“Which one, Adam?” asked Elaine. “The fen girls are so heavy and stupid, so unteachable, that I have sent away a good many.”
“Her name was Ruth and she had been badly burned in her youth. Her face was much scarred.”
“You mean Ruth Newman.” Elaine shuddered. “What a revolting creature she was! I only kept her two months. But she left two years ago, Adam. What makes you remember her? Her ugliness, I suppose.”
“I did not think her ugly,” said the Dean. He was looking thoughtfully at the fire. He remembered Ruth very well, a woman of middle age, a countrywoman, moving with a slow and quiet strength. The drawn purple scars had been a disfigurement, certainly, but not an ugliness, for what one had chiefly noticed about her face had been the broad lined forehead and the extraordinary softness of the dark eyes, widely spaced beneath fine brows. He had reason to remember her, for it was during the two months when she had been with them that he had been seized with an unusually bad bout of lumbago, at a time when Garland had been laid up with a feverish attack. He had stumbled and fallen upon the stairs one evening, and had found himself unable to get up again. He had not known what to do. If he had called out for help Elaine might have heard him and been alarmed. The shock might have brought on one of her headaches. But Ruth, crossing the landing above, had seen him and came to his assistance, and subsequently looked after him, applying remedies which she assured him had been of great service to her own grandfather. The remedies had seemed strange to him, the application to the afflicted part of salt warmed in the oven and subsequent anointing with hog’s grease. But though strange they had been remarkably effectual and he had never forgotten her sensible matter-of-fact kindness and the peculiar tenderness of her broad, strong hands. He had been deeply sorry when Elaine had sent her away. And she, he remembered, had been sorry too. He had given her a gift upon parting and she had been hard put to it to keep herself from weeping. “No, not ugly,” he said, adding with a smile, “but perhaps a fellow feeling made me overpartial to her looks. Where is she now, my dear?”
“Adam, how should I know?” said Elaine airily, her voice bell-like in sweetness. “She left two years ago.”
The Dean held out his hands, still chilled, to the blaze of the fire. He did not look at Elaine and a heavy grief pressed upon him, for she was lying. He wished he did not always know when she was lying, but to know these things was one of the penalties of love. He did not need to look at her to see her in her sofa corner in that wonderful sea-green gown, the lamplight on her hair, her needle flashing in and out of her embroidery in its small round tambour frame. There was a suggestion of a smile on her mouth and her long lashes cast faint lovely shadows on her cheek. When she deceived him, managed him, there was always that airy music in her voice, the small smile, the shadow of the lashes on her cheek because she had hooded the amusement in her eyes. Until now he had always let it alone, never pressed her, lest she perjure herself further, but now he had to go on.
“Has she never written to you, my dear?”
“Why should she? There was no intimacy between us.”
“Where did she subsequently find employment? You were applied to for a reference, were you not?”
“Adam, how can I remember where all the servants go when they leave us?”
“Try to remember, my dear. It is of importance. I am anxious to find a housekeeper for Mr. Augustus Penny, the Vicar of St. Peter’s. I believe Ruth Newman to be the very woman he requires.”
Elaine dropped the tambour frame in her lap in sudden exasperation. “Adam, since when has it been one of the duties of a Dean to find servants for the parochial clergy?”
“Elaine, all my life I have prayed much, and as I could I have endeavored to love much and to grapple with the evil about me, but in the equation of love and prayer with the service of small things I have failed. In the mercy of God it is not, I trust, too late.”
He spoke with such sadness that a sudden shiver of inexplicable apprehension went down her spine. The skill of her evasiveness no longer amused her and before she could stop herself she had answered plainly, “She went to work on a farm in one of the villages. Willow something.”
“Willowthorn?”
“Yes.”
“Is she there now?”
“No. They could not afford to keep her after the failure of last year’s harvest.”
“She wrote to you asking to return to us?”
