A sensible person would wait until Camilla found the receipt. A sensible person would reflect that, after three hundred and fifty years or so, a few more days, weeks, or months were neither here nor there. Susan wasn’t a sensible person. When she thought about doing a thing, she wanted to do it at once, not to-morrow, or next week, or in a year or two. She wanted to find Philip Colstone’s book now. She produced a sixpence and tossed up. Heads the Victoria and Albert; tails the British Museum. It was heads. Susan was a very feminine person; any decision that was made for her would always send her off at a tangent. She put her sixpence away, shook her head, and set off for the British Museum.
Finding the book was the slowest thing that had ever happened. People kept going away and fetching other people, and then going away again. She bore up, because quite early in the proceedings it transpired that they had a copy of The Shepheard’s Kalendar in a needlework cover. Susan smiled at all the people who came and spoke to her, and the cumulative effect of a great many smiles was the appearance of a most charming old gentleman who actually produced the book.
Camilla had been right about the finely worked cover. The faint dead roses wrought upon it by the fingers of Philip Colstone’s wife had once been red. Susan wondered whether they had been worked before she grew strange to him.
The charming old gentleman opened the book.
“You see, it’s got his name and the date—‘Philip Coldstone, 1582.’ And now here is what makes it really valuable, in fact unique—Spenser’s autograph.”
Susan looked at the discoloured page. The ink was brown on Philip Colstone’s name—a pale, wan brown, as if it had been written with the water of some stream long choked with rotting leaves. Below, in a different hand but even paler, were the words: “The gifte of his frende Colin Clout.”
She looked so puzzled that the old gentleman condescended to explain.
“That is Spenser’s own name for himself in this poem, and also, as you will doubtless remember, in the later poem dedicated to Sir Walter Raleigh—‘The Right Worthy and Noble Knight Sir Walter Raleigh’—Colin Clout’s Come Home Again.” He touched the signature with the tip of a long, careful finger. “It’s unique—quite unique.”
Susan took the book in her hand and turned a leaf or two. There was a long title, a dedication to “the noble and vertuous gentleman, most worthie of all titles both of learning and chivalry, Maister Philip Sidney”; an introduction, and a “generall argument”; and then, “Januarie. Aegloga Prima.”
She went on turning over the leaves, the old gentleman, polite but in a fidget, at her elbow. And then all at once there were words scrawled on the margin, very faint, some of them crossing the lines of print. She turned the book. They were dreadfully faint.
She made out a word here and there. Scutum—that was a shield … Merlino … and two words together, fons malorum.
The old gentleman came to her aid.
“Yes, that’s curious—some spell or conjuration, I should say. It is a coincidence that you should have noticed it, because only about a week ago someone else was so much interested that he asked if he might make a copy. It is very faint, as you see, but I think we made it out. It is rather surprising really that the young man should have been so much interested, for his Latin was so rusty that I had to translate for him.”
“Will you translate it for me? What does it mean?”
The old gentleman adjusted his glasses, turned the book to get a better light, and traced the fading words with that long, thin finger.
“It’s of no importance, you know. Here—yes—this is what it says: ‘The second shield … lapis’—h’m—I think that’s what we made it out to be—very faint indeed … ‘the stone consecrated, or blessed ’—h’m—‘by Merlin … to keep safe … the fount … of evils.’ It is, as I said, some spell or charm against malefic influence.” His voice flowed on. “Merlin … an invention of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who got the idea from Nennius … Welsh vernacular literature … Joseph of Arimathea … Robert de Borron … Taliessin.…”
Susan wasn’t really listening. It was frightfully dry, and she wanted to go on turning over the pages. Suddenly she asked a question:
“What month was the Armada?”
The old gentleman stopped short, pushed up his glasses, and looked at Susan with an air of courteous surprise. From Welsh folk-lore to the Armada was a longish flight.
“The Armada? Oh July—July—July 1588.”
