‘Ah,’ said Mrs Pluvius, as the door opened. ‘This will be our Mr Linton.’ She looked at the young man with mock-severity. ‘You are ten minutes late, Edward.’
‘Yes, Mrs Pluvius. I pray you will forgive me.’
‘We have a visitor. Two visitors. Miss Peacock, this is Mr Edward Linton.’
‘How do you do, Miss Peacock. How do you do, Miss Druid.’
‘He is not without virtues,’ said Mrs Pluvius, ‘but punctuality is not among them. Eh, Edward?’
‘I was kept by my duties, Mrs Pluvius,’ said the young man, taking his seat at the table. ‘I find that Jenkins minor has not yet mastered his Third Conjugation. I had to tell him that without it he would infallibly end on the gallows.’
‘Did he believe you, Mr Linton?’ inquired the headmaster.
‘Fortunately, no, sir. But he got the general idea, I fancy. He’s not a bad boy.’
‘Then let him be an example to you, Edward,’ said his aunt. ‘You will find, as you grow older, Miss Peacock, that men always have a plausible excuse for being late for meals.’
‘Am I included in the indictment?’ asked Mr Pluvius.
‘I feel sure you are, sir,’ said Edward Linton. ‘One may put the point syllogistically. All men are late for meals and make excuses. Mr Pluvius is a man. Therefore Mr Pluvius is late for meals and makes excuses.’
‘In the present instance, however,’ said Mr Pluvius, ‘we must, I think, distinguish. You, my dear boy, have pleaded duty. Now duty is not an excuse: it is an explanation.’
‘Thank you, sir. Then I shall take my tea with a clear conscience.’
‘Not only,’ said Mrs Pluvius, ‘do they make excuses. They try to dazzle and confuse us with their cleverness, knowing us to be ignorant women.’
‘Really, Mrs Pluvius!’ protested Edward Linton. ‘Ought you to say that of your guests?’
He met Sarah’s inscrutable look, smiled at her shyly, and looked quickly away, as though conscious of having talked too much.
‘You are wondering, Miss Peacock,’ said Mr Pluvius, ‘why my sister’s son addresses his aunt and uncle with so much ceremony. The answer may be given in the words of Seneca, which, should your Latin be rusty, Mr Linton himself will be happy to construe for us. Longum iter est per precepta, breve et efficax per exempla. Well, Edward?’
‘Must I, sir? And at tea-time? What Seneca had in mind, Miss Peacock,’ said the young man, gazing into his teacup, ‘was that if I address my uncle as Uncle Ambrose on private occasions I may inadvertently do so in the presence of the boys, which would be bad for discipline. In short, I have to set them a good example. Will that do, sir?’
‘The translation is somewhat free,’ said Mr Pluvius. ‘But never mind. It will serve.’
‘But would it matter, Mr Pluvius,’ asked Sarah, ‘if the boys did call you Uncle Ambrose?’
Startled glances greeted this audacity. Mr Pluvius alone was unperturbed.
‘Not to me, my dear young lady. But to them, yes. If I did not stand on the pedestal of my dignity I should deprive them of the unlawful joy of pushing me off when they talk about me among themselves. That would be unkind.’
‘How noble of you,’ said Sarah. ‘You carry the burden of dignity, so that they may enjoy the pleasures of impudence.’
Oh dear, she thought, beginning to blush for herself, why must I show off? Who is it I want to impress? He’s clever no doubt, but he’s very young, and looks it in spite of his elegant starched linen and black tailcoat. To hide her preoccupation she began asking questions about the school. How many boys? How many classes? What time did they go to bed, and what games did they play? She hardly listened to the answers, but pricked up her ears, inwardly rejoicing, when Mrs Pluvius said:
‘Edward will show you everything after tea. Won’t you, Edward? While Miss Druid and I have a nice talk together.’
So Sarah was shown everything. The classrooms, the dining hall, the school library, all had to be looked at and admired. There was also a scattering of boys here and there, who stood up at sight of her, like soldiers on parade, or with conscious looks melted away from the alarming presence.
