And indeed they were now returning through the garden, talking this time in low voices. Wishing for the distraction and support of Louisa’s company, Letty went to the window to call her; but she did not want the company of all four, and hesitated because she could think of no excuse to detach Louisa alone.
Victor was speaking.
‘She says it makes her hot, yet won’t do away with it.’
‘But underneath,’ said Louisa, ‘my forehead is quite blue.’
‘Charming!’ This was Lancelot. ‘Do do away with it!’
‘Lancelot is right, my dear,’ said Amelia. ‘The new way would become you. Parted in the middle, and looped—’
‘Looped?’ echoed Louisa.
‘Looped,’ said Lancelot.
‘Why not looped?’ Amelia anxiously cried.
‘Well, we shall see,’ Letty heard Louisa say. ‘Henry Cowper did once tell me it was like six red dead . . .’ her voice was distant now . . . ‘snails.’
Letty withdrew from the window and sat on the blue sofa. Provisions must be made against loneliness; she would try to conceal her surprise at those Louisa appeared to be making.
Frances came in, carrying a candle about which a few moths hurtled. ‘I have been looking for you,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Has Collison taken the letters to the office?’
‘An hour ago.’
‘I thought of something to add to Edmund’s.’
In the déshabillé of nightclothes and rumpled hair she looked beautiful. Letty said benignly, ‘His letter will do vewy well as it is. Go back to bed.’
‘Yes,’ said Frances vaguely. But she did not go. About the wavering red flame of her candle, at the point where it climbed into darkness, many moths had now collected. Some, little bigger than mosquitoes, instantly perished in its heat; some, larger, lingered, went away, returned, and dropped; but a few, larger, stronger, hardier, came to the light, visibly singed their wings, and then flew vigorously away, whether to die or not, Letty could not tell. ‘Edmund’s letter was not your purpose in seeking me out,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘You said you would dwop the subject.’
‘I thought you might have spoken to him by now.’
‘You know he did not come to the house for dinner. I have not seen him since it occurred.’
‘Is that why you are waiting here?’
‘Yes.’
Frances raised her candle so that it shed a fuller light on Letty’s face. Almost offendedly, Letty turned aside. Two voices could be heard approaching in the garden. She recognised Spicer and Hansord, and under pretext of listening to them, continued to avoid Frances’s light.
‘I would have him find that horse, rather than a river to the sea.’
‘That horse? My dear Hansord, I’ll wager anything the blacks roasted him long ago.’
‘Have you tasted horse?’
‘What, you take me for a Frenchman?’
They fell silent before they reached Whyte’s office, so no warning from the clerk was needed. Frances had not lowered her light. ‘Must you stay up?’ she said. ‘You look fatigued.’
‘On mail nights he sometimes sleeps in his office.’
‘And then you will be forced to run over the garden, and accost him there?’
‘Pway lower your light.’
‘Is he angry with you as well?’
‘I have told you—I have not seen him since.’
‘He is. I can see it in your looks.’
Again Letty turned away. Spicer and Hansord were returning through the garden without speaking. One of them yawned. Frances spoke with soft amazement.
‘Marriage is not what they say it is. Not what you say it is, Letty.’
‘Pway, go back to bed.’
‘Dear Letty, you go to bed. Speak to him in the morning.’
Letty would not reveal that she could no longer speak on such matters in the morning, for lately, if anything displeased him at that hour, he would simply dress in silence and leave the house, staying neither to eat nor drink. ‘You asked me to intercede,’ she said, ‘but now it seems you have changed your mind.’
‘No. Oh, no.’
‘Then let me do it in my own way. Go back to bed. And pway, Fwances, be careful of the wax candles. None came in the Phillip.’
After she had gone, Letty lay back on the sofa and fell into one of those dozes that do not exclude noise. Captain Clunie and Lieutenant Edwards had not yet brought their mail, and nor had they sent their servants. Henry Cowper, she supposed, would have written no letters, and James Murray would have so many to write, and at such length, that he would not have finished. Poor Mr Scottowe Parker, alone at the Eagle Farm, would not get his mail until James Murray rode out tomorrow, so that his replies, like those of the prisoners—who would have no leisure to reply until Sunday—and most of the soldiers, must wait to be carried in the next ship.
When she heard approaching the light good-humoured voice of Lieutenant Edwards, she did not open her eyes.
‘. . . used to be considered almost a sentence of death.’
What used to be? she wondered. But Captain Clunie was now informing her.
‘Yes, but not these days. Quite a good hill station. Ootacamund. I believe you’ve a cousin there.’
‘Lady Rumbold is dead, sir.’
‘What? I’m very sorry. When?’
‘June, my mother writes.’
‘Fever?’
‘Childbirth. Plenty of fever, of course, too.’
‘At Madras, yes. But not at Ootacamund.’
‘Yes, sir, at Ooty as well. Mustn’t blink at facts. Though not as much as on the plains.’