Susan turned the pages again and found: “Iuly. Aegloga Septima.” A curious thought had come into her mind. If Philip Colstone had written some special message for his son, might he not have chosen this seventh month, the month in which he had gone up to fight the Armada? She was at once disappointed. The page was a good deal discoloured—speckled here and there. There was no writing on it. She flicked over the leaf. The next page was the same.
The old gentleman was looking at a large old-fashioned watch.
“I am afraid”—He was still the soul of politeness, if a little chilled by a lack of interest in Nennius, Taliessin and Robert de Borron—“I am very much afraid that I have an appointment to keep.”
Susan’s smile made amends to him, if not to Nennius.
“Oh, of course.” She went on smiling. “May I take the book with me?”
He was so much shocked that she felt as if she had committed some frightful breach of good manners.
“But it belongs to me,” she said. “It was my father’s—he only lent it.” And then she knew how silly it was to talk like that when she hadn’t got the receipt.
The old gentleman took the book out of her hands. He was still polite, but he was also firm. He said, “Allow me,” and he took the book away from her very firmly. Then he looked at his watch again and said “Tut, tut!” and wished her good day and went away in a hurry.
Susan missed her train by ten minutes. It was very late before she got back to Ford St. Mary.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Anthony went to tea with the Miss Colstones next day. He found himself in the middle of a tea-party—the Pullens, middle-aged ladies about a decade younger than Miss Agatha and Miss Arabel; the Thane-Bromleys, he small, wiry, precise, and she the largest, heartiest creature, with a jolly laugh and a nursery empty for the first time for nearly twenty years.
“My eldest boy’s in India—I wonder if you came across him—and my eldest girl’s married and has a baby of her own. And my baby is going away to school next term—he’s only eight—and my old nurse and I won’t know what to do with ourselves. All the in-between ones are out in the world, or at school and college, so we shall be too dreadfully dull and empty as soon as the holidays are over. Perhaps you’ll come over and play tennis with the horde whilst they are still here—some of them are quite good.”
The elder Miss Pullen was an enthusiastic gardener. She attacked Anthony on the subject of neglected borders, and was so vehement that he was afraid for Miss Agatha’s susceptibilities, and relieved when Miss Maria turned her attention elsewhere.
Miss Amy Pullen, a dried-up, brown-faced little lady, then tackled him on the subject of bee-keeping. It had been a marvellous honey season, “the biggest yield for years.” She turned and addressed Miss Agatha: “Do you know how much Susan Bowyer has taken, Agatha?”
Anthony hoped that he did not start. Susan Bowyer meant Susan to him—Susan, and not old Mrs. Bowyer. But he recovered himself at once. It was “Gran” they were talking about, not Susan.
Miss Agatha made an impatient gesture with the tea-pot.
“Susan always has more than anyone else. She’ll never say how much—I believe she thinks it’s unlucky.”
Miss Maria Pullen stopped telling Miss Arabel that she was going to manure her roses in spring, and how stupid she thought it of Agatha to stick to the old-fashioned autumn manuring. She stopped in the very middle of a sentence to cast a bomb.
“Who in the world has Susan Bowyer got staying with her?”
Agatha took up the sugar-tong
s.
“Maria, I forgot your second lump.”
Miss Pullen shook her head.
“All the better for my figure. Who’s staying with Susan Bowyer? I saw an uncommonly pretty girl at the window as I came past.”
“Her granddaughter—that is, her son Robert’s granddaughter. Helen—another cup?” Miss Agatha addressed Mrs. Thane-Bromley, who said “Thanks, dear—so refreshing.”
“We pride ourselves on our tea,” said Miss Agatha. “I always say it is a gift.” Her colour had risen, and her voice was a little louder than usual.
“Robert’s granddaughter?” said Miss Pullen. “Robert’s granddaughter? Why, I always understood that all the Robert Bowyers were in America.”
Miss Agatha turned to Mrs. Thane-Bromley.
“You’re eating nothing. Some ginger cake? A lettuce sandwich?”
“I always understood that Robert Bowyer went to America, and that all his family had remained there.”
