Crampton Hodnet (8 page)

Oh,
why
can’t I think of anything intelligent to say. So anxiously had Barbara been racking her brains for the sort of remark an intelligent woman well read in English Literature would make that she had not even noticed his tentative advance, the touch on her sleeve.

At that moment a dark shape could be seen hurrying down the drive. It was Miss Rideout, the Principal, a good-natured woman who had unwittingly cut short many a good-night kiss.

‘Good night,’ said Francis quickly.

‘Good night and thank you,’ said Barbara in a small voice, disappointed with herself. She hurried upstairs and into her room, still going over all the things she might have said.

It was really a good thing, she thought, looking around her, that men weren’t allowed in the women’s rooms. The majority of them were so sordid and unromantic. Even Barbara’s, which was sometimes quite nice, was not looking at its best this evening. The folding washstand was open, there were stockings drying over the back of a chair, the chrysanthemums were dying and the desk was littered with her attempts at a Middle English paper. It was not the kind of room she would have liked to entertain Francis in, although it was better when it was tidy. Barbara thought of it as quite a good setting for herself, with its books and flowers and the large reproduction of a Cézanne landscape over the mantelpiece. But there was nowhere really comfortable to sit except the bed, and it didn’t seem quite right to think of Francis sitting there, among the cheap, gaudy cushions.

There was a knock at the door, and her friend Sarah Penrose came in. She was a heavily built, fair girl, always overburdened with work.

‘Oh,
Birdy
,’ she wailed, ‘I wonder if you could help me with
Sir Gawaine
. I simply
can’t
translate it. I’ve been at it
all
afternoon, from two o’clock until now. I thought perhaps we might go through it together.’ She flopped down on the bed, exhausted.

‘Have a cigarette,’ said Barbara, ‘and wait while I tidy things up. I’ve been out to tea.’

‘Out to tea?’

Yes, out to tea, thought Barbara. My heart is like a singing bird, just because I’ve been out to tea… .

‘I’ve had tea,’ said Mr. Cleveland, as he stood in the drawing-room doorway.

‘I should hope you have,’ said his wife, laughing. ‘It’s after six, and you certainly won’t get any here. Did you have it in the town?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Francis shortly.

Francis sounds rather huffy, thought Mrs. Cleveland. Perhaps he’s annoyed about what I said. ‘You can have more tea if you
like
, dear,’ she said, not very encouragingly.

‘But I’ve
had
tea. Why should I want any more?’ he said impatiently.

‘I don’t know. I just thought you might. You do sometimes want odd things, you know,’ she said. ‘Who did you have tea with?’

Really, Margaret was exasperating sometimes, he thought, sitting down by the fire. ‘I had tea with Killigrew,’ he said defiantly. It was the first time, as far as he could remember, that he had ever told his wife a deliberate lie. It made him feel fine and important, a swelling, ranting Don Juan with a dark double life, instead of a middle-aged Fellow of Randolph, ignored or treated with contempt by his wife and daughter.

‘Oh?’ said Mrs. Cleveland. ‘How is old Mrs. Killigrew?’

‘I don’t know, just the same as usual, I imagine. We went to Fuller’s. We talked about Milton,’ he said, enlarging on the fiction. ‘Killigrew was quoting
Paradise Lost
. The beauty of the work is certainly lost through a mouthful of walnut cake. He looked ridiculous.’

Dear Francis, thought his wife affectionately. Was it possible to recite Milton over the tea table and not look ridiculous? ‘Won’t you recite some now?’ she asked solemnly.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Don’t you remember … ?’ she began, but she stopped, because she was herself being ridiculous now. For there was surely something essentially ridiculous in remembering how Francis had once recited the whole of Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’ to her over tea in Boffin’s.

