She walked on, to the bridge over the Gala Water. When she came to the centre, she paused, leaning on the balustrade. She gazed down at the river running so strongly as the winter snow came down in the spring warmth. The birch and alder were hung with catkins, brownish purple in the weak sunlight.
She took out of her pocket the letter from Franz. She tore it across and across, then again, until it was only a handful of small squares. She reached out over the water, opened her hand.
The pieces fell like heavy snow, catching in the eddy where the water was divided by a floating log. For a moment they swirled, borne along by the current. Then they became saturated. One by one they disappeared under the sherry-brown surface, and were gone.
Herr Tabbler arrived three days later. As Franz had foretold, he brought a wife and a young son. They were immediately acknowledged as a great asset to the neighbourhood: Mrs Tabbler played the piano to perfection and sang in a good steady contralto, Mr Tabbler liked to go shooting and was interested in the game of golf, just beginning to be popular outside its native ground. The son went off to the Border Academy where he stood up to the teasing that was thought necessary by bloodying a few noses.
‘He’s a fine sturdy boy,’ Millicent Corvill said with muted approval. ‘I think he’s over-ready with his fists but perhaps that will pass.’
‘Ach, you’ve got to stand up for yourself,’ her son said. ‘But Mr Tabbler is a man after my own heart. He agrees with me that this book by Mr Darwin is just the raving of a madman.’
‘Has he read it?’ Jenny asked with interest, for all the efforts of the Corvill family to obtain a copy had failed.
‘No, but you don’t need to read the book to know it’s nonsense ‒ the reviewers have made that plain enough.’
‘But surely, Ned, Mr Lucas in The Times ‒ he talked of a solid bridge of facts, or some such phrase.’
‘Mr Tabbler tells me that a friend of his in London has it on good authority that the review in fact was written by Professor Huxley, a friend of Darwin’s, so you see it isn’t to be believed for a moment.’
‘Oh, Ned dear, don’t let’s talk about it. From the moment it appeared it seems to have done nothing but cause argument.’
‘But we must talk about it, Mother. The man seems to be saying that the Bible does not contain the truth.’
‘He can’t say that, dear,’ Mrs Corvill said with a smile.
‘I don’t even understand what the title means,’ Lucy said, looking up from her fashion magazine. ‘The Origin of Specials?’
‘Of Species, dearest. It means, where the different kinds of living things came from.’
‘Oh, well, there was no need to write a book about that. Adam named them in the Garden of Eden.’
‘If we believe Mr Darwin, there was no Garden of Eden.’
‘Now, son, please don’t go on about it,’ Mrs Corvill said in reproof. ‘It’s all wicked nonsense and I don’t wish to hear it discussed.’
The subject was changed, Ned was persuaded to read to them from Idylls of the King, Jenny sketched out a few new ideas for lightweight plaids, and the evening wound its sleepy way to its end. Jenny had no idea how important the subject was going to prove to her brother in the months to come. But then few people had any idea of how Charles Darwin’s book was going to shake the foundations of religious faith.
The next day was Sunday. At church the minister delivered a rousing attack on the heresies in this strange new book. He himself ‒ like everyone else in Galashiels ‒ had not read it. But he was sure it was a very bad thing, and said so.
‘It’s going to be terribly boring if people go on and on about it,’ Lucy said, as they set off for home.
‘Boring? I’d hardly say it’s boring, Lucy,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s terribly important, by all I can gather. I do wish I could get hold of a copy so as to know what the man really said.’
‘You don’t really want to read dreadful things like that?’ her sister-in-law said in horror.
‘I like to face things,’ Jenny said.
‘Ah …’
Millicent came up, after having paused for a chat with one or two of the ladies of the congregation. ‘Ned has stayed behind to talk to the elders about that awful book.’ She sighed. ‘I hope it’s not going to upset him.’
They strolled on. Spring had come to the borders, the grass on the Cuddy Green was brilliant as emeralds, the birds were singing in full throat as they set about nest building.
‘I thought you seemed a little upset recently,’ Lucy said to Jenny.
‘Me? What have I to be upset about?’
