He did not mention his suggestion that she should return with him to London in September.
Chapter Four
I
The nurse who came to look after John Conan Osborne Whitworth on the 12th of February arrived with the highest recommendations. It was true she had not recently cared for a child, but she had been nurse to Mr Gerald Van Hefflin, of Hefflin’s Court, near Salcombe and Mr Van Hefflin for two years before he died had been subject to homicidal impulses. Except for a solitary occasion, when a servant was stabbed, she had always been able to prevent serious harm.
In appearance she was not the grim-faced woman some of the others had been. She was quite small, very neat, with a frail, obsequious voice that was studiously genteel. Only in the way she stood was there something both spinsterish and aggressive: legs apart, broad spare shoulders braced. Fortyish. Clean-looking. Miss Cane. Ossie had an interview with her and was gratified. She impressed him with her total command of the situation. If Mrs Whitworth were subject to homicidal impulses solely towards her own son, the task was a simple one. John Conan must be guarded. John Conan could be guarded. To protect everyone meant watching Mrs Whitworth as she had had to watch Mr Van Hefflin. To protect John Conan it was only necessary to be constantly with him.
After two weeks Ossie was very satisfied indeed. It was natural, he believed, for a man like himself, head and shoulders above the herd, vigorous, young, intellectual, a man both of the world and of God, it was natural that he should have what he called bodily vigour; and for this the church had designed the state of Holy Matrimony, whereby those natural needs might be fulfilled without fornication or other perverse sins. This outlet, this usefully ordained channel for those who did not possess the gift of continency – recommended by Paul and sanctified by two thousand years of experience – had been denied him by his wicked and ungrateful wife; and so he had fallen into the sin of visiting her wanton sister every Thursday.
But once a week, Thursdays only, was itself a serious strain on his mental and physical self-control. If only he might return to his wife, perhaps Mondays and Fridays – he was willing to be restrained in his demands – his existence would settle into a less turbulent pattern. If that happened, and if Morwenna came to accept him with a good grace, as he felt more and more convinced she eventually would, once the natural process was resumed – then he might even consider breaking with Rowella altogether.
For his visits carried their continuing risk. Every Thursday his horse was left in the ostler’s yard hard by Mr Pearce’s house for upwards of two hours. When the summer came it would again be impossible in the long light evenings. Also in the last few weeks Rowella had been in a more demanding mood. There had been a new carpet to buy, some new candlesticks, new shoes, a velvet gown. Of course it was not done blatantly, in any vulgar fashion such as he would have had to indulge in with the harlots by the river. But however discreetly done, the money still flowed out, and if by any chance he chose to withhold it, he had no doubts at all but that little Rowella’s exciting favours would be withdrawn.
So Miss Cane pleased him. And after three weeks he felt sufficiently encouraged to take the dread risk. Morwenna had retired early, pleading a headache, and he had been sitting in his study, carefully but unsuccessfully reading a book of sermons by the Reverend Anton Wylde. They did not impress him. They were banal and repetitive. They brought in the name of God too much and emphasized faith rather than works, spirituality above the practical routines of the church. Ossie was a practical man and knew that on this earth at least it was the ‘eternal fitness’ of formal, ordered religion that mattered most.
He put down the book. Possibly this evening even the best sermons of the age would have failed wholly to engage his attention. Because he was aware that upstairs was a young woman, desirably comely though resentful, to whom he was bound by the holy rites of the church and of whom he had had no satisfaction for upwards of two years. He pictured her, soft and yielding, or hard and resisting, enclosed in her white woollen nightgown and preparing herself for sleep. There should not be sleep yet. There must not be sleep yet.
He would have her, as was his right. He would take her if necessary in despite of herself, as also was his right. Neither the law nor the church recognized the sin of rape as committed by a husband upon his lawful wedded wife. And tomorrow, if by any vile chance she really meant that she would retaliate upon him by attempting to injure his son – their son – Miss Cane, strong, watchful, patient, and indomitable, would see that she was thwarted. Then, if she did so act, the question of her being committed to a madhouse might be raised again.