‘Did you see Aunt Maude and Miss Morrow in Fuller’s?’ she asked. ‘They may have been there when you were. I know they were going shopping, and they usually have tea there if they stay in town.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Francis confidently, ‘I didn’t see them.’ But the news that they might have been there made him a little uneasy. He couldn’t really remember noticing anyone, except Mrs. Furse and her three little boys, and the cafe had been very full. Supposing they had been there and had seen him with Barbara? One must consider that possibility. If they had seen him, Aunt Maude would be sure to tell Margaret. She would consider it her duty. And yet there was nothing wrong in taking Barbara Bird out to tea. Margaret had herself suggested that he should do something of the kind. It was only that he had told her that he was with Killigrew, and she would probably wonder why he had told a lie about it. He didn’t really know why he had. The whole thing was Margaret’s fault, he thought unreasonably. She oughtn’t to have turned him out and sent him to the Bodleian on a cold afternoon. And she ought to have told him as soon as he came in about Aunt Maude’s probably having been in Fuller’s. Then he would have been warned.

‘Did you see anyone else that we know?’ persisted Mrs. Cleveland.

There she was, going on about it again, he thought, exasperated. ‘The whole of North Oxford was there, I should think,’ he said in an even tone. ‘It usually is in the vacation. So you can gather that I probably saw almost
everyone
we know.’

‘If I were you, Miss Morrow,’ said Miss Doggett to her companion, ‘I shouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Cleveland about what we saw in Fuller’s last week. You are inclined to be impulsive, you know, and well-meaning busybodies often do more harm than good in matters like this.’

‘Oh, no, I never thought of mentioning it,’ said Miss Morrow meekly, without attempting to protest against the injustice of Miss Doggett’s implications. ‘I shall
certainly
not say anything.’

‘I do not think it is really our business,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘We will let the matter drop,’ she added, having no intention of doing anything of the kind. It was quite possible that there would be further incidents in the story. It would be much more interesting to wait. It was really not her duty to tell Margaret about last week, but it might very well be to confront her with a complete and convincing story of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

‘Is it this evening that the vicar and his wife are coming to dinner?’ asked Mr. Latimer, coming into the room.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Doggett with a sigh. ‘He is such a boring little man, but we must do our duty.’

How smooth he is, thought Miss Morrow, as she listened to Mr. Latimer criticising, quite respectfully, of course, the vicar’s sermons. Every remark that he made was taken up eagerly by Miss Doggett and, as it were, magnified.

‘In the old days,’ declared Mr. Latimer, ‘nobody would have tolerated a sermon lasting only ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Mr. Wardell thinks he is still in those old days. He has material for a ten-minute sermon, but he tries to spin it out for half an hour. The result is—well’ —he turned to Miss Doggett with his charming smile— ‘you have seen that for yourself. Ideas have changed now.’

Certainly they have, thought Miss Morrow with amusement. Clergymen nowadays apparently think nothing of telling deliberate lies. She wondered whether Mr. Latimer would claim that the change was for the better.

‘Of course Mr. Wardell has none of that dignity one associates with the clergy,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘He looks more like a grocer. When I see him in church, I imagine he ought to be slicing bacon.’

So these were the thoughts that were in Miss Doggett’s mind during Divine Service, reflected Miss Morrow, with interest. Sometimes one could tell, or at least imagine, what people were thinking, but that Miss Doggett should imagine the vicar slicing bacon was something entirely unexpected. By her grave and reverent demeanour, one would have thought that her mind was fixed on God, a large, solemn, bearded God, who might, if He were on earth, very well live in a house like Leamington Lodge, with its massive furniture and general air of gloomy dignity.

‘I think he’s quite a good sort of man in his way,’ said Mr. Latimer condescendingly.

‘Oh, yes, one never hears anything definite said against him,’ agreed Miss Doggett reluctantly, ‘but I never feel he is quite at his ease among people like us.’

‘Well, we must do our best to make him feel at ease tonight,’ said Miss Morrow seriously. ‘He must be in a permanent state of uneasiness, considering how often he comes here.’

‘The vicar and Mrs. Wardell,’ said Florence, opening the door.

Mrs. Wardell strode into the room, her husband scuttling behind her like a crab. Miss Morrow had a brief vision of him in a white coat and apron, slicing bacon.

‘How nice Miss Morrow is looking,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘I
do
like that blue velvet.’

Miss Morrow smiled rather stickily. She did not want anyone to notice or make any comment on her dress. She had already been made to feel that she had done the wrong thing in putting it on, first by Miss Doggett’s raised eyebrows and then by the startled, appealing look Mr. Latimer had given her when he saw it. It was as if he were afraid that the very wearing of it would make her betray his secret.