‘Perhaps I was wrong. But I’ve had the notion this last week or two that you seem very quiet.’
‘Lucy’s right, Jenny,’ her mother said. ‘Are you quite well?’
‘Perfectly, thank you, Mother.’
‘I think you’re working too hard,’ her mother said, taking up a constant refrain.
‘Not at all ‒’
‘You came home absolutely exhausted after those terrible foreign people were here ‒’
‘The Turkish delegation, you mean. I admit it wasn’t much of a picnic trying to talk cloth manufacture through an interpreter. And they didn’t like having to deal with a woman.’
‘I thought you were surprised and upset at Mr Tabbler coming to replace Mr Lennhardt,’ Lucy suggested.
‘Oh, that was sad,’ Millicent put in. ‘Very sad, about his little boy. I wonder how he is?’
‘Have you heard, Jenny?’ Lucy asked.
‘No. But we could ask Mr Tabbler for news.’
‘So we could,’ Millicent agreed.
Jenny knew Lucy had been pricking at her like a picador in a bullfight. She had taken care to show no response to the veiled hints. Nothing was to be gained by letting her sister-in-law know what she felt.
That afternoon, going up to her room to fetch a shawl, she found Lucy standing at her bureau, hand half-outstretched as if she were about to choose a book from the row in the bookrest.
Lucy swung round. She tried to smile, but her momentary fright had been visible.
‘Were you looking for something?’ Jenny inquired.
‘I … just wanted something … something to read.’
The idea that Lucy would ever want anything more solid than a fashion journal was absurd. Jenny felt anger sweep through her. ‘This is the book you wanted,’ she said. She picked out Vestiarium Scotium. ‘This is the book with the pressed flower in it.’ She flicked over the pages. The flower lay on the open page.
Lucy looked at it. She had coloured up.
‘And here,’ Jenny said, ‘is a scrap of the tartan I sold to the Queen and the Prince Consort. And here is another piece, the tartan I sold to the Tsarina. You’re quite right, Lucy ‒ this is where I hide my keepsakes.’
‘I … I’m not interested in your keepsakes.’
‘Then why are you here prying? What did you hope to find?’
‘I’m not prying ‒’
‘Is this what you were looking for?’ Jenny said, holding out the dried hoya blossom. ‘Here, take it ‒ it’s silly to keep it.’
‘Ah no,’ Lucy said in a sharp tone. ‘You won’t part with that! Franz gave it to you.’
‘He did? How marvellous. Where did he come by it? There isn’t a hothouse anywhere in the Borders that I know of where hoya is being grown. But by all means go and look for one ‒ it will give you something to do.’
‘Of course Franz gave it to you,’ Lucy taunted. ‘Why else were you keeping it?’
‘Franz didn’t give it to me.’
‘Why bother to lie about it? You wouldn’t keep it for any other reason.’
‘Shall I tell you where it comes from?’ Jenny said, wanting to wipe the smile of triumph from Lucy’s face. ‘It comes from the conservatory at Balmoral. It was given to me the day I went there to show the Stewart tartan to the Prince.’
‘From Balmoral? Oh, come now ‒’
‘From Balmoral. It was given
to me as a memento of the day by the Prince’s equerry.’
‘I … I …’
‘So you see, you made a bad guess ‒’
‘You think you can hoodwink me! But I know you’re breaking your heart over Franz Lennhardt.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, don’t deny it ‒’
‘Lucy, I don’t want to waste my time denying things you’ve invented. What’s wrong with you, that you want to meddle and pry like this?’
‘That’s right, try to make out I’m the deceitful one, while it’s really you ‒ you’re the one ‒’
‘No, Lucy, you’re the one. You’re the one who for some strange reason wants to do harm. Let me warn you: you shouldn’t make an enemy of me. I know too much about you.’
Lucy tossed her blonde head. ‘What can you know? You think you’re so clever ‒’
‘I know you’ve done some things you wouldn’t like Ned to know about ‒’
‘What does that mean? If you’re saying I had anything to do with Franz going ‒’
‘I never said that. Why should it spring to your mind? Guilty conscience? You know, I could write to Franz, as a business acquaintance keeping in touch; I could ask him why he decided not to come back.’