He got up, straightened his waistcoat, took a last gulp of port, went upstairs. He knocked lightly and entered his wife’s bedroom. Morwenna, as he had expected, was in bed and reading one of those obnoxious library books. She looked up, at first inquiringly, then startled, horribly alarmed when she saw the expression in his eye.
He shut the door and stood with his back to it, taking her in, making sure that he saw her aright, all his skin crawling at the sight of her lovely shape outlined in the bed. Then he took off his coat and waistcoat and began to unfasten his stock.
‘Ossie!’ Morwenna said. ‘Why are you here? Why have you come tonight? You know what I said! You know what I threatened!’
‘Yes,’ said Ossie, quite gently for him. ‘But you are still my wife, and this terrible penance, this dreadful deprivation that you have callously imposed upon me – against all the marital vows that you took on our marriage – it must – it must come to an end. It is a long time, Wenna. It is high time, Wenna,’ he went on, as if confiding a secret to her that no one else must know. ‘You swore before God to be a wife to me. It is your holy duty. This time you must – must, please, give way to me. But first . . . first, let us say a little prayer . . .’
II
Mr Arthur Solway, Librarian of the County Library in Prince’s Street, which now offered near five hundred books that might be borrowed or read on the premises, was a tall, thin, frail-looking young man, of a peaceable and nervous disposition. When he had first fallen in love with Rowella Chynoweth and discovered to his joy – almost consternation – that his affection was returned, he had been unable to sleep at nights for thinking of his wonderful fortune. The fact that she confessed she had been taken advantage of by some vile brute of a man – unspecified as to name and date – rubbed a little of the gilt off the gingerbread; but he was soon able to forget it in the appreciation of his future wife. Coming from the terrible slums in Water Street, where his family still lived, teaching himself to read and write every night after work by the light of a guttering ship’s candle, being offered – as young as twenty-four – the librarianship of the new library, thanks to a recommendation from the Hon. Maria Agar, to whom his mother had at one time been a servant; slowly edging himself out of the pit of dire poverty to a state in which he could at least pay for a proper suit, eat a few sparse but nourishing meals, mix on terms with the cream of the town’s literate society, help his family a little, and walk the streets of Truro feeling himself to be a respectable citizen – these were marks of an achievement he never ceased to thank God for. He was poor, he was hard-working, he was short-sighted, but he was supremely lucky.
His marriage to Rowella raised him in a single step higher than he had ever thought to go. She was so refined, so beautiful – to him – in a strange oblique way; she could read Latin and Greek; her mind was both sharper and deeper than his; they talked books often, and he soon knew, soon acknowledged, her superior intellect.
But in some ways she was less proud than he – she called his a false pride – and the memory of his meetings with her brother-in-law, the vicar of St Margaret’s, during which they had argued and wrangled almost to the point of physical combat as to the size of the dowry that the Reverend Mr Whitworth was going to provide, such memories made him sweat even now to think of. Rowella had been at his back all through, giving him resolve, fortifying his weakness, salving his embar
rassment, telling him that if he really wanted to marry her he must fight for a sufficient sum to set them up in the town in some small comfort.
So he had done battle, a most reluctant warrior, and somehow between them they had cajoled Mr Whitworth into giving them £500. With some of it they had bought and furnished this four-roomed cottage, the rest had gone into Consols and provided them with an income of £30 a year. And true enough, just as Rowella had said, it made all the difference to their lives. They were in moderate circumstances but they were substantial.
In another field too his marriage had worked a miracle; for Rowella was a first cousin to Mrs George Warleggan, now through her husband one of the most influential ladies in Cornwall. He had married, as it were, on the one hand into the old landed impoverished gentry and on the other into the new rich mercantile class. From an infinite nonentity he had become a small somebody.
