‘I could only tell her,’ said Latymer, ‘that you would be at church tomorrow.’
‘And why did you tell her that?’
‘You will, won’t you?’
A moment’s reflection forced Romilly to agree. Not to be seen at church on a Sunday morning would be eccentric. He would, however, break with the family tradition in one respect. He would not walk up the path to the porch between lines of bowing and curtsying yokels, who waited until the party from the Priors had made its entrance.
Next morning he took Latymer across the park to a small gate giving access to a lane behind the church. Thence, by another small gate, they slipped into a secluded corner of the church-yard, close to the hedge which divided it from the Parsonage garden.
‘We’ll wait here,’ he said, ‘until the bells have stopped.’
‘I caught sight of quite a mob on t’other side of the church,’ said Latymer. ‘I believe they are waiting to see you.’
‘I daresay. Come behind this great yew. I don’t care to be seen.’
The ringers were doing their best to celebrate Squire’s return. The bells brawled beneath the summer sky. Romilly and Latymer hid behind the yew tree, while two sparrows mated negligently on a flat tombstone at their feet. Latymer began to laugh.
‘Gulls!’ he said. ‘We were all lined up once to receive some Admiral that was coming aboard. Stiff to attention, you know, round a square of white deck left clear for my lord’s party. And two gulls knew no better than to …’
He broke off. There were voices behind the Parsonage hedge.
‘Ladies in the offing,’ he muttered.
Two women hurried into the church-yard, unaware of the lurkers behind the tree. The elder went on. The younger paused for a moment to put on her gloves. Romilly felt an instant’s dizziness. It was Jenny!
It was not Jenny! Here was the long face, but with a symmetry in the lines of cheek and chin which made it strikingly lovely. The pale skin had a transparent freshness, like the petal of a flower. The dark hair curled snugly under a flat straw hat. There was a suppleness and grace about the tall figure of which he had no recollection. This was not Jenny. This was the beauty which she had missed, as he now saw, by a very narrow margin.
As she stood, fitting every crease of the glove over her slender hand, an enormous silence fell upon the world. The bells had stopped. Into it a voice broke (Jenny’s voice!) calling:
‘Venetia!’
‘Coming!’ replied the beauty, as she moved forward and vanished from their sight.
‘The bells have stopped,’ said Latymer.
‘But that is not … she is not …’
‘We shall be late. I’m going.’
Latymer started on and Romilly followed. Venetia? So like! So unlike! A sister? Had she a sister?
By the time that they reached the church door he remembered that she had. Ten years ago the Parsonage nursery held a mob of little creatures with whom he had no dealings. He had come to remember them all as boys, but one might have been a girl. Seven years old then? Now seventeen? And Jenny, he reminded himself, must be thirty. He and she were of an age. Thirty! Then that other … that old …
The disappointed mob was now inside the church and upon its knees, repeating the General Confession. The tardy appearance of Squire caused considerable disturbance. For a few seconds the chorus ceased, save for the voice of the clerk bellowing the acknowledgement that: ‘We have left h’undone those things which we h’ought to have done.’ The latecomers made their way up the aisle through a battery of staring eyes. Their progress was impeded by an old woman whose office it was to open the pew door for them; she was determined to get there first and ran round them like an efficient sheep dog.
At last they were safely shut into a high walled box round which ran a cushioned bench. It also contained several hassocks, two arm-chairs, a small stove, and a table littered with fans, devotional works, smelling salts and a tin of biscuits. Once inside they were hidden from the rest of the world unless they stood up. They could have played a hand of whist in there and nobody would have been the wiser save Dr. Newbolt, when he mounted his three-decker.
Latymer knelt. Romilly flung himself into an armchair. Could that other woman have been Jenny? He had scarcely looked at her — had received an impression of the sort of woman at whom nobody ever looks. But he could make sure when they stood up. The Parsonage pew was just across the aisle. After the Lord’s Prayer, he remembered, there would be a passage between Newbolt and clerk, in the course of which everybody would stand up. Latymer would know. Latymer did. He suddenly shot to his feet. Romilly got out of his chair.