‘Have they been knitting for you already?’ said Mrs. Wardell, plucking at the grey pullover which Mr. Latimer wore. ‘I see nothing but lovesick young women hanging round the church these days. You mark my words,’ she said to Miss Doggett, ‘we shall be losing Mr. Latimer soon.’

Mr. Latimer gave her a wan smile. One never knew what Mrs. Wardell was going to say. He certainly did not want any reference to be made to that fatal Sunday evening, although she and Miss Morrow were the only ones who had heard his foolish story. He had made the excuse of ill-health to the vicar, and it had been accepted without question, and with a bottle of Dr. Armstrong’s Influenza Mixture thrown in. Mr. Wardell was a very easy-going little man and had not seemed in the least curious. He was smiling now as he thought about what his wife had said about Mr. Latimer and Miss Morrow. She had some wonderful story about them, almost as if there were something between them. Just like dear Agnes, thought the vicar affectionately. There was nothing she enjoyed more than a nice romance. Even now she was chattering away to Miss Doggett about a new one she had discovered.

‘Really?’ said Miss Doggett indulgently. ‘Don’t tell me it’s Mr. Killigrew and Miss Morrow.’ She tittered. ‘They’d be a nice pair.’

‘No, it’s even nearer to you than that,’ said Mrs. Wardell triumphantly. ‘But I’ll leave you to guess.’

Mr. Latimer could feel his face getting hotter and redder every moment. Whatever would she be saying next? he wondered angrily. He dared not look at Miss Morrow.

‘Well,’ laughed Miss Doggett, in high good humour, i can only think you mean Mr. Latimer and
me
.’

‘I’m afraid Miss Doggett would hardly stoop to notice a humble curate,’ said Mr. Latimer, recovering his gallantry. But he wished, all the same, that they could change the subject. It was amazing how, even with the restraining presence of Miss Doggett, they always seemed to be talking about
love
, or what passed for love in a circle consisting of clergymen and spinsters.

Thinking things over in bed that night, Mr. Latimer came to the conclusion that he might have to take some action in the matter himself, if only for his own safety and peace of mind. After all, he was thirty-five years old, old enough to know his own mind and yet not so old that he would behave as those elderly clergymen one read about in the cheaper daily papers, who married a servant or a chorus girl of eighteen. He was a man of private means, good-looking and charming. It was obvious that he could never expect to have much peace until he was safely married. Besides, there was something comforting about the idea of having a wife, a helpmeet, somebody who would keep the others off and minister to his needs without being as fussy as Miss Doggett was. Some nice, sensible woman, not too young.

And at this point, in the high, wide bed, heaped with too many bedclothes, he fell asleep. And he soon began to dream violently. Somehow, he didn’t know why, he had asked Miss Doggett to marry him, and the ceremony was to take place on Shotover Hill. They stood on the hill, the vicar and his wife, the Clevelands, Miss Morrow, and a strange clergyman, perhaps the vicar of Crampton Hodnet, who was to perform the ceremony. And then suddenly Mr. Latimer was struggling to get back to Oxford, running along a wide, deserted road, looking for a bus which never came. And he remembered that he had all his packing to do, and how could he possibly manage it when he was on this road so far away from Oxford? He would never get there in time… .

He woke up in a sweat and flung off the heavy crimson eiderdown. He knew now that it had been a dream, because he could see the dark masses of the trees against the window and hear the sound of the steadily falling rain. He switched on the light, deciding to read. There was only a Bible on his bedside table, so he opened it at the Acts of the Apostles and started to read from the beginning. But somehow the narrative did not grip him, for he found his thoughts wandering again to the question of marriage.

And it was then that it occurred to him that he might do
worse
than marry Miss Morrow. The idea framed itself in precisely those words—that he might do worse than marry Miss Morrow. Besides, he thought, warming up a little, he liked her, and as she too was a person of discreet years, he felt that she would understand the way in which this plan had come to him: not as a wild, romantic love; he had known that as a young man of nineteen, and although it had been an experience which had enriched his life, he had now reached an age when he preferred something less disturbing. Love was all very well for
young
people; he was sure Miss Morrow would understand that.

This time he fell into a dreamless sleep, which lasted till morning.