The Daughters of Mrs Peacock

by Gerald Bullet

  Upstairs, on the first floor, was a small room known as Papa’s study, to which Mr Peacock resorted when he wished to enjoy the pleasures of solitude. Catherine in early childhood had once described it to a visitor as ‘the place where Papa sleeps’, and it was true that sometimes, with a calf-bound volume nestling in his lap, he would close his eyes for a few moments, reasonably confident of being neither disturbed nor detected.

  ‘May I come in, Papa?’ said Sarah, peering round the edge of the door.

  ‘Eh? Certainly, child.’ He put down his pen.

  She advanced into the room. ‘Am I interrupting your letter?’

  ‘The fact is incontestable,’ said Mr Peacock. ‘It would be idle to deny it.’ He smiled amiably. ‘But the letter can wait. It will come to no harm.’

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ said Sarah, perching herself on the arm of the nearest chair.

  ‘Yes?’ He glanced at her sharply, over his spectacles.

  ‘I met someone while I was at Meonthorpe. Rather a nice person.’

  ‘Excellent, so far,’ said Mr Peacock judicially.

  ‘I wondered whether it would be a good idea to ask him to come and stay with us for a few days, during the school holidays.’

  ‘Am I to understand that the young gentleman is still at school?’

  ‘Don’t be difficult, Papa. He’s an assistant master. Actually, he’s older than I am.’

  ‘Poor fellow. How does he support the burden of his years?’

  ‘The point is,’ said Sarah firmly, ignoring the heavy banter, ‘we … like each other. And … the fact is, he has asked me to marry him.’

  ‘Has he indeed? Wasn’t that a little rash of him, on such a short acquaintance?’

  ‘I think you’ll like him, Papa.’

  ‘I’m already disposed to like him, my dear. Impetuous he may be, but he shows excellent taste.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  ‘But that’s not to say that I can do with him as a son-in-law.’

  ‘Would you care to know his name?’ said Sarah. ‘Or would that seem to you an irrelevance?’

  ‘The answer is Yes, my dear Sarah, to both questions. To know his name may turn out, eventually, to be a convenience. On the other hand, it can have no bearing on his eligibility.’

  On the strength of this meagre encouragement Sarah proceeded to tell all she knew of Edward Linton. She became aware, as the recital dwindled to its conclusion, that it amounted to painfully little.

  ‘You have known each other,’ said Mr Peacock, ‘for little more than a week. You have spoken with him twice, I gather, or is it three times? You have spent an aggregate of perhaps half an hour in his company. Are you, on the strength of that, proposing to spend the rest of your life with him? Really, my love, you surprise me. I thought you were a sensible young woman. Do I need to remind you that marriage is a long business, and a difficult one? At the moment, I’ve no doubt, you imagine you are in love. That’s very important and very agreeable, but it’s not, I assure you, enough. Have you, may I ask, ever felt like this before?’

  ‘Never,’ said Sarah, blushing deeply.

  ‘So much the worse. The experience is new to you, and therefore overwhelming. It may be that the young man is all, or nearly all, that you think him. But you are not, not yet, in a position to judge. You must give yourself time, my dear. And,’ he added significantly, ‘you must give him time, poor fellow. Has it occurred to you that he may already be half-repenting his impulsiveness? That’s a thing that has been known to happen.’

  Sarah had indeed been tormented at intervals by just that doubt; but this very morning it had been resolved.

  ‘Yes, Papa. But I had a letter this morning, if you remember? The one that Mama was so curious about.’

  ‘I see. And you haven’t spoken to your mother?’ Guiltily, staring at the ground, Sarah shook her head. ‘You realize, don’t you, that she’d be very hurt if she knew of this conversation? This will need careful handling, child. Whatever you may have privately resolved, an official engagement, at this stage, is clearly out of the question. My advice is this. Let the young man find a pretext for visiting Newtonbury, and from there call and pay his respects to Miss Sarah in due form. He will then, if all goes well, be invited to stay with us for a day or two. I’ll propose it myself if necessary. But as for what you’ve told me, my dear, I’ve already forgotten it. Let that be understood. His arrival will be a complete surprise to me.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Papa,’ said Sarah. ‘That’s a wonderful idea.’