Heads, bare heads, wigged heads, and summer bonnets, were appearing above the high walls of all the neighbouring pews. A glance across the aisle, however, was disappointing. Nothing was to be seen save a pale curved cheek under a straw hat, and beyond it a great ugly bonnet which completely concealed the wearer. Both ladies were intent upon their prayer books. Every other eye in the building was fixed unwaveringly upon Squire.
Old Newbolt had not altered at all. His pink face, between white puffs of wig, looked like strawberries and cream. The gloom of the psalm, which he was now reciting, did not appear to have affected his spirits in the least. He beamed upon his flock as he announced that his days were consumed away like smoke, his bones burnt up as it were a firebrand, that he sat alone on the housetops like a sparrow, had eaten ashes, mingled his drink with weeping, and was withered like grass. There never was an old gentleman from whom such statements could be more unlikely. He took the psalms at a great pace, starting a new verse before his clerk had half finished the response. He disliked the metrical versions, so Romilly remembered, and would therefore never allow the psalms for the day to be sung.
This was as well, since the Stretton choir had always been abominable. As a small child, unable to see beyond the walls of the pew, Romilly had believed that a free fight broke out immediately after the third Collect. Jenny, at the same age, had thought so too, as they discovered later, with some amusement. They had not understood that this hullabaloo purported to be music; they thought that angry people were roaring and screaming at one another.
The actual singing might now be a trifle improved, but the accompaniment, a serpent, a fiddle and a small pipe, was as bad as ever. It was a relief to sink out of the general gaze and to lounge at peace, during an optimistic sermon on the infallible effects of Grace.
Here, thought Romilly, pulling one of his mother’s fans to pieces, was an old fellow whom one might really believe to be happy. The living was a good one. The Parsonage was handsome and well appointed. Mrs. Newbolt might be dead, and the sons scattered, but two daughters remained to keep their father company. He was fond of his dinner. He liked to entertain. His flock was contented and well behaved. All loved him, from the children whose heads he patted, to the greybeards whom he confidently despatched to a better world. The old boy could not have a thing to plague him save perhaps an occasional reminder that he must soon be taking the same journey himself.
And I don’t believe, thought Romilly, that he likes that notion any better than the rest of us. To be shovelled into a dirty hole, under a stone that’s mighty convenient for sparrows … but he’ll die in his bed with all his pious family weeping round him … that is the Newbolt grave, under that yew tree. I remember it at her mother’s … It might not be Jenny at all. She might be away, visiting one of the brothers. This might be an aunt, or something of that sort. We must take care to be coming out of this loose box when they leave theirs. Then they must face us.
This manœuvre succeeded, when the Morning Service was over. The beauty came out first. After her came a terrifying, faded, withered creature who had indubitably usurped the name of Jenny Newbolt since, replying to his bow with a slight curtsy, she gave him a brief glance from eyes which he could never forget. Thirty? She looked nearer fifty.
They all walked down the aisle, the rest of the world waiting respectfully until they had passe
d.
‘We must be off,’ muttered Romilly to Latymer as soon as they were in the porch, ‘if we don’t want to spend the morning saying how-d’ye-do to people.’
Upon this both ladies looked at him. From one he got an unmistakable smile of complicity and approval. From the other a glance of startled distress. Between them they fixed his resolve to defy tradition. He might not otherwise have had the courage to walk off without a word of greeting to neighbours and tenants, after so long an absence. It was stimulating to know that one pretty rebel supported him. A hint of protest from the hag settled the matter. At the moment he quite hated her, for she had destroyed a confidence, never fully acknowledged but never relinquished, that he might, if he chose, forgive her sometime, and in the twinkling of an eye abolish the past.
He bowed again and hurried off with Latymer, who asked eagerly, as soon as they were out of earshot, if he did not think Venetia very handsome.