‘No!’
‘Would I find out something you’d rather keep hidden?’
‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘We both know that isn’t true. I warn you, Lucy, you shouldn’t make an enemy of me. I want peace in the family but if need be I would speak out. And now I’ll ask you to leave my room and never come back into it unless I expressly invite you.’
Rather pale, Lucy obeyed. Jenny followed her. As they came downstairs to take the air in the garden Ned said cheerfully, ‘Well now girls ‒ been sharing secrets?’
‘Yes,’ Jenny said in a voice of sadness, ‘secrets.’
Chapter Twenty
That spring brought a change to Jenny. There had been an ending but she felt it also as a new beginning. She looked at herself in the mirror and she thought, I’m not a girl any more. In a few months I shall be twenty-four.
And then she thought, If I really am going to be an old maid, I shall be a stylish old maid.
Formerly she hadn’t paid too much attention to her appearance. To look pleasing, to wear clothes that were suitable and perhaps to shine a little on a special occasion ‒ that had been her aim. She knew she had good looks but she had done little to emphasise them.
Baird, the personal maid, had to divide her services among the three women at Gatesmuir. Jenny had never called on her much except for the care and repair of clothes, preferring to dress and undress herself and do her own hair.
Now she called her in to review her wardrobe. She decided to develop a style of her own. She bought some very good lace to replace run-of-the-mill trimmings, she chose from the Waterside pattern book some pale, dignified tartans for her own particular use and had them woven not only in various grades of wool but in silk and poplin also. She got Baird to study the ladies’ magazines for instructions on how to do the latest hair styles, and chose at last a very simple plain coiffure with a centre parting and a high chignon at the back.
‘You’re unco elegant, if you want my opinion,’ Baird said, after she had helped her get ready for a summer party. ‘Do you know the ladies are asking in the dressmakers for the Jenny Corvill fashion?’
Jenny viewed herself in the cheval glass. She was wearing a gown of grey and blue plaid silk and a Mechlin lace shawl. ‘I think, Baird,’ she remarked. ‘I’ll have some parasols made in the tartans I use.’
‘Parasols! There’s no enough sun in Scotland for parasols!’
‘But I think a parasol would be amusing … And then the ladies can go into the umbrella-makers and ask for the Jenny Corvill parasol. It’s good for trade, Baird!’
Lucy watched the transformation with interest and something like respect. Between the two women there was a sort of careful truce ‒ Lucy minded her manners, Jenny concealed her opinion, and no one guessed they had a seething dislike between them.
Ned was out and about on his temperance preaching as summer drew on. He addressed open air meetings, drew large crowds, began to be reported in the newspapers. His friends ceased to tease him, his neighbours began to view him as something of a celebrity ‒ the more so as the argument over Mr Darwin and his book grew hotter.
Charles Kingsley, clergyman and popular novelist, believed that religion and the theory of evolution could be made to fit into one pattern. But that was not the opinion of most churchmen, so that they were eager to call in every supporter. Ned was a strong upholder of religion. He had to be ‒ it was the lifeline that held him safe from alcohol.
He ran his temperance meetings somewhat like a debate. He would make a speech, recounting his own experience and begging the audience to follow his example in asking for God’s help in fighting against drink. He would then call on them to ‘witness’ if they felt the call. This opportunity was sometimes seized by young men who wanted to attack bigoted religionists. ‘What about Darwin?’ they would shout. ‘How can the Bible help you if it’s a pack of lies?’
They had no idea how their taunts tortured Ned. ‘They’re laughing at something that has been the pillar of our society for two thousand years,’ he said to Jenny one Sunday afternoon as they sat in the garden enjoying the peaceful sunlight.
‘Perhaps they’re not really laughing, Ned. Perhaps they’re as worried as you are. It is a strange idea ‒ that we’ve believed in something all these years that may not be true.’
‘It is true!’ Ned exclaimed.