‘Is it you they’re afraid of, or me?’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ he answered vaguely. ‘I mean …’ He looked away, stiff and unsmiling.
She glanced timidly at his profile, wishing he would look at her and fearing lest he should.
‘This is the library,’ he said, after an awkward silence. ‘They come here when they want to be quiet, and read.’
‘I see.’
‘They can do their prep here if they like. At least the seniors can. Because of the no-talking rule.’
‘Are you very strict with them, Mr Linton? Do you beat them a lot?’
‘Not often.’ He looked startled. Then smiled shyly at distance. ‘And then only the smaller ones, who can’t hit back.’ But before she could answer he was serious again. ‘My uncle doesn’t believe in that kind of thing. It’s not quite like other schools, you know.’
‘I’m sure it’s very nice,’ she said politely.
‘It must be a great bore for you, being shown round like this.’
‘Not at all. But I see it is for you. Please don’t waste any more of your time on me. I’m sure it’s very precious.’
And now, at last, he did look at her, in sheer astonishment, a blush mounting to his cheek. ‘Have I offended you, Miss Peacock?’
‘Of course not. How could you?’ She spoke with affected lightness, but her voice trembled.
‘I would rather do anything than that,’ he said harshly. ‘Anything in the world.’
Above the noise of her hurrying heart she heard herself say: ‘Please don’t exaggerate. Tell me more about the school.’ A sort of panic seized her. ‘Could we go outside, do you think? I should like to see the garden and the cricket-field and everything.’
In the open air she would be safe, she thought, from the folly that was possessing her. He was, after all, a quite ordinary young man. Hold fast to that. Tall, fair, good-looking in a queer way, but not, oh definitely not, handsome. At the tea-table, with his uncle and aunt to support him, he had seemed alert, self-possessed, even gay; but now, his high spirits were quenched, his movements were abrupt and selfconscious, and his severe black garments hung awkwardly, seeming not to belong to him. The elegant young gentleman had been displaced by a big, loose-limbed, awkward boy. Why then did his glance disturb her, and the deep music of his voice make her nerves tingle? Why this ridiculous, half-maternal impulse to do something, anything, that would restore to him his former self-assurance?
That part of the garden which was visible from the drawing-room window was out-of-bounds to the boys, but elsewhere in the grounds they might roam as they pleased. There were trees for climbing; there was a paddock where a pony grazed; and from the cricket-field beyond came the sound of boys’ voices, softened by distance. The hour was serene, the earth contained in a glowing stillness, as Sarah and her escort walked slowly across a series of three terraced lawns and entered a sun-spangled copse.
‘The playing-field is over there,’ said Edward Linton, with a vague gesture. ‘They’re practising at the nets. You can hear them.’
‘Yes. How peaceful it is here. I sometimes wish I had been a boy.’
‘I am glad you’re not.’
‘Are you? Why? Do you like being a schoolmaster, Mr Linton?’
‘I suppose so. It passes the time. My father’s idea is to set me up on my own, when I’ve got more experience.’
‘It must be wonderful to be so learned. But then men are, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Edward Linton. ‘Let’s not talk about me.’
‘What shall we talk about, then?’
‘About you, if you don’t mind. There’s something you ought to know.’
She stared at the ground, dazzled by his nearness and afraid of what must come. It’s too soon. It can’t be true. Things don’t happen like tha
t.
‘I expect it won’t interest you. I expect I shall offend you again.’
‘In that case you’d better not tell me,’ said Sarah, with heroic firmness.
‘I must,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘Forgive me, but I must. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.’ There was a moment’s silence between them, and as if conscious of anti-climax he added in a desperate, defeated tone: ‘That’s all.’
She raised her eyes to his, shyly, with a tremulous half-smile. ‘But that’s quite a lot, isn’t it, Mr Linton?’ He took a quick step towards her. ‘No. Don’t say any more. Not now. It’s too soon.’
Turning, she saw Patience Druid emerging from the house, in search of her.