They had not told Letty anything she did not already know, except that Lady Rumbold was dead. With her eyes still shut, she said a fearful little prayer for Lady Rumbold’s soul.
When the two men reached the office, Whyte gave no warning, for Letty continued to hear the tone, though not the words, of Captain Clunie’s voice, and presently she heard the response of another voice, which, though scarcely audible, she knew for her husband’s.
Either he had finished his report, and would soon return to the house, or he had abandoned it for a moment to talk to Captain Clunie. She rose and went to the window. Lieutenant Edwards was coming alone from Whyte’s office. As he passed, whistling, as light and cheerful as if under orders for London instead of Madras, she drew back into the darkness of the room. When she went again to the window she saw her husband and Clunie emerge from the office together and begin to make their way along the path. Hands clasped at backs and heads bent, they approached in the same absorbed and sauntering manner observed by Louisa and herself from this same window on the morning after Captain Clunie’s arrival at the settlement.
Her husband was speaking softly and occasionally sending sharp sidelong glances into Captain Clunie’s face, but before they were near enough for his words to become distinct, running footsteps from the other direction made them raise their heads and stop. James Murray, carrying a bundle of letters, came running into view, exuberant yet anxious.
‘Too late? Am I?’
Assuring him together that he was not, they parted to let him pass between them. And then, instead of walking on, as Letty expected, they remained in that position, in silence, as if they must wait for him to pass again before resuming so private a conversation.
Clunie was grateful for the respite James Murray’s appearance had given him. It was too late at night to be asked for the truth. Logan’s question had made him wish to escape with some easy lie. ‘My dear sir, Cowper is a drunken fool. How could Smith Hall’s trial turn out to be—what did he say?—tantamount to an enquiry into your administration? Absolute nonsense, my dear sir. Goodnight!’
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But by the time Murray had run between them, deposited his mail with Whyte, and hurried back, confusedly wishing them goodnight as he passed again between them, Clunie had rejected the injustice of such a lie and had determined to be as honest as diplomacy allowed. When Murray was out of earshot he set his face once more to the path and with a hand at Logan’s back ushered him into step at his side, himself recognising as he did so something almost paternal in the gesture, as well as something of pity. He said, ‘What you tell me surprises me. Yet Cowper has sense. One wonders if the Smith Hall trial could turn out as he says.’
Logan stopped and faced him. ‘Think of what you are saying.’
‘I have. I am. I wonder if it could.’
‘Tantamount to an enquiry into my administration?’ His bewilderment made it clear that he had expected only reassurance. ‘But why, man? In God’s name, why?’
‘Have you looked at the journals from home yet? A whig victory no longer seems out of the question. The duke is losing control. For a long time I’ve been saying—lightly enough, you’ve heard me—that times are changing, but never really believing in my heart that they were, or ever would. But while I’ve been so lightly saying it, it seems they have. It came to me very strongly today, reading the journals, and my post as well. You’re wondering what this has to do with you. Only this—that it’s possible for a man to be judged by the standards of the present for maintaining—in all sincerity, of course—the standards of the past.’
‘My standards are those of the governor. My actions tally with his.’
Clunie thrust his head forward and spoke very softly, ‘And don’t you think there may be an enquiry into his administration?’
‘It will never happen.’
‘Ah,’ said Clunie, with mournful humour, ‘but so much that will never happen has happened already.’
‘Very well! If it does, I, for one, will stand by him.’
This, said with the kind of trite nobility that was apt to make Henry Cowper break into laughter or groaning, goaded Clunie past the diplomacy he had determined upon. ‘But,’ he said, ‘do you think he would stand by you?’
Logan’s slow headshake was not in denial, but in wonder. It made Clunie amend his question. ‘Do you think he could afford to?’
Again Logan shook his head. ‘It is clear,’ he said calmly, ‘that you don’t know him.’
‘True,’ admitted Clunie. ‘But I know something of men.’
‘Not of that man!’
‘You have so firm a trust in him?
‘I have.’
Clunie drew back a little. Such faith was almost convincing. And Logan, moreover, was looking at him with the same superiority and pity he himself had felt when ushering the commandant on to the path, and which he now recognised as the pity one feels for ignorance or vulnerable innocence.
‘One expects nothing of Cowper,’ said the commandant sadly.
The slight emphasis on the name brought home to Clunie how much was still expected of himself. Once again he unwillingly took on the responsibility of the commandant’s exaggerated regard. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘there will be a chance offered you in Sydney of showing up the excesses of your critics. Bulbridge and Fagan must come to trial while you are there. You could speak for them.’
‘Does it surprise you that Cowper had the same idea?’
Under his steady, slightly smiling, but pitying regard, Clunie felt himself growing flustered. ‘I hope you don’t imagine we discussed it.’
‘Not for one moment!’
‘For of course, I wouldn’t.’
‘I know it!’
‘I take it you don’t like the idea?’