Not that, as yet, his mother-in-law had ever visited him, and the Whitworths, after giving them the dowry and being present at the wedding, appeared to have totally cut them off. But Mrs Elizabeth Warleggan had done them several kindnesses, and she was particularly gracious to him when she came into the library. And it was early days yet. There was no need to rush. By the time he was thirty he would have learned better manners and how to speak better from Rowella, and gradually, he was sure, the family would accept him.
It was clear to him also now that Rowella had a little money of her own that she had not told him of. This last year she had spent small but noticeable amounts on amenities for the house. The new carpet in the bedroom must have cost quite a sum and was a tremendous improvement, for in the winter it stopped the cold draughts coming up through the floorboards. Sometimes too she had a half-sovereign in her purse, which he could not imagine her having saved from her housekeeping – quite apart from the fact that he always gave her this in silver. But it was all part of the wonderful new life he was leading.
He worked most evenings at home until nine, but Thursday evenings he regularly spent with his family. Rowella was very good about this, always insisting on his going, wet or fine, so that he should not disappoint them. She would not come with him – she said she sometimes called in during the day – but she almost always had a little present to send them: a pot of jam, a few eggs, a twist of tobacco, or some sweetmeats for the children; she was very thoughtful.
On the second Thursday in March Arthur Solway arrived home from the library about six-thirty, just as the setting sun was throwing magenta and jade green feathers across the sky. It was still very cold, so cold in fact that Rowella had lit a fire in their bedroom; but there was too much wind for a likelihood of severe frost. He ate a hasty snack with her and left at seven. The colours had faded but the sky was still high and light. She gave him a half pound of butter to take.
Water Street, which was a narrow slit of sheds and houses leading off the more respectable Quay Street, was not ten minutes’ walk from their home, but the short cut led through the even more derelict area bordering the wharves, where the lowest and poorest and least law-abiding lived. Arthur hunched his narrow shoulders as a woman called an invitation after him; he decided that, as there were two ships in, he would go home the long way tonight.
His father’s home was one of a row of cottages belonging to the Corporation and let out at a rental of two guineas a year. It consisted of a front room, a scullery behind, and a small kitchen which Mr Solway had turned into his workroom as a carpenter, and one room above, about sixteen feet square under sloping eaves, where everyone slept. Arthur’s visit was the red-letter day for his family, since his success was greater than any of them had ever dared to expect; and as a result of it he had been able to pay the arrears of rent so that the Corporation had returned Mr Solway’s tools and he was able to scrape a bare living again. Unfortunately, though a hard worker, he was not really gifted with his hands and usually received only simple commissions. But he had his own simple dignity and his own pride, and in the bad days of a few years ago he had persistently refused to be turned out of his cottage and to allow his family to be accommodated in the Poor’s House. Now, thanks to Arthur, those dangers were behind them.
As usual the librarian was welcomed, and was happy in his welcome. Surprisingly, every child Mrs Solway had borne had survived – though one or two were of dubious health and intelligence – so that, with only two away in service, there were nine people living in the house, the eldest child after Arthur being twenty-two, the youngest not yet three.
Although he had already eaten something, Arthur had to share their supper, spartan though it was, and talk was of the weather and prices and scarlet fever and how Penrose’s son had lost a leg on the Nile and was being sent home and how people were complaining the road was too wide to cross in safely now the Middle Row had been pulled down, and how Mr Pearce the Notary of St Clement’s Street who had been sick for so long, had now had a further heart stroke, and how George Tabb had been so drunk he had fallen in the gutter and lain there in the freezing cold half the night till his wife found him.
Right at the end of supper Tabbie Solway, the eldest girl, suddenly said: ‘I’m goin’. ‘Old me. ‘Old me!’ But it was too late. Mr Royal, the apothecary they went to, had advised them to tie a handkerchief tight round each arm as soon as she felt a fit coming on, and sometimes this did seem to halt or subdue the attack. But this time the seizure occurred too sharply for any of them to act and in a minute she was lying on the floor, twitching and foaming at the mouth.
