Lucy Carmichael

by Margaret Kennedy

  “Father-like He tends and spares us;

  Well our feeble frame He knows….”

  Behind her walked Valentine, elegant and collected, in white organdie with green ribbons. There were no other bridesmaids. If she could not have me, thought Lucy, she would have no other friend.

  “Angels in the height adore Him!

  Ye behold Him face to face….”

  Now they were at the chancel steps and the choir had filed into their stalls. John had stepped forward to join his bride. All the actors in the drama had taken their places:

  “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God …”

  The entry of the bride is the most moving moment of any-wedding — the moment at which all hearts are touched. The poignancy subsides as the ceremony proceeds. Lucy found herself growing calmer as the vows were taken, the troth plighted, and the ring placed on Melissa’s finger. This was very like other weddings; John Standish and Melissa Mary were just another couple after all. They were saying the things which everybody said. She found herself able to observe details, and studied with interest the mysterious Mr. Hallam, whom she had never seen before. He was handsome, grey-haired and distinguished. But she decided that he had a very ill-tempered mouth.

  Once or twice she glanced round to see how Rickie was bearing up. He held his grin firmly in place, even through the most solemn parts of the ceremony, and joined loudly in the psalm when the bridal pair went up to the altar.

  During the address the congregation sat in reverent boredom while marital advice, after the modern hole-and-corner fashion, was whispered into the ears of John and Melissa. Lucy hoped that the parson was not saying anything very stupid, because Melissa would not want to feel flippant at such a moment. An arch smile hovered upon his silly old face. Perhaps he had known Melissa in childhood and was recalling her infancy in some unwelcome way. She remembered that Melissa, in a moment of extreme unreserve, had confessed to having been called Pudding until she was seven years old. There were, she complained, a few odious people, mostly very old, who kept up the habit. Was this one of them? Was he adjuring John to be kind to dear little Pudding?

  It was over at last and another hymn took the bridal party into the vestry. The congregation broke into loud chatter and the choir struck up Parry’s My Soul, there is a Country. Mr. and Mrs. Hallam, Julian, Cressida and Alan hurried out, followed by a lot of odd-looking people who must be Beauclercs. Sylvia Stoner leaned over the pew to ask how Lucy was, much to the annoyance of Rickie, who wanted to listen to the Parry. Everyone felt that the holiness was now over, and was glad when the choir stopped singing.

  As usual, they took a long time in the vestry. But the buzz of conversation at last died down and the church was once more galvanised to attention.

  The Trumpet Voluntary blared out. Everyone was on their feet. Out they came, down they came — John so transported that he took no notice of anybody, acknowledged none of the nods and smiles to right and left of him; Melissa securely tucked under his arm, her veil thrown back and her face sparkling like a morning in May. Behind them came a triumphant, grinning mob of Hallams and Beauclercs. Tara! Tara! shouted the trumpets. And they were gone out into life, into the sunshine.

  *

  “Lucy! I am so glad to see you,” cried Mrs. Hallam. “I’m so glad you could come. How well you’re looking, and what a successful hat! Humphrey! This is Lucy Carmichael! Melissa’s great friend. Come and talk to her.”

  Her meaning eyes reminded Mr. Hallam of circumstances which he was all too unlikely to forget. They had already shaken hands with Lucy and Rickie when the procession of guests filed past them, but this was at a later stage of the reception, when they were at liberty to notice individuals.

  Mr. Hallam bowed in a courtly way and drew Lucy aside to tell her how much he admired the intaglio ring. It had been shown to him the moment he arrived from Budleigh Salterton. A most beautiful ring, he repeated, and so clever of Lucy to have found it. Did she know anything of its history? He was interested in gems and thought that the stone might be a flawed emerald.

  While he talked, he was covertly examining this girl who had been jilted at the altar. How could she have got herself into such a scrape? There was nothing wrong with her that he could see. She seemed to be a nice girl, a pretty girl — quite a lady. His meditations were as clear to Lucy as if he had shouted them at the top of his voice.

  Cressida and Alan came up. Oxford friends greeted her brightly. They were all emphatically kind and cordial and they all praised her hat as if surprised that a girl in her situation should still be capable of choosing hats. Encouragement, applause for the good face she was putting on things, beamed in every eye. She began to wish heartily that she had slipped away from the church and cut the party.

  She had never before faced a crowd of people who knew her story. Nobody at Ravonsbridge, except Bess, had heard the exact details. Nor had she expected such a thing to be remembered on an occasion like this. She had supposed that all attention would be concentrated upon Melissa. She would not have come, had she known that her appearance would cause all this excitement. But she had longed to kiss Melissa just once, so she had trooped with all the others along the Kensington pavements, and stood in a queue in the foyer of the hotel, and reached Melissa at last only to catch a small spark of dismay in her friend’s greeting. Melissa’s eyes always told the truth. She should not have come.