“She suggested she should come back as scullery maid. Keeping to the kitchen regions her disfigurement, she said, would not give offense. She had, quite naturally, failed to find another place on leaving the farm.”
“What reply did you make to her?”
“I am not sure that I did reply. I considered her suggestion presumptuous.”
“You sent her no assistance in her trouble?”
“Possibly. I don’t remember.”
She picked up her work and dropped it again. Never before had Adam spoken to her like this. His ugly voice had lost none of the tenderness that was always there for her but the questions were coming fast as arrows. She began to understand how the arrows, without tenderness, had always mown down their victims. It no longer puzzled her that he should have been considered such a great headmaster.
“How long ago did she write to you?”
“Three weeks. A fortnight perhaps.”
“You still have the letter?”
“Adam, you know I do not usually keep letters. You know how I dislike mess and clutter.”
“Look in your escritoire. I do not think you would have closed your heart to that poor woman. I believe you will find her letter there. You would have remembered it in a day or two and sent her help.”
It was he who was lying now, to himself as well as to her. He tried hard to believe his own lie but he still could not manage to warm his hands as he held them to the fire. Elaine rustled to her escritoire and sat there turning over her papers, unhurried and lovely. The abominable cupid clock ticked on and on in a lengthening silence. Adam was praying childishly, with a grief and intensity out of all proportion to the smallness of the incident. “Let her find the letter, O God of mercy.” Elaine was wondering how long it would be politic to keep up this farce. Another five minutes by the cupids, she decided, and reached her long white fingers to the back of a pigeonhole. She was not looking for the letter at all, for she was certain she had destroyed it, but for some patterns of rose-colored velvet for an evening gown. She had received them three weeks ago but had mislaid them, which had annoyed her intensely because she wanted the gown for the Bishop’s New Year dinner party. She removed a little bottle of perfume from the pigeonhole, and a ball of crimson embroidery silk, and then her husband, watching her face intently, saw it light up with sudden pleasure. His heart beat so fast and hard that it nearly choked him. She withdrew her fingers, holding some shreds of bright stuff and a bit of crumpled paper, and turned her head aside as she smoothed out the paper. Then she turned around to her husband with her rare smile like light upon her face, and held it out to him. “Here it is, Adam.”
He jumped up and came to her and she rose to meet him. He put his arms around her and held her close to him, dizzy with relief. He had misjudged her, and though he would never forgive himself his remorse was like the dew of heaven because it exonerated her. “Forgive me, my dear,” he whispered.
“What for, Adam?” Her voice was cool and amused as she withdrew herself gently from his arms. He was crushing the lace fichu on her gown to a limp rag.
“I spoke sharply, I believe.” How could he tell her what he had believed? And how could he have believed it? She would have written to the poor woman in a few days. That fountain of joy was playing within him again.
“Well, never mind,” said Elaine. “There’s your letter. Do you wish me to deal with it?”
“No, my dear. I’ve given you trouble enough already. I’ll deal with it myself.”
She gave him the letter and went back to her embroidery. He sat down agai
n, the cheap bit of paper held on his knee. The letter was written in a laborious copperplate hand, beautifully clear and without blots or erasures. Ruth must have copied it out many times to get it so perfect. A few phrases caught his eye. Forgive me, madam. I am ashamed to trouble you. . . . I was happy at the Deanery. . . . The last few months at the farm I did not get my wages. The mistress died, poor soul, and at the end I had to use my savings for the things she needed. I was glad to do what I could. . . . I would not trouble you, madam, were it not that I am desperate. He put the letter in his pocket. It would be discourteous to Elaine to read it now, and the longing came upon him to talk to her, to try once more to come a little closer to her, only he did not know what to talk about.
“What have you been doing today, my dear?” he asked lamely, but when he looked up he found that she was already putting away her embroidery. She so often seemed to be doing that when he felt that he would like to try to talk with her.
“It’s late, Adam. You were late for dinner, you know. I am tired. I’ll go to bed, I think.”