‘Oh yes. But I’ve never seen her since she was out of the nursery. I thought you meant the other one. Her sister.’
‘Her sister! No wonder you were surprised. They are alike, of course, but I thought it was the mother.’
‘Should you like to see your beauty again? Shall we call at the Parsonage and continue the good work?’
‘What good work?’
‘Mending your heart, my dear fellow.’
‘Hearts don’t mend at such a pace. One must allow time for these things. But I should like to see her again.’
Romilly was not sure whether he should like it himself. But a call at the Parsonage was, in any case, the kind of social obligation which even he could not ignore. He could then decide whether the beauty or the hag provided the more painful parody of his lost love.
He strode back to his Object. All his pictures were either to be banished or rehung. Enlisting George and a step-ladder he worked very hard for some hours. By four o’clock he was unpleasantly hungry. But the elegant timetable was now in force. To wait until six would be a penance. He told George to fetch him some bread and cheese.
4
THEY PAID THEIR call at the Parsonage next day, taking the more formal approach through the village. At the front gate they encountered a great bonnet — not the bonnet which had concealed Miss Jenny Newbolt’s face in church, but a shabbier affair of the same sort, with fewer trimmings and narrower ribbons. She was carrying an enormous basket. When she saw them she halted, smiling politely.
‘Good morning!’ said Romilly. ‘I’m come to repair my sins of yesterday. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Latymer.’
Latymer bowed. Jenny curtsied, the basket bumping against her shins. When asked whether her father was at home she said, in a flat hasty voice:
‘Oh yes. At least … no … I believe not. I believe he’s gone to the mill. But he’ll be back quite soon …’
Latymer took the basket, which threw her into astonished confusion.
‘Oh pray … not heavy at all … I’m only taking it a little way … across the green … pray, Mr. Latymer …’
‘We can take it for you,’ said Latymer. ‘It’s much too heavy.’
‘Not at all,’ she expostulated, trotting after him. ‘Only some broth … a few things … there’s sickness … pray don’t …
Gentlemen offering to carry baskets did not, it seemed, often come her way. Romilly fell into step on her other side. She used not, he thought, to talk so much or so fast. He hoped it might be a symptom of agitation but feared it was habitual. She was agreeing rapidly with Latymer as to the best diet for the sick poor: he seemed to know a good deal about it.
‘Much better take it cooked,’ he said. ‘They have such scanty means of dressing it.’
‘Yes indeed! Often but one kettle for all purposes, and firing is not so plentiful. A good nourishing broth should simmer for several hours.’
‘My mother had a famous scheme. She’d start a broth on the fire and then put it in a box full of hay, where it simmered away of its own accord.’
Jenny’s exclamation, which had a faint echo of the old eagerness, shook Romilly a little. She questioned Latymer about the hay box as though it had been of the greatest importance, demanding every detail of the process, and declaring that it would be a great boon to poor people. Not only would it save firing: it would set their sole kettle or pot free for other cooking.
‘Very few of our women took to it, I believe,’ he said. ‘They’ll do nothing that wasn’t done by their grandmothers.’
‘They get so much advice,’ said Jenny, ‘from ladies who have never cooked a potato. They suspect that what we say must be foolish.’
Then, as if remembering her manners, she turned her vague friendly smile upon Romilly and said something about a fringe frame.
‘Mrs. Brandon’s fringe frame,’ she explained. ‘We promised to return it on Saturday. But now she’s gone to Hereford, and to tell the truth we should be very glad to keep it a little longer. New fringe, you know, for my father’s curtains. How long does Mrs. Brandon expect to be away?’
‘For a fortnight, I believe.’
‘Oh that would be more than … in that case I’m sure she won’t mind if we keep it a little longer. I hope she’s enjoying herself at Hereford. It must be delightful to hear these famous singers from London. And a grand performance of the Messiah!’
‘I heard nothing about that. Only that they were gone to stay with Sophy. What’s all this music?’