Miss Amy Pullen looked a little nervous. “Perhaps this girl has come over on a visit, Maria,” she said.
“She didn’t look in the least American,” asserted Miss Maria.
“Some Americans don’t,” said Miss Amy.
Miss Agatha said nothing.
Miss Pullen frowned.
“I remember Robert. He was one of the younger ones, wasn’t he?”
Miss Agatha’s colour deepened unbecomingly.
“Really, Maria—what nonsense! You can’t possibly remember Robert.”
“Oh yes, I do. He’d be about your age, and I remember very well having tea with Susan Bowyer when I was ten years old, and she was all upset because Robert was just going off to America.” She nodded triumphantly. “I remember him perfectly well. He hadn’t the looks of the others. The girl I saw doesn’t take after him—I thought she was an uncommonly pretty girl. I shall go and see Susan on my way home and find out whether the granddaughter has really come over from America. I thought her a most uncommonly pretty girl.”
Anthony felt a boiling rage spring up in him. It infuriated him to have all these people discussing Susan. What did it matter who her grandfather was? Anyhow he would rather have old Mrs. Bowyer for a relation than Miss Pullen. He felt that he loathed Miss Pullen.
She began to tell Mr. Thane-Bromley that he kept his greenhouses too hot.
Anthony took the vacant place beside Miss Arabel, and in a minute she was asking him innumerable questions about India. Was it really so very hot? Had he ever ridden on a camel? Did he know Lahore? Papa was once there, in the Fort. It was a very old fort, was it not? Did the natives ever speak about the Mutiny? Papa was in the Mutiny. Papa never spoke about it. Had he ever been to Tibet? Had he ever travelled in other countries? Wouldn’t he like to go to China? China was not so hot as India, she believed. Japan must be very beautiful. Did he not wish that he had had an opportunity of visiting Japan? Of course India was very interesting, very interesting indeed; but some of the things one heard—it was really so very difficult to know whether to believe them or not. Now the rope-trick—had he ever seen the rope-trick?
It became a little wearing after a time. The china-blue eyes never left his face. His answers were received as if each were the final word on that particular subject. In the end she drew a soft sighing breath.
“I have hardly ever been out of Ford St. Mary. Papa thought girls ought to stay at home.”
“You would have liked to travel?” It sounded awfully stupid, but he found himself saying it. And then he wished he hadn’t.
Miss Arabel looked away. But just before she looked away he saw something. It was like looking for a moment through a window and seeing something which you weren’t meant to see. He wasn’t sure what it was. It looked like—hunger. Yes, that was what it was—something that was starving with hunger. He wished he hadn’t seen it.
Mrs. Thane-Bromley got up to go. Mr. Thane-Bromley’s eye had been upon her for some time, and though she was one of the best-natured women in the world, she didn’t think she could bear much longer with old Maria Pullen telling her how she ought to have brought her children up. She said good-bye, listened with a twinkle to a deeply bored but always polite husband thanking his hostesses for such a pleasant afternoon, pressed Anthony to come and see them soon, and departed, leaving the room colder.
Miss Arabel followed her into the hall, and Miss Pullen took a chair by the tea-table.
“If you’re thinking of making any bramble jelly this year, I can give you my receipt, Agatha.”
Miss Agatha had a receipt of her own. She said so, and cut Maria’s next remark short by leading the way into the garden, where Miss Amy and Miss Arabel paired off and after a few minutes Anthony took his leave.
Miss Arabel came into the house with him. In the white-panelled drawing-room she seemed disposed to linger. She showed him the portrait over the mantelpiece as if he had not seen it before, and narrated the entire history of the Lady Arabella Stuart. In the middle of it she stopped and asked him if his friend would not be coming to visit him again.
Anthony looked surprised.
“West? Oh no—he’s on a walking tour in Wales. I had a card from him a couple of days ago. I don’t expect to see him again. He suggested coming to look me up, but we’re not such great pals.”