“I tired you, making you look for that letter,” he said contritely. He got up and kissed her and went with her into the hall to light her candle for her, and stood watching her with adoration as she went slowly up the stairs, her hair haloed in light. Then he went into his study and wrote a long letter to Ruth about Job and Mr. Penny. He made some bank notes up into a packet for her and rang for Garland, for they must be delivered by hand to her tomorrow. She must not remain another night and day in desperation. That she was still at Willowthorn and still available for Mr. Penny, he did not doubt. “All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
“Garland,” he said, when Garland had received his instructions, “where do we get our fish?”
“Sir?” asked the astonished Garland.
“I asked you, Garland, where do we get our fish?”
“At Catchpole’s, sir, in the market place.”
“We must not leave Mr. Catchpole but I shall be obliged, Garland, if in the immediate future the Deanery order could be divided between Mr. Catchpole and Mr. Lee of Swithin’s Lane.”
Shock and displeasure kept Garland silent for a moment, then he said, “Not very reliable, sir, Lee’s isn’t. The cat’s fish could be purchased there if that should be your wish.”
“Mine also, if you please,” said the Dean sternly. “I wish to give Mr. Lee a trial. No more. But I think you will find that he will serve us with excellent fish. I shall be obliged if you will inform Cook of my decision and ask her to make the necessary arrangements. Thank you, Garland. Good night.”
13. The Umbrella
1.
IT was the proudest day of Emma’s life. She, who of late years had hardly been accounted of genteel birth in the city, was expecting the Dean to tea in the manner of Miss Montague and other ladies of the Close. It was true he had said nothing about tea, and five o’clock was late for it, but he would not be able to resist Polly’s seedcake and her own specialty of lace-thin bread and butter, cut with a knife dipped in hot water and rolled up into delicate fingers. She had put out the best Derby china that had not been used since her father had died, and the best linen tablecloth with its deep crocheted border. She had also unearthed from the attic, and polished till they shone, the George I silver teapot and some very old teaspoons, thin as moonlight. The house was very quiet in these awed moments of expectancy, soundless except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of Sooty’s appreciation of the first good parlor fire they had had in years.
All over the city the clocks struck five. He would soon be here now. She turned to look at herself in the spotted old mirror above the mantelpiece. She was looking her best, with her mother’s shawl softening her angularity and a tall tortoise-shell comb set high in her hair. There was a little color in her usually sallow cheeks and it was not impossible today to realize that in her youth she had been a handsome girl. She was very much aware of it herself, for like so many spinsters she had remained oddly oblivious of the effects of time. The years had been long and she had not moved with them, supple to their ring and change, but had withstood them in the cold frustration of her virginity. She would have been shocked if anyone had told her that she was not adult, yet in her dreams she ran and ran in the dark, doubling back upon her tracks to find her father. She had never, like Polly, dreamed of the quick bright water running out into the mystery and of herself upon it in her dancing boat.
There was a heavy step upon the pavement and the window was momentarily darkened by the passing of a tall black figure. Then came a knock on the door and the eager feet of Polly in the passage. Emma stood waiting in stately dignity. She was not shy, for this was her right, but a little anxious as to how Polly would acquit herself. She had coached her in the correct procedure but the girl had been in a troublesome mood over the weekend, constantly bursting into song and what could only be described as dance, so quick were her footsteps as they moved about the house. But she had promised not to sing while the Dean was in the house, to move quietly and slowly, to let no words pass her lips except the necessary “The Dean, ma’am” when she showed him in, and not to push the parlor door with her knee when she brought in the teapot and hot water jug. But listening intently Emma fancied she heard whispering in the passage, a sound silken and light as the stirring of new leaves on a poplar tree. Then the door opened, Polly flattening herself against it. “There’s no need to feel for the mat, sir,” she said. “I’ve took it away. The Dean has caught a cold, ma’am. Which tea did you say, best or kitchen?” Emma ignored her as the Dean bent courteously over her hand. “Best or kitchen?” persisted Polly. “Kitchen’s the stronger and him with a cold.”