‘Oh, the Festival in Hereford Cathedral. The girls begged to go, and no wonder! I can imagine nothing more charming. But Mrs. Brandon was against it at first. When she heard that Lady Baddeley was to be there she changed her mind. Oh, here we are! This is the cottage. Thank you so very much, Mr. Latymer. I must confess it is a little heavy. Bottles, you know. I believe that my father might be at home by now.’
She vanished with her basket into a cottage.
‘Partridge never told us any of this,’ fumed Romilly, as they crossed the green again. ‘Lady Baddeley is my eldest sister. She lives in Berkshire, thank God. It makes my flesh creep to know she’s as near as Hereford.’
‘A very sensible woman, the older Miss Newbolt,’ said Latymer. ‘Too bad she doesn’t go to Hereford too. One can see she’s fond of music. Making fringe can’t be much fun.’
Romilly thought bitterly that it was her own choice. For ten years he had wondered what she would say, if ever they met again. He had imagined some very unlikely topics but he had never hit on a fringe frame. To have thought it deliberate would have been comforting, but he was obliged to reject that idea. Artifice of any kind must still be utterly foreign to her nature. She was, and always would be, truth itself. To this narrow compass of hay boxes and fringe frames had her mind now dwindled. She had only herself to thank.
Dr. Newbolt was still away, and they were conducted into the Parsonage garden to wait for him. Here they found the beauty, sitting under a tulip tree with a volume of Marivaux. She received them with an assurance remarkable in a Miss of seventeen: Romilly might be the most important young man in the country, but she did not show that she knew it. Her voice was low and distinct, but she spoke a little too slowly, which gave to all her utterances an air of formidable deliberation. After five minutes he set her down as the most artificial creature he had ever met.
What she said was lively and amusing enough, but she had no wish, apparently, to exchange or to communicate ideas, her remarks were like a succession of small physical taps or blows, each designed to provoke a particular emotional response. They were pleasant little taps, but he had a notion that she would use a stiletto rather than make no impression at all. This amused him. It was a game which he had played with many women. Let this chit make him jump if she could!
‘This is an excellent opportunity,’ she said, after the first civilities were over, ‘to tell you something which has been on my mind for ever so long. I think you should know it.’
She paused and he looked attentive.
‘You are said to be fond of a
ntiquities.’
‘Indeed? Who does me that honour?’
‘One of your sisters. I forget which.’
He doubted this, and doubted whether he was expected to believe it.
‘I’ve found one which must be yours,’ she explained, ‘since it’s on your property.’
‘What sort of thing? Coins?’
‘No, no, nothing of that sort. Since I don’t know what it is I can’t very well describe it.’
‘What does your father think?’
‘I’ve never told him about it. He might think it very wicked and destroy it immediately.’
Latymer, who was new to this game, started violently and repeated ‘Wicked?’ in some consternation. Romilly preserved a civil composure.
‘A small tablet of lead, with writing scratched on it.’
‘In Latin?’
‘No. English. But very difficult to make out. First there is a name. Katharine Sewell. Then a list of names. I can’t remember them all. The first ones are Hasmodeus, Geroint and Ishtaphar.’
‘Those are the names of demons,’ said Romilly.
She opened her eyes very wide, but he was sure that she had known this already.
‘No! Are they? Then there are these words: “That the person shall banish away from this place and countery at my desier. J.Q.” ’
‘And where did you find this object?’
‘Do you remember Corston?’
‘Yes. You found it there?’
He could not be sure. He had the impression that she was probing and guessed Corston to be a vulnerable spot. Jenny was no longer to be the only person in the world with whom he shared a secret about Corston.
‘I went with your sisters last summer to see if any strawberries grow there now. But they are all withered away. The smoke, I suppose. We wandered over the house. I went into one of the garrets; it must have been a servant’s bedchamber, and I noticed that a floorboard was loose. Some whim prompted me to pull it up. This object was underneath.’
A Night in Cold Harbour Page 4