “If they—!” said Jonathan. “My girl, do you happen to realize that this is, to date, my best work? Are you suggesting that any decent celestialness wouldn’t be respectful?”

  Betty and all the air about her laughed. She said demurely, “She mightn’t know much about paintings and she mightn’t think them important—even yours.”

  “I’m not so sure that you do yourself,” Jonathan said. But his lady protested anxiously, “Oh I do, Jon; well, in a way I do. Of course, I shall understand better presently.”

  Jonathan abruptly interrupted. “You’re entirely right,” he said. “But as and while I’m here, it’s my job. We will ask Richard if he’d like it, and we’ll ask him to dinner so as to ask him, and then we’ll ask him if we can all sleep at his place—and on the way there we’ll drop the other thing in on Simon. Come and help me telephone.”

  When he left the others Richard had returned to his flat. There he just managed to get to bed before he went to sleep. It was well into the afternoon before he woke, and woke more refreshed and serene than, as he lay there pleasantly aware of it, he could ever remember having felt in his life before, or at least not since he had been a very small child. This freshness and energy reminded him of that. He had no sense of nostalgia; he did not in the least wish to be small again and a child, but he could almost have believed he was now as happy as he remembered he had sometimes been then. An arch of happiness joined the then and the now, an arch he ought to have known all the time, under which or even in which he ought to have lived. It was somehow his fault that he had not and yet it had never been there or but rarely. If this was life, he had somehow missed life, in spite of the fact that he had on the whole had a very pleasant and agreeable life. There was a great difference between what he had kn
own and what he ought to have known. And yet he did not see how he could have known it.

  When he got up, he found himself amused and touched by his own physical resilience. As he moved about the room, he misquoted to himself, “And I might almost say my body thought”; and then his mind turned to that other body which had meant so much to him, and he drifted aloud into other lines:

  Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul.

  He had never before so clearly understood that sense of Lester as now when that second line must be rationally untrue. But his sleep had restored to him something he had once had and had lost—something deeper even than Lester, something that lay at the root of all magic, that the body was itself integral to spirit. He had in his time talked a good deal about anthropomorphism and now he realized that anthropomorphism was but one dialect of divine truth. The high thing which was now in his mind, the body that had walked and lain by his, was itself celestial and divine. Body? it was no more merely body than soul was merely soul; it was only visible Lester.

  His mind turned again to that house by Holborn. He thought of it, after his sleep, as a nightmare to which he need not return unless, for any reason, he chose. In the sleep from which he had come there could be no nightmares. They were possible only to his waking life and sometimes from that cast back into the joy of sleep. He drew a deep breath. Simon was only an accident of a life that had not learned to live under that arch of happiness. It was astonishing how, this way, Simon dwindled. That last moment when something disagreeable had floated in at the window of the hall, some remote frigid exchange between imbeciles, was still repugnant to him. But now it was at a distance; it did not even distress him. What did distress him, as it crept back into his mind, was a memory of himself in the street outside the house, of his indulgent self. This unfortunately was no nightmare. He had, in that distant Berkshire wood, been just so; he had been kind to his wife. She (whatever her faults) had never been like that to him; she had never been dispassionately considerate. But he—he undoubtedly had. His new serenity all but vanished and he all but threw his hairbrush at his face in the mirror, as he thought of it. But his new energy compelled him to refrain and to confront the face, which, as he looked at it, seemed to bear the impress of love behaving itself very unseemly. Her love had never borne that mark. Rash, violent, angry, as she might have been, egotistic in her nature as he, yet her love had been sealed always to another and not to herself. She was never the slave of the false luxuria. When she had served him—how often!—she had not done it from kindness or unselfishness; it had been because she wished what he wished and was his servant to what he desired. Kindness, patience, forbearance, were not enough; he had had them, but she had had love. He must find what she had—another kind of life. All these years, since he had been that eager child, he had grown the wrong way, in the wrong kind of life. Yet how to have done other? how to have learned, as she had learned, the language without which he could not, except for a conceded moment, speak to the imperial otherness of her glory? He must, it seemed, be born all over again.