The commandant found no need to reply. He set a hand on Clunie’s shoulder. ‘I’ve my report to finish. Well, not to finish, but to make ready for the post.’ With commiseration, with warm forgiveness, he looked Clunie full in the face, then lightly shook the shoulder beneath his hand.
‘Goodnight, my dear fellow.’
The mosquito nets had been lowered to cover their bed and in the light of his single candle he did not notice at first that the form under the bedclothes was too small to be Letty. He had taken off his shoes and stockings before he realised, at a second glance, that Lucy had come into their bed and that Letty was not there. With his feet bare but still in his dusty resplendent uniform he went to the bed and raised the nets. Lucy opened her eyes at once.
‘Lucy, where is mama?’
But though she seemed to be looking at him in full calm consciousness she was not really awake at all. She was drawing him into her dream, and when she shut her eyes, he continued in its flow.
‘Come, little maiden.’
He gathered her up and rested her on one shoulder, and with his light in the other hand carried her back to the nursery. When he laid her on the bed she threw both arms back on the pillow and turned quivering eyelids to his candlelight. He quickly put down his light and drew the nets over her bed.
At Robert’s bed he raised his candle and thrust his face into the mosquito nets so that the close weave of the cotton threads should not obscure his view. Robert had pushed the bedclothes down to his feet, but before his father could raise the netting to cover him, he started up and gave a loud cry.
‘Robert, it is papa.’
‘Go away. I don’t like you.’
‘Hush. It is only papa.’
The boy looked at him with dazed eyes. ‘Oh. It is papa.’
‘Cover yourself. It is cooler tonight.’
‘I thought you were Bishop.’
‘Bishop is dead. Lie down and cover yourself.’
Robert lay softly down. ‘I meant his ghost.’
‘There are no ghosts. Has mama been in tonight?’
Robert sat up as suddenly as he had done the first time. ‘There are ghosts!’
‘Hush. You will wake Lucy. Has mama been in tonight?’
‘She told us a story. There are ghosts, papa.’
‘Lie down and sleep, Robert.’
‘Yes, papa.’
The boy lay down; the commandant turned away.
‘Papa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Gilligan better than Bishop?’
‘Go to sleep, Robert.’
‘Papa?’
‘Robert, I am tired. Goodnight, my son.’
‘Papa, what will happen to Martin?’
‘He will be punished according to the law.’
‘And the law is just,’ said Robert complacently.
‘As I have often told you.’
‘The law is not like life,’ said the boy, still with loud complacency. ‘Life is unjust,’ he announced.
‘Who has been speaking to you?’
‘Nobody. Everybody says life is unjust.’
‘It sometimes seems so.’
‘Then the law is better than life.’
‘Someone has been speaking to you of these things.’
‘No, papa. I have been thinking.’
‘You are only six.’
‘I think when I lie awake. I often lie awake.’ He had raised himself on both elbows. ‘Why are your feet bare?’
‘Lie down and sleep, Robert.’
‘I am frightened. Why are they bare? May mama come?’
‘No. It is too late. Go to sleep.’
‘Then leave the door open.’
But when his father reached the door, he cried, ‘No, shut it. Or he will come again.’
The commandant shut the door and went through the dark house to the drawing room. The big high room dispersed his small light and at first he did not see Letty. Lying as she was, on her side, pressed close to the back of the sofa, with her face hidden, she might have been a bundle of soft shawls lef
t lying there. But the bundle stirred, her raised hip heaved. As he came nearer she turned on her back and looked first at his face and then at some point beyond his shoulder, on which, when he halted beside the sofa, she continued reflectively to dwell. He raised the candle again.
‘Why are you here in the dark?’
She flung a forearm across her eyes. ‘Pway put it out.’
‘It is too dark, with all the curtains drawn.’
‘Put it out. The moths.’
It was true that the moths, more and more of them, were rushing to his light. He blew out the candle and put it on the small embroidery table, then went to the window and pulled the curtains aside to admit a little moonlight. He sat on the edge of the sofa and put a hand on her thigh. ‘What is the matter? What are you doing here in the dark?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘Uncover your eyes.’
When she did not do so he took her arm and lifted it from her eyes. She did not resist, but would not look at him. ‘You heard me talking to Clunie,’ he said.
Still looking everywhere but at him, she nodded.
‘Nothing in that conversation need distress you. Clunie would not discuss such matters with Cowper, but he can’t help but hear Cowper’s opinions. Cowper’s the source of that infection, and Cowper’s half mad. Why were you waiting in here for me?’
‘You did not come to the house for dinner.’
‘I was working on my report.’
‘I believed you were angwy.’
‘With you, my love?’
‘With Fwances’s sister. I thought you might sleep again in your office.’
He stroked her thigh. ‘And could not wait for morning to make up?’
But her cold, troubled, and wandering glance showed no response to his fondness. ‘I wished to speak to you besides.’
The Commandant Page 19