  On Sunday morning Catherine woke at first light, and could not sleep again. This was the day, so long looked-for, when Robert Crabbe was coming to luncheon. Recently, and especially since Sarah’s homecoming, she had contrived to keep the thought at bay; but now it was unavoidable and must be examined in all its aspects. She was angry with him, and still more so with herself for having exposed her heart to no purpose. His five-weeks silence had not failed of its effect. At first she had been prolific in excuses for him, but now could no longer see his behaviour as anything but a snub, gentle and well-deserved, but bitterly unwelcome. Since he evidently had no use for her devotion, what better could he have done than ignore it? So she argued within herself, trying to be inflexibly just. Yet still her heart rebelled, clinging to its foolish dream. To meet him again would be painfully embarrassing for them both, she believed; yet the possibility that he might not come today after all was a torment. Even to see him would be something, would be almost everything.

  ‘Are you awake, Sarah?’

  Getting no answer she slipped out of bed, padded across the room, and flung back the curtains, letting sunlight flood in. Then lifting the ewer from its basin she poured out some water and began her ablutions, wishing that the process were a noisier one. The house was quiet, no one was yet stirring, and a direct assault on Sarah’s slumbers at this hour was against the code; but there was always a chance that with a little surreptitious encouragement she might wake of her own accord and put an end to this anxious intolerable solitude, this alternation of hope and dread. Sarah asleep had the trustful look of a young child: as well she might, having Edward for her own. Catherine rejoiced in her sister’s happiness but could not quite subdue a pang of envy that to Sarah, who had always been inclined to make fun of such things, not to herself who so much desired it, had come this lightning visitation, love at first sight. She’ll be married before long. And then, perhaps, Julia—who knows? And I shall be left alone, to be with Mama, and grow old.

  A drowsy voice from the bed murmured: ‘Is it time to get up?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Catherine, gliding quickly to the bedside, towel in hand. ‘But don’t go to sleep again, please, donkey, unless you most dreadfully want to. It’s Sunday. I was tired of lying awake, so I got up.’

  ‘Very commendable in a young girl,’ said Sarah, ‘this eagerness for church. Is it the thought of Mr Pardew’s preaching that excites you, dear child?’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ retorted Catherine. ‘What else could it be? But perhaps Mr Garnish will take the service today. He’s a good deal better, Julia says, in spite of the Budge.’ She seated herself on the bed and fixed expectant eyes on Sarah. ‘It’s Sunday,’ she said again. ‘I can hardly bear it, Sally.’ Her looked belied the words. The small alert face, enhaloed by the flame of her hair, glowed with a vital, irrational happiness. ‘Do you think he’ll come?’ she said breathlessly.

  Sarah smiled. ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I want him to, now,’ said Catherine, her eyes clouding. ‘It’s all rather frightening.’

  ‘I think you do, Kitty.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do, really. And yet …’

  ‘I know,’ said Sarah. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.’

  ‘You remember what we were talking about last night?’

  ‘It begins to come back,’ Sarah conceded, ‘as the mists of sleep disperse. We were talking about your lonely old age. Or at least yo
u were.’

  ‘I rather think it. was nonsense, don’t you?’ said Catherine judicially. ‘I mean, even if he doesn’t like me much, it’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘It certainly isn’t.’

  ‘Of course, I should never marry anyone else.’

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Sarah, with scarcely perceptible irony.

  ‘But it’ll be fun being an aunt,’ said Catherine wistfully.

  ‘We shall both be aunts in time,’ said Sarah. ‘And Julia too. Poor Julia!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Mama will never let us all go. Not if she can help it. And Julia, you know, suffers from an enlarged sense of duty.’

  ‘That won’t make any difference,’ said Catherine, ‘if she falls in love. Perhaps Mr Pardew will be the one. She sees a lot of him, because of the Sunday School. And Mama thinks he’s wonderful.’