Miss Arabel said “Oh—” Then she went on telling him about Arabella Stuart.
Anthony was not very much interested. She had a way of catching herself up and making small corrections as she went along, and she was very diffuse. His attention wandered, and presently became fixed upon a large square object just inside the glass-fronted cupboard on the left side of the fireplace. It was a book with a worn leather cover. It looked like a bible. If it was a bible, it was an old one. He thought it would be very interesting to have a look at an old family bible. He had a vague idea that a family bible would be likely to contain a family tree.
As soon as Miss Arabel drew breath he stepped forward, and with his hand on the cupboard door, asked if he might look at the book.
Miss Arabel became much agitated.
“Of course, my dear Anthony—of course. And I hope—you see, we had for so long been accustomed—not, of course, that that is any excuse, but I am sure that Agatha fully intended, and that she meant to take the first opportunity of a private explanation—”
Anthony turned with his hand on the open cupboard door. He felt rather as if he had upset some delicate vase full of flowers. Miss Arabel’s agitation—her flow of words—the confusion of her speech—he hadn’t an idea what it was all about. He bridled a feeling of exasperation and said, as gently as he could,
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Miss Arabel fluttered.
“I am quite sure that Agatha would have taken the earliest opportunity. You will understand, I am sure, that she could not—neither of us could—just give it back to Lane—and an opportunity for a private explanation—”
Anthony began to understand that he had been tactless. The bible was apparently his property, and the old ladies had removed it. He couldn’t help wondering whether the opportunity for that private explanation would ever have occurred. He reproached himself for the thought, and asked if he might look at the book.
Miss Arabel’s distress deepened. He gathered that the bible was undoubtedly his.
“And I hope you won’t for one moment think—”
“Of course I won’t. But I’d like to look at it. Is it very old?”
“The first edition of the King James version,” said Miss Arabel.
He took the book in his hand and turned the pages. He was looking for a register of names. He thought it would be between the two testaments.
Miss Arabel watched him. Her little twittering explanations and apologies went on.
Anthony found what he was looking for. A long column of entries in many hands, from the first crooked “Ambrose,” through a string of Ralph, James, Jervis, and Ambrose again. His eye was caught by Patience Pleydell’s name—“Jerv
is, married Patience Pleydell, March 1789.” Below, their children, James and Ambrose. Ambrose was his great-grandfather. “James, married Anne Langholm, and had issue, Jervis, born 1828.” That was old Sir Jervis, Miss Arabel’s father. Under Jervis’ name, a name blacked out. Then, “Jervis married Agatha Yorke, had issue, Agatha and Arabel.”
Anthony looked at the blacked out name.
“What’s this?” he said, and turned the book for Miss Arabel to see.
Miss Arabel looked everywhere else.
Anthony touched the black smear.
“Had Sir Jervis a brother or a sister?” be asked. “What’s this?”
“The Colstones have never had large families,” said Miss Arabel. Her voice was small and cold.
Anthony persevered. His question had been an idle one. Now he meant to have an answer to it.
“Was this a brother or a sister?”
“A brother,” said Miss Arabel. Then she added, “He’s dead.”
Anthony supposed so.
“Why is his name blacked out? By the way, what was his name?”
“Philip—” It was just an impatient breath. Then, louder, “He quarrelled with his father and with Papa.”
“What did he do? It seems a bit drastic to blot him right out like this.”
Miss Arabel drew back a little.
“He—they—they quarrelled,” she said. Then she put out her hand. “I’m afraid I must go back to the others. Pray take the bible with you, Anthony. Good-bye—you will excuse me—perhaps you would not mind letting yourself out.”
Anthony got as far as the door. There had come into his mind, for no rhyme or reason, the matter of old Mr. Leveridge’s letter to Sir Jervis and the note at the foot of it. J. E. W. were the initials—yes, J. E. W. He wondered if Miss Arabel knew anything about the letter. She might. And she might know who J. E. W. was. It seemed a very good opportunity of asking.
He turned back with the bible in his hand.
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