It was a horrid sight, but everyone was so used to it that even the baby did not cry. The mother and the next eldest daughter saw to Tabbie, in so far as they could, putting damp cloths on her forehead and a stick in her mouth to save her tongue; the younger ones carried the plates and the mugs into the scullery; Arthur and his father drew near to the fire, and Mr Solway lit his pipe. They watched the struggling girl on the floor and talked in low tones.
Presently her convulsions grew less and she began to breathe more easily as if going gently off to sleep. Sometimes this happened, and it would then be necessary to carry her up the creaking ladder to the room above. But just as everyone was relaxing another fit came on, and it was clear this was going to be one of her bad times.
The second fit lasted nearly as long as the first, and was succeeded by a third.
‘I’d best go for Mr Royal,’ said Arthur.
‘Yes. He d’give her something betwixt one fit and the next, and it d’seem to soothe the poor maid.’
‘I’d like for you to have Dr Behenna,’ said Arthur. ‘He’s a more learned physical man and people speak high of him everywhere.’
‘Another time, maybe. But I doubt he’d come so late to the likes of we. And he’s further away. Mr Royal is but just up the hill beside you.’
‘I’ll go fetch him,’ said Arthur, and put on his cloak and hat.
Braving the wharves again, he hurried to Mr Royal’s shop. It was not in fact much further to Dr Behenna’s, but he understood his father’s reluctance to summon so important a man.
While he had been indoors the north-west wind had blown up a heavy hailstorm, and it was only just over; the black belly of the cloud was still obscuring the young moon. There was a light over the shop and Mr Royal, a tubby pock-marked man, answered the door himself and agreed to venture out to see his patient. He must, however, mix the medicine he wished to bring, since it was a volatile substance and could not be kept. Would Mr Solway care to wait or would he return and tell them to expect him? Mr Solway said he would return.
This he set out to do, and then the thought crossed his mind that he might warn Rowella he would be late. It was some time since he had seen one of Tabbie’s turns; indeed it was the worst he’d witnessed and he thought it probably the worst she’d ever had. Tabbie was a simple soul but ineffably sweet; no ill thought had entered her mind since childhood, and Arthur was deeply attached to her. He felt he should stay at least until she was quiet, at least until the storm was over and she was safe
in bed. And he would like a private word with Mr Royal.
He stopped at the end of his street and went up it. Theirs was a four-roomed cottage and he was a little surprised to see no light downstairs. Their bedroom was at the back overlooking waste land. She was probably up in the bedroom. He tried the door. It was locked.
This was as arranged. Rowella had said to him that her only objection to Thursday nights was that she was nervous of being alone, so she now locked the door. But she was always waiting up for him when he returned at ten, and sometimes he joked about what would happen if she went to sleep and he was locked out all night. Surely she had not gone to bed so early. It was barely nine.
He hesitated whether to knock. It might startle her, since she would wonder who it was. Perhaps he should not bother her. If he were very late and she had gone to sleep he could easily throw a few pebbles at the bedroom window and wake her then.
But if she hadn’t gone to sleep and he didn’t return at ten she would be worried. She had probably let the fire out downstairs and was sitting upstairs for warmth.
He hesitated a second more, and as he did so the retreating clouds moved off the face of the moon and the moon lit up the shabby street. And as it happened he was looking down. His own footsteps were clearly marked in the half-inch of hail that had fallen. And there were other footsteps, larger than his, heavier than his, part obscured by the hail, part outlined by it, so that it was plainly evident whoever had trodden this way had done so at the height of the hailstorm. And the footsteps appeared to go up to the door but not to return from it.
III
A terrible liquid feeling clutched at his guts, so that the more logical side of his mind found time to wonder if he had been suddenly taken with the flux that was so prevalent in the town. But his heart lurched and thumped as if it were coming to a stop, and he did not think he had heart trouble. And his mouth was dry so that he was incapable of moving his tongue. He had never, never been suspicious until this moment; but in the horrifying clarity of the moment it seemed to him that underlying his love and his trust had been some basic, animal sense that had told him all was not well.
The Angry Tide Page 19