Jenny put out a soothing hand to touch his sleeve. ‘Perhaps one ought not to take it all as absolute fact,’ she murmured. ‘Some of it is perhaps based on legend ‒ not to be taken quite literally.’
‘How can you say so, Jenny! It’s the word of God.’
‘You used not to believe it so entirely, Ned.’
‘That was before Dr Murdo brought me to see the sin of intellectual arrogance. I had no right to question ‒’
‘Forgive me, dear, but I must disagree a little with that. Can you honestly say you don’t question, even now, the literal truth of some of the things in the Old Testament? Do you really believe that God turned the Red Sea into dry land so that the Israelites could go over? Do you really believe ravens brought bread to Elijah?’
‘Yes, of course, utterly.’ But it was said with too much fervour. ‘You don’t seriously have doubts?’
‘Well …’ She could see he was very upset. There was a look of great strain about him. ‘I don’t know enough to speak on anything so important.’
‘But I feel I must talk to someone, Jenny. Mother just smiles and waves it all away ‒ how I envy her simple faith! And the church elders ‒ they don’t have the kind of quick mind that some of my questioners have. You see, I have to answer when people challenge me at the meetings, and I don’t know what to say …’
‘Why don’t you go to Glasgow and have a talk with Dr Murdo?’
His face lit up. ‘Yes! Why didn’t I think of that! The doctor will know how to treat Mr Darwin and his wild theories.’
He made a space in his programme of meetings, and went to Glasgow with Lucy eagerly accompanying him. The trip was unusual enough to make his mother wonder about it. ‘Why should he need to see Dr Murdo, Jenny? Is he feeling unwell?’ She meant, had he been drinking.
‘Oh no, Mother, he just needs to talk to Dr Murdo.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘About the religious reaction to Charles Darwin.’
‘Oh, that,’ Millicent said, with a smile and a shake of her head. ‘Why is everybody so perturbed about it? Even if what the man says is true and we’re here because nature picked out the best ones, somebody had to put the plan in action, didn’t He? It’s plain as the neb on your face.’
Jenny laughed. If only Ned could see it in such simple terms, what heartache he would save himself.
Lucy had insist
ed they must stay in Glasgow for at least a fortnight and have some enjoyment as well as religious reassurance. At the end of the trip she came home looking satisfied. She had spent a lot of money, bought a lot of clothes, seen a lot of plays, and met a lot of people. It had been a pleasure to her to find that the young Mrs Corvill was courted by good society. Ned, too, had been greeted with respect, when she went with him to one or two serious events.
‘By the way, Jenny, I’ll tell you who we met … That man, what was his name … My love, he was at that meeting of the Glasgow Scientific Society that you took me to.’
‘I beg your pardon, Lucy? I didn’t catch …?’
‘That man you spoke to at the lecture on the German thing about what’s-its-name ‒ you know, about all the different colours.’
‘Spectrum analysis, dear,’ Ned replied.
Jenny smothered a laugh. ‘You found spectrum analysis fascinating, Lucy?’
‘I didn’t understand a single word,’ Lucy confessed, with a deprecatory glance at her husband, ‘but Lord Dearglen invited us so of course we had to go. He’s the president of the society, you know. But what I was going to tell you was ‒ remind me of that man’s name, dear?’
‘Who?’
‘The man you spoke to ‒ the man that used to work for you.’
‘Oh, you mean Armstrong? Yes, what do you think, Jenny? We met Ronald Armstrong.’
It was strange how the name affected her. She felt a sudden shock, then a pleased and eager interest. ‘You spoke to him? It’s a long time since he left. How was he?’
‘Oh, very well, I imagine. He’d been in Germany, he told me.’
‘In Germany!’
‘Yes, in Berlin. Something to do with dye-stuffs. You know, he’s a very superior type of workman. He’s studious ‒ wants to know more about underlying principles. Of course, the lecture about spectrum analysis wasn’t strictly in his line because it’s to do with optics, not chemistry, but he said he’d found it very interesting.’
Jenny’s interest was more in the man than in the lecture. ‘What is he doing now?’ she inquired.
A Web of Dreams Page 30