“Might I be allowed to put in a plea for the stronger brew?” asked the Dean. “I did not intend, ma’am, to put you to the trouble of giving me tea but I am much obliged.”
He was very hoarse but he had not, he assured Emma, caught a cold, or he would not have waited upon her. He had got wet on Saturday and the reading of the lessons at the Cathedral services yesterday had a little acerbated the vocal cords. And now the weather had turned very chilly. “This good fire, ma’am,” he croaked, his hands stretched to its blaze. “Hot tea and a rest will do wonders for me.”
“You have been busy today?” asked Emma.
“A couple of committee meetings, a visit to the workhouse and my lawyer. Just routine business. No more. What a charming parlor this is, ma’am. Is that your worthy father? There’s a likeness, ma’am. I see a strong likeness. I am sorry that I did not know him.”
They stood together before the portrait of the Reverend Robert Peabody while Emma expatiated on his merits. Behind their backs Polly came in with the tea and went out again. When the parlor door had shut behind her the Dean felt like a child whose mother has left it alone in a strange and frightening place. Firelight and Polly had lent a momentary charm to the parlor but now, looking up at the portrait, he was aware of having passed under the shadow of a dark hand. Emma, he realized, lived under it always. Her parlor was her past, and Isaac’s, and if Isaac in tearing himself out of its grip had torn himself too he was better off with his asthma and his nerves and his eccentricity than Emma. Better to struggle through life with a broken wing than have no wings at all.
When he was seated opposite Emma at the tea table he said, “Will you forgive me, ma’am, that I left so hastily when I called the other evening? I gave myself no opportunity for the privilege of a little conversation with you. I fear I must have appeared discourteous.”
“I beg you will not mention it, Mr. Dean,” said Emma graciously from behind the George I teapot. “You are a busy man, I know.” She had forgotten now that at the time she had been jealous and resentful. To have the great Dean apologizing to her, seated here at her table, eating her bread and butter and drinking her tea, even though it was the kitchen tea, was giving her a satisfaction greater than anything she had known in years. She cut generous slices out of the seedcake and the Dean’
s heart sank. He had had a cup of tea with Elaine already, he had an unworthy detestation of seedcake, and his throat was in that condition when every swallow is a matter of painful difficulty. Such a vast and stupefying fatigue weighed upon him that he could scarcely remember what he was here for, and what it was that he had thought he had to say. The child. Something about the child. What child?
“A piece of cake, Mr. Dean?” suggested Emma coyly. “I know gentlemen like cake.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the Dean. “Much obliged.”
Struggling in the deepest depression to masticate seedcake he ruminated in alarm on Emma’s sudden coyness. An unloving woman, he had thought at their first meeting, torn with dark passions, and though he had felt profound pity yet he had instinctively disliked her and had cravenly fled. Well, he was back here again because he had fled, and would have to return all over again were he to retreat before her coyness. Why was she coy? As he talked laboriously of the weather, of her revered father, of the affairs of the city, he watched her and saw that she was not so much coy as strangely happy. Her eyes rested upon the seedcake as though it had lighted candles upon it, and her fingers, touching the tea things, had a sort of joyous deftness that made him think of a child untying birthday presents. . . . When was Bella’s birthday? he irrelevantly wondered. . . . She did not use this lovely china and these thin silver spoons very often, he realized. She had no friends for whom to make a party. Possibly her shadowed childhood had never known parties, and the child in her watched still for her birthright, shaking the barren tree, puzzled because no treasure fell in her lap. Suddenly his dislike of her cracked and fell apart, and the warmth of profound relief flooded through him. He disliked so seldom, was so increasingly prone to love much, that to dislike even a little was a great distress to him. Poor child! This woman was no monster, merely another of the children. “The child!” he said with sudden jubilation, unaware that he had spoken aloud.