Dearest Sarah (wrote Catherine), I am glad you are having a nice time. There is no news, nothing ever happens here, and we all miss you very much, especially me. Robert was half-expected on Sunday but didn’t come, it’s over three weeks since you and I saw him, and no letter or anything. Of course there is no reason why he should write to me but it seems rather funny all the same considering everything, I mean Mrs S’s strange behaviour, but perhaps he is afraid of Mama’s seeing the letter, if not I do not know what to think, it is rather worrying because I cannot believe she is the sort of person that could make him happy but men are so strange. You will perhaps say it is no business of mine and you are quite right in a way but one cannot help taking an interest seeing he is a friend of the family and Papa’s partner. Papa has a slight cough, I think he knows more than he says but never opens his lips and I dare not ask, apart from everything else it is quite time he came to Sunday luncheon again I should have thought but perhaps she will not let him. I wish you were home again there is lots to talk about, I might tell you a secret and you could give me some good donkeyfied advice dear elder sister, I being only a child as Mama is always telling me though nearly 21. Mama had quite a little scene with Cook yesterday but it has blown over thank goodness and all smiles. Now I must bring this letter to a close with much love from your affec sister, Catherine.
Sarah had this letter in her bosom and in her mind when on Saturday afternoon, taking one of her solitary walks, she visited Meonthorpe parish church. She was not a particularly imaginative girl, but church interiors, more especially when no service was in progress, had a curious attraction for her. St Gabriel’s stood apart and alone, all but its spire hidden from the road by trees and high hedges. Entering it she had the sensation of stepping out of time into a region of quick, luminous silence, in which the essence of bygone centuries and of centuries still to come was distilled. The afternoon sunlight, stained by the tall, coloured windows, slanted across the flagstone floor. The inexorable, deliberate tick of the tower-clock was like the beating of an immortal heart. Forgetting her intention of strolling round to examine the memorial tablets, the tombs, the recumbent stone figures, she sank into a pew and let the quietness flow into her….
She was roused, recalled from a long journey, by the sound of footsteps approaching down the aisle. They came to a halt. A voice spoke. A well-remembered voice. Edward Linton’s.
‘Are you all right? Is anything the matter?’
She looked up at him, dazed. ‘I think I was dreaming. What’s the time?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you outside,’ said Edward Linton. ‘I saw you come in. Do you mind?’
‘There was a young man here,’ said Sarah, clutching at a vanishing memory. ‘Not you. His name was David. He thought I was his mother.’ She shivered slightly, and got up.
‘You have been dreaming,’ said Edward gently. ‘Shall we go outside, into the sunshine?’
Meekly, still half-bemused, she followed him out of the church.
When they reached the porch he turned to her, lightly touching her hand. ‘You’re going home on Monday.” This may be my last chance.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I think you know what I want to say.’
‘Do I? Yes, perhaps I do.’
‘Well, then …’
‘But you must give me a little time.’
‘Oh, no!’ He seized her by the arms and turned her towards him. ‘I daren’t do that. It’s now or never. You’ve taken possession of me. I can’t think of anything else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah, smiling uncertainly.
‘Sorry!’
‘Sorry to be such a nuisance. You sounded quite angry.’
‘Did I? No wonder.’ He gazed at her ardently, half-smiling, but still with a hint of sternness, or desperation. ‘Do you, by any chance, like me at all, Sarah?’
‘I like you very much, Edward.’
‘Thank you,’ he said quaintly. ‘Will you marry me then?’
‘Isn’t it rather early to talk of that?’
‘Will you?’
She sighed, relaxing into his arms. ‘It looks as though I shall have to, if you’ve made up your mind to it.’
Chapter Six
Catherine and Robert
Back at Lutterfield, Sarah, as always on such occasions, had the blissful excitement of rediscovering her home, of finding everything unchanged. Because she had seen new places and new faces, and because above all she had found in Edward Linton the answer to a long-maturing doubt, the ten days of her sojourn at Meonthorpe seemed in retrospect like an age; yet here, in her absence, time had apparently stood still. House, garden, countryside, mother and sisters, all were blessedly the same. In view of all that had happened to her, it was difficult to believe that Mama, Catherine, and Julia, Alice and Jenny and Cook, Harry Dawkins and Old Piggott, were any of them a minute older than when she had left them a lifetime ago. One thing only was different, and disconcerting: Mr Peacock was away in London, on a business visit. For more reasons than one she was impatient to see him, and hardly knew how to wait till his return.