  Of Mr Pardew’s wonderfulness they had a chance to judge for themselves a few hours later. The Vicar’s boasted recovery did not amount to much: he left his bed for an hour or two each day, but neither Julia nor Dr Witherby, though they pretended otherwise, could suppose that he would ever be able to resume his duties. They tactfully refrained from telling Mr Garnish that his ‘smart young curate’ was acquitting himself well in the pulpit. Responsibility had endowed Hugh Pardew with a new dignity and self-assurance. He would never be an inspired preacher, but this morning his manifest sincerity won respect even from Catherine, who, not daring to think of what lunchtime would bring, yet unable to forget it even for a moment, tried hard to concentrate on the sermon.

  In the churchyard, on the way out along the narrow gravel path flanked with tombstones standing in rough grass, mute memorials of names long forgotten, of men and women beyond reach of this quivering late-September sunlight, there were neighbours to be greeted and to exchange a moment’s gossip with. Then came the walk home, parents leading, daughters following in a row, each with a prayer book nestling in her muff. Catherine was now in a complicated state. She moved in an emotional vacuum between dream and reality, hardly knowing which was which. Her tormented psyche, confronted by a choice between hysteria and partial anaesthesia, chose the wiser, safer alternative; but the resulting numbness left no outward mark on her behaviour; aware, though she did not belong to it, of the immediate world about her, the wide-arching sky, the running hedgerows, the chalky lane, she joined without effort, and indeed without thought, in her sisters’ talk, while within her was an entranced silence, and within that silence, beating against its high walls, the voice of her anxiety, to which she dared not listen, incessantly chattered.

  Robert was waiting for them at the gate of the house, having arrived in their absence and stabled his horse in the yard. He was there. He was actual. He was a dream made manifest. Something, something of glamour, was lost to her in the process. Eagerness, having unbelievably attained its object, died within her. She experienced a moment of sick reaction. The moment passing, everything was normal again: ordinary, matter-of-fact. Robert was here. There was nothing more to wish for. Her heart resumed its long-suspended motion.

  He was exchanging greetings with the parents. He was lifting a hand in casual salute to the girls, still some twenty yards distant. Talking with Mrs Peacock he disappeared into the house.

  Catherine’s next sight of him left her new problem still unresolved. Was he what she had thought him, or was he, after all, a man like other men, no thing of wonder? He said ‘Hullo, Catherine!’ and she responded in like manner, cool and friendly. That was the policy she had resolved on, for her pride’s sake; and here, with her family about her, it was easy, as well as necessary, to pursue it. But gradually the shock of finding him actual, and therefore subtly different from her feverish imagining, wore off, giving place to a sense of miracle. Her frozen feelings thawed: the dream resumed its sway. He is here, she said again, but with a new meaning. He is here, and I am seeing him, and he is Robert.

  Covertly, during the long, leisurely luncheon, she watched him, being careful, unlike her former ingenuous self, that no one should observe her doing so. She saw, or thought she saw, that he was preoccupied, unhappy. His face in repose had always had a certain sombre gravity: that, and the quality of the smile that would suddenly and unexpectedly irradiate it, were the chief part of his personal attraction for her. But today there was an absentness as well. Conversation flowed with no apparent effort, and Catherine played her small necessary part in it, but Robert’s contribution was meagre until, halfway through the meal, as if uneasily conscious of his long silences, he became suddenly loquacious and launched into a long account of a great new work he had been reading, by his favourite modern poet. It was the story, told again and again, in a series of dramatic monologues, of a murder and its sequel, in seventeenth-century Rome. Catherine, had she been less intent on the speaker, would have been fascinated by his discourse; but the subject had features that did not commend themselves to Mrs Peacock’s sense of what was suitable for discussion at table, and on Sunday of all days, and in the hearing of young women; and Robert, becoming belatedly aware of her disapproval, stopped in mid-flow, flushed, frowned briefly, and lapsed into silence.

  Catherine said defiantly: ‘I should like to read it. Will you lend it to me, Robert?’