  John was sent to talk to her and he pumped her hand up and down a great many times and said that she must come and stay with them as soon as ever they were settled in Lincolnshire. He was saying this to everybody, but he said it six times in successon to Lucy because he was so sorry for her. He, like everybody else, was determined to remember her trouble just when he had every excuse for forgetting it. There was to be no escape. Where she was known, she must take it about with her like a label which nobody would allow her to remove. She had thought that she would remember long after everyone else had forgotten, but it seemed as though things might turn out the other way. She herself could now go for days at a time without any painful recollections, while to all these people she was permanently an object of compassion.

  The cake was cut. Mr. Hallam made a graceful speech, John a manly one. Lucy sought refuge in a corner with Rickie, who was grinning steadily over successive glasses of champagne. She suggested that they might now slip off, but he insisted upon grinning it through, so they stayed, and ran out upon the pavement, and saw Melissa rush laughing through a storm of rose-petals, and followed her car a little way until it turned a corner into Kensington High Street.

  Rickie was staying the night with his aunt at Richmond and Lucy had got a room in a small Bayswater hotel. They strolled together into Kensington Gardens, their heads buzzing with champagne, and sank into two deck-chairs. It was a broiling afternoon. Rickie’s hair hung into his eyes and the carnation in his buttonhole was sadly wilted. He still wore his grin, but after sitting for a few minutes he realised that it was no longer necessary and exchanged it for a look of noble exaltation.

  “He’s a … damn fine fellow!” he announced solemnly.

  “Umhm!” agreed Lucy drowsily.

  “He’s … worthy of Melissa.”

  “Nobody could be that. But I can just forgive him.”

  “He made a damn fine speech.”

  “Yes. I liked the way he spoke. Nice and simple.”

  “I couldn’t have made a speech like that. I mean … it’s easier to give Melissa up to a man who can make a damn fine speech like that.”

  “Oh, Rickie! You have had a lot of champagne!”

  “I know. But I would if I hadn’t. Think he made a damn fine speech, I mean.”

  Lucy leant back and shut her eyes. The heat was unendurable. She wondered what she should do with herself for the rest of the day. A cinema would be stifling. To wander about the Gardens alone in this hat would be to invite unwelcome attentions. But the lounge of her hotel, her airless bedroom, were repulsive alternative
s for a poor girl all alone in London in a great big hat.

  “Lucy!”

  “Umhm?”

  “We’ve got very friendly, haven’t we?”

  “We always were.”

  “Yes, but just lately … what we’ve both been through has brought us together, hasn’t it?”

  “Um …”

  “I shall never forget … helped me … don’t know what I should have done … admire you tremendously … respect you frightfully … think you’re marvellous …”

  She completely lost the thread of it, dipping into a short nap, and returned to the surface to hear him say:

  “… could be very happy. Nothing takes the place of first love, of course. But respect and affection and common interests … they’re a very good basis, don’t you think?”

  “Umhm.”

  “The only difficulty is the housing shortage in Ravonsbridge. But your digs in Sheep Lane are really large enough for a couple.”

  Lucy sat bolt upright, wide awake. He was asking her to marry him. He was suggesting that they should mutually pour balm into one another’s broken hearts.

  “Oh, no, Rickie, I couldn’t. I’m very sorry. I couldn’t.”

  “But it would be a great shame for you to be an old maid, Lucy. You’re so nice. You ought to be married.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. But …”

  “You think it’s wrong to marry a man you … you can’t love as much as the first one?”

  She hesitated. Did she? She thought not. A very nice man, who offered to rescue her from being poor Lucy, might some day be welcome. Yes. She hoped to marry, though she did not suppose she could ever marry for love. The possibility of marrying somebody who was not Patrick had become credible.

  “I’m very sorry, it couldn’t be you, Rickie dear.”

  “But why not?”

  It was impossible to tell him why not without hurting his feelings. She said:

  “You’ll fall in love again yourself one day. I’m sure you will.”

  He was sure that he would not. They wrangled about it until Rickie, glancing at his watch, discovered that he ought to set off for Richmond. He struggled out of his chair, assured her that his offer would remain open, advised her to think it over, and departed, humming the Trumpet Voluntary.

  Lucy went to sleep again and slept until the chair-man woke her up with a demand for threepence. Then she set off through the blistering heat towards the Bayswater side of the Gardens. The solitary evening in front of her was so depressing that she almost regretted her refusal of Rickie. He would have been company, and she was growing tired of solitude. She was very fond of him in a way. But no … she meant to get more out of life than marriage with Rickie could supply. She was quite astonished to realise how much she still hoped to get, what fun she expected to have.

  PART IV

  THE RAVONSBRIDGE HAMLET

  1

  THE intaglio ring had been an undoubted bargain but it had cost a good deal more than Lucy could afford. When she had paid for her wedding hat, another absurd extravagance, she found that she had nothing upon which to live during the summer vacation. Her mother was still in Canada and Stephen had an invitation to Scotland. So she volunteered as a holiday land-worker and spent August on a farm in Shropshire.

  The life, though pleasant, was strenuous. As she wrote to her mother, she had not time to think a thought from dawn, when she rose, to dusk, when she plunged into another night of dreamless sleep. Hours of leisure there were, but during these she simply sat, digested the vast meals provided by the farmer’s wife, and listened idly to the wireless. In a very short time she regained most of the pounds which she had lost during the past year, her cheeks grew rounder and her nose less sharp. She returned to Ravonsbridge in September with a fine sun tan and scratched from wrist to shoulder by corn-sheaves which she had been imprudent enough to carry in a sleeveless dress.