‘Something’s happened to you, Sarah,’ said Catherine, when after a long, garrulous, family evening they reached the private haven of their bedroom.
Sarah smiled evasively. ‘It’s lovely to be back.’
‘Yes, but something’s happened,’ Catherine insisted. ‘Hasn’t it?’
‘I hope Papa comes home soon,’ said Sarah, getting into her nightdress.
Catherine was already in bed, sitting up, expectant. Sarah joined her. She blew out the candle, whose wick, the flame departed, gave forth an acrid, hovering stench; and presently, in the intimacy of darkness and warmth, she told her story.
‘Oh Sally! How wonderful for you!’ Catherine said. ‘I’m terribly excited. Aren’t you?’
‘I’m not altogether displeased,’ Sarah admitted. ‘But he may have changed his mind by now.’
‘Humbug said the hedgehog. You know he hasn’t. I expect there’ll be a letter tomorrow. Will he come to stay, do you think?’
‘That depends, doesn’t it.’
‘On Mama, you mean. Yes, there’s sure to be a commotion. When will you tell her?’
‘Not till Papa comes home. It’s a secret, mind, till then. Now tell me about Robert.’
‘I think, I’m not sure, he’ll be coming next Sunday. Papa said something. Isn’t it funny of him not to write, though?’
‘I expect he thought it unwise. Do you like him very much, Kitty?’
‘I might,’ said Catherine, ‘if he liked me. But I don’t suppose he does. Not much. Besides, there’s that woman. It must be wonderful to be in love. To let yourself, I mean. I do think you’re lucky, having Edward. I’m dying to see him. Is he nice, Sally?’
‘He is not entirely lacking in attractive qualities.’
Catherine gurgled. ‘Is that what you said when he asked you to marry him? How gratifying for him, as Papa would say.’
‘I don’t know about gratifying, but there were no complaints.’
‘It’s such a comfort, Sally, having you back. Don’t get married too soon, please!’
‘No chance of that,’ said Sarah, rather sombrely. ‘He’s not in a position to marry yet. Besides …’
�
��Besides what?’
‘We might have a double wedding. That would be fun.’
‘You and Julia, do you mean?’ said Catherine slyly.
‘Of course. What else?’
‘As for me,’ said Catherine, ‘I shall be an old maid. I may even go into a decline and fade away, like Mary Godolphin in Rosemary and Rue’ Now that she had Sarah again, to confide in and laugh with, her heart was lighter, her lovesickness eased. ‘Shall you tell Papa first, about Edward? He’s sure to be on your side.’
‘Will he be? I wonder.’ Sarah was not so confident.
Mr Peacock returned two days later, but not until Thursday was she able to put her question to the proof. A visit to London on his part was a rare event: for his womenfolk it had all the wonder and excitement of an odyssey. They crowded about him, plying him with questions and greeting with delighted indignation his teasingly brief replies. Had he stayed with Uncle Richard? Yes. Had he been to a theatre? No. Then what had he done and seen? What adventures had he had? He had got up in the morning, he assured them, and gone to bed at night, and in the interval had encountered a number of people all of whom, though Londoners, had eyes in their heads and noses above their chins. As to whether he was glad to be home again, he must have time to consider the question; but at least he could promise to endure the circumstance with fortitude. Sarah alone, playing his own game, held somewhat aloof from the inquisition, knowing that much as he enjoyed frustrating their curiosity he would sooner or later, in his own time, when the din had subsided, tell them all there was to be told. Meanwhile the salient fact that emerged was that the purpose of his visit had been achieved: all arrangements had been made for the opening of a London office of Messrs Peacock and Crabbe, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
The Daughters of Mrs Peacock Page 14