  ‘Mr Crabbe, my dear,’ said Mrs Peacock, ‘is not a lending library.’

  ‘So much the better,’ said her husband. ‘He won’t demand a subscription.’

  Robert, glancing from one to the other, decided to say nothing.

  In the afternoon, as usual, the two men made a tour of the home fields; and by Sarah’s contriving she and Catherine were permitted to go with them. A still larger party was proposed, but neither Mrs Peacock nor Julia felt inclined for the excursion. Before it had proceeded very far, Sarah attached herself to her father and by imperceptible degrees drew him away from the others. In his tweed jacket, knee breeches, and gaiters, he was today, as always on Sunday afternoons, the country gentleman, the gentleman farmer, consciously savouring the pride and pleasure of owning these acres of good English earth, precious moiety of an estate that had belonged to his family for something over a hundred years. He stared about him in a knowing, satisfied fashion; admired the ruminating cattle; discoursed upon the quality of the grazing; tut-tutted at sight here of a gate that needed mending, there of a newly-made gap in a hedge; and in fine enjoyed himself hugely. Sarah, for her part, enjoyed him. In a minor degree she shared his interest in the farm; she was flattered to find that she was an adequate substitute for Robert in his capacity of intelligent listener, always ready with the sage comment, the encouraging question; and, seeing the distance between themselves and the others steadily increase, rejoiced in the success of her stratagem.

  Catherine, however, was not happy. She was in a state of dizzy, tongue-tied suspense. She had watched her sister’s unplanned, unexpected manœuvre with a mixture of eagerness and nervous dread; and now, alone with Robert at last, she could find nothing to say. With no clue to his mind, and afraid not only of anticlimax, of having this crucial moment circumvented by trivial talk, but also of the very joy she so much desired, almost she wished herself home again, surrounded by dull everyday things, safe from the agony and splendour of this intolerable crisis.

  Robert too, for five interminable minutes, was silent. They walked side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, their eyes fixed on the ground. The day was warm and mellow, but the chill at her heart made her shiver, and her breath came tremblingly. When at last he did speak his voice seemed to reach her from a great distance.

  ‘Well, Catherine?’

  He was looking at her. She met his glance with a look of polite inquiry, utterly resolved never again to betray herself. He smiled painfully.

  ‘Well, Robert?’

  ‘There’s something I must say to you. I’ve no right to speak yet, but there may never be another chance, and I can’t wait any longer.’ He had come to a halt. She stood before him, waiting, tremblin
g, stubbornly silent. ‘I’m in love with you,’ he said. ‘That’s how it is. I ought not to be. It’s all wrong. But I am.’

  It was said, but she could not yet believe it.

  ‘Are you sure, Robert? Are you quite sure?’

  His answer, his burning look, disposed of all doubt. But the joy, so long hoped for, was too sudden. She could not yet bear it.

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said, in a small, cold voice.

  ‘Is that your answer, Catherine? Is that all your answer?’

  ‘Should I say more? Must I say that I love you? But you know that already. I made it too dreadfully plain.’ Interrupting his protest she said: ‘Are you sure it isn’t mere chivalry that you feel for me? Or, worse still, pity? You needn’t, you know. I shall get over it in time. And even if I don’t——’

  He seized her hands. ‘I love you. I’m drowned in love.’ His touch revived her, making the blood flow again. But both were conscious that the world, in the persons of Mr Peacock and Sarah, was still with them: out of earshot but not out of sight.

  ‘I’m too old for you,’ said Robert. ‘I realize that.’

  ‘No. You’re exactly right,’ she answered, gently disengaging herself.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on, as though she had not spoken, ‘I’m not a good man.’

  She would not argue that point, lest he should be provoked into enlarging on it.

  ‘Aren’t you, Robert? Never mind. You will be, now.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but——’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t tell me anything. I’d rather not know. Hadn’t we better move on?’

  He assented. They began walking again.

  ‘There are difficulties,’ he said, ‘grave difficulties. That’s why I ought not to have spoken.’