  The Institute was still closed, but she came back early because she wanted to prepare her lectures for the Autumn Term. She was looking forward to them with considerable zest; her intellect, though it had been quiescent at the farm, had not been starved. It had enjoyed an interval of refreshing repose and was now active. She wrote three papers with which she was really pleased. It was agreeable, moreover, to be welcomed so warmly by all her Ravonsbridge friends. She had never expected to enjoy this return so much.

  One morning, just as she was finishing her breakfast in Sheep Lane, Mr. Thornley knocked at her door. In an agitated voice he asked if she could possibly come with him at once to his office, and if she was free for the day.

  She hesitated. During the vacation her time was her own, and she had meant to take a day off in Slane forest. It was the anniversary of her ill-fated wedding day, and, though she could think of it with far less pain than she had once supposed possible, its reappearance in the calendar had made her feel rather low. She wanted to be by herself in the open air.

  “I know it’s a favour,” said Mr. Thornley. “But I badly need your help. The fact is …” he went on, almost shyly, “… I … I’m going abroad almost immediately….”

  “Oh!” cried Lucy. “His Eminence? It’s been chosen? For the International Drama Festival?”

  Yes, his play had been chosen, and not only for Geneva. The three winning groups had been invited to go upon a short European tour; they were to visit Nancy, The Hague and Copenhagen. And Mr. Thornley had been invited to accompany them as lecturer on the British Amateur Drama. He was beside himself with innocent gratification.

  But he would not be back in Ravonsbridge till November, and all his work at the Institute must be delegated. Miss Frogmore was still away on vacation. The production of Hamlet must be put in hand; it could not be postponed until his return because the theatre must be free in December for the Nativity Play. The casting and rehearsing must all be turned over to Lucy, since Miss Frogmore would have her hands full with the students’ classes. He could only get back himself in time to put the finishing touches. Lucy, he was sure, could manage. He would have postponed the production till the Spring Term if Robin had not been leaving at Christmas. But Lucy was so capable. He had every reliance on her.

  By this time she had capitulated, and they were hurrying together to his office while he poured out instructions, encouragement and joyful self-congratulations. His excitement over his coming trip was so great that he could not think continuously of Hamlet. He was particularly looking forward to Nancy. He had always wished to visit a French university town. And after all, Lucy had been at Ravonsbridge for a year. The production estimates would have to be worked out with Hayter, who would tell her how much she might spend. But she would have no difficulty. Hayter was always very co-operative about that sort of thing. Angera’s sets must be put in hand, but she could trust Angera to do the thing properly; anything he sent in would be all right. The theatre in Copenhagen, the theatre in which the British Groups were to play, was said to be a very fine one. All these small countries had such good architecture. The props list and the wardrobe list she would find in the Hamlet file. He believed that all the props were there, had been there when the play was last given, five years ago, though he had a notion that Yorick’s skull might be missing. Had he mentioned that one of the judges had called His Eminence “the ideal play for amateurs”? All nonsense, of course; but still, it did give good sound acting parts to … Why! Now he remembered that skull was missing. It had vanished during the run and the children had had to make do with a turnip. Of course, he knew Geneva well. He had been there twice before. There were to be some immediate rehearsals before the party left England, and that was why he must go to London at once. If possible, he wanted to get off that very afternoon. There were some reports which Lucy must have ready for the Council meeting; he was sorry to have to cut it, but it could not be a very important meeting as Lady Frances would also be away. Marion, the daughter who had married a Scottish laird, was expecting a baby in October. Of course, in casting, there would be the usua
l shortage of men. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must double with the grave-diggers. He had always done that. And Polonius with Osric. Lucy must do as she thought fit. He left it entirely in her hands. If she cast Peter Sykes for Horatio she couldn’t have him for Laertes. She would have no Laertes. She must decide which part had to suffer. It was always the way; too few boys in the school, and too many girls who would never be any earthly good but had been despatched to Ravonsbridge because they were stage-struck. It was impossible to get Robin to speak verse as if it was verse, but she must not worry about that unduly, for there was nothing to be done. It was Robin’s one weakness: no feeling for verse at all. He always tried to make it sound like prose.

  Lucy listened in a silence which was partly enforced, for she could not have inserted a word had she wished, and partly diplomatic. She had not the slightest intention of letting Robin play Hamlet; she knew whom she was going to cast for the part, but instinct warned her to hold her tongue. To listen, to agree, was the best course until she had hustled Mr. Thornley out of Ravonsbridge. At every other sentence he was assuring her that she could do as she thought best, and she meant to take him at his word. But it would be very dangerous to let him guess, at this stage, of the excitement this permission had let loose. If she could, without actual dishonesty, allow him to believe that she meant to take all his advice, he was much more likely to go that afternoon. And she could hardly wait to see him gone — to get the Ravonsbridge Theatre to herself, just at this moment when all her energy seemed to have returned to her.