by Iris Murdoch
Benet sat down abruptly upon a chair. For a moment or two the others were talking to each other, then one by one they fell silent, looking at him.
Mildred spoke first. ‘Are you all right, Benet? What’s the matter?’
Benet had flushed violently, then become pale, his breath, coming in gasps, was loudly audible, his face, anguished, scarcely recognisable.
Mildred said, ‘It’s a fit, or a heart attack — are you all right?’
Rosalind said, ‘It’s the letter - someone is—’
They stood about him helplessly. Benet had now bent forward still holding the paper, his head in his hand, he seemed to be gasping for breath. Rosalind cried out, ‘Oh he is ill - what is it, what is it?’
Benet stood up suddenly, staggering slightly, his mouth open. Then, as gathering himself, closed his mouth and looked at Edward, who was standing back near the drawing room door. Benet moved towards Edward, the others parting to let him pass. He turned slightly and said, ‘Could you wait outside - somewhere else - please?’ then to Edward, ‘Please come into the drawing room.’ Edward moved before him into the drawing room. Benet entered the room and closed the door behind him. The others stood helpless, then moved into the dining room where the remains of the dinner were still in place. Rosalind and Mildred sat down, holding hands. Tuan was standing, his hands at his throat. He undid his tie. Owen poured himself out a glass of wine.
Inside the drawing room, Benet went over to the large settee and sat down. Edward picked up a chair and sat down opposite to him. Edward was trembling. Benet said, ‘The message is for you.’ He handed Edward the piece of paper. Edward read it. It ran:
‘Forgive me, I am very sorry, I cannot marry you. Marian.’
Benet was dragging off his tie and undoing the neck of his shirt. Turning away from Edward he uttered a stifled sob, then controlling his breathing he turned towards Edward again.
Edward was (as Benet recalled and even retailed later) made of steel. He had ceased to tremble. He was no longer pale, but somewhat flushed. He sat silently, very still, frowning and looking down at the paper. Then he handed it back to Benet, and speaking in his ordinary voice, he said, ‘So be it.’ Then he said, ‘We must put off the wedding guests. Is it too late to ring them?’
Benet, now more collected, said, ‘That is her writing, isn’t it? It could be a hoax—’
‘It is her writing - rather hasty - but yes, hers.’
‘Perhaps she has been kidnapped, it may be - oh—’
‘It is her writing. Anyway now we must tell the others. I’ll go and fetch them.’
Edward marched to the door, opened it, and called out ‘Come in here, please’ to the group in the dining room. They hurried forward and followed Edward back into the drawing room. Edward, removing the chair he had been sitting on, sat down beside Benet. He said, ‘Please sit down.’ They sat down. Mildred began to say something, then fell silent. Edward said, ‘This letter has come. I shall read it.’He read it out, then held it out to Owen who passed it round.
Rosalind sobbed, Mildred moaned, Tuan hid his face, Owen looked grim. He said, ‘Is it her writing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps written under duress?’
‘Perhaps, but I do not think so,’ said Edward. ‘Anyway, our problem now is to cancel tomorrow’s, that is today’s, engagements.’
‘Who brought the message,’ said Owen, ‘and when? How long has it been here?’
‘That could have been anyone at any time,’ said Edward.
‘Could it have been her? Well, I suppose she wouldn’t have—someone might have seen her. But do you know anyone?’
‘No. No one. Now please—’
‘But where is she?’ said Mildred. ‘We must find her, she might have had an accident and become deranged or something - when did you last see her?’
‘Quite recently, I - ’
‘Let us at least ring her telephone number - she may have changed her mind or—’
‘Try if you like, but it will be useless.’
Mildred ran to the telephone and rang the familiar number, but there was no reply.
‘Nothing on the envelope?’ said Owen. ‘No?’
Benet watching Edward was amazed by his coolness, indeed his coldness. He is just preventing himself from breaking down, he thought. Steel, yes, steel. He said, ‘Edward, did you expect this?’
‘No.’ He added, ‘She means what she said, and that is all.’
‘You’re sure it’s her writing?’ said Owen.
‘Yes. Look.’
It was passed around. Tuan restored it to Edward, who passed it back to Benet. ‘You keep it please.’
‘How can she,’ said Mildred. ‘Surely she has had some fit, she has given way under the strain, we have all tried her too much, we must find her, go to her, - Edward, listen, you must forgive her, I see it all, it’s all our fault, it’s having the grand wedding, in a little while she’ll marry you quietly in a Register Office. Please don’t leave her just for this—’
Edward stood up. ‘Of course I shall drive to London now, and yes I have the keys of her flat. I shall come straight back before six. After six will you please telephone all the guests. I think you have a list.’
Edward made rapidly for the door. Benet, catching him up as he was getting into the Jaguar, seized Edward’s arm, then his hand. Edward gripped Benet’s hand for a moment, and Benet saw in the bright lights Edward’s distorted face.
The sun, which had scarcely been away, returned to Lipcot, the birds who had scarcely been asleep, were all singing together. The huge sky was radiant with its empty blue light. Benet sat up and thought what a lovely day for a wedding! Then a black veil fell upon him and he could scarcely breathe. He moaned, bowing his head. He had been lying upon the sofa. How could he have been asleep, he had no right to sleep, he had thought that sleep was now impossible.
He sat up and looked around as if for his clothes, then found that they were still on. He looked at his watch, it was six o’clock. He got up, still quietly moaning. He could hear that other inhabitants of the house were up already. He went out into the hall.
Mildred was hurrying down the stairs. ‘Benet, what can we do, what can we say — I still think—’
‘We must ring up all the guests and say it’s off, that’s all. I’ve still got the message - ’
‘But we don’t know what has happened, what has really happened, she may suddenly turn up and—’
‘We must ring up—’
‘That note was just a protective cry when she realised she’d be married, I could feel like that myself, she may come running back, she may even suddenly turn up here, we don’t have to say it’s all over—’
‘Mildred, return to reality, we can’t make up stories, we can only give them the facts, we owe it to Edward—’
‘Exactly, we owe it to Edward, we don’t know whether it’s the end of the world, oh can’t you see—’
‘I think that’s his car now.’
Benet ran towards the door followed by Mildred. He passed Tuan standing in the doorway of the dining room. He opened the front door which he had deliberately left unlocked. The door opened to the pale blue radiant sky making a halo round the tall figure on the doorstep. Edward came in.
Mildred said over Benet’s shoulder, ‘Oh Edward, I’ve rung her flat. There’s no reply, of course you have too, we don’t really know what’s happened, we don’t know what to say, do we—’
Ignoring Mildred, Edward, closing the front door behind him, said to Benet, ‘I’ve got my list here, I expect you have yours. It’s a very short list. Now it is after six, I think that’s early enough to start ringing round. Could you do the talking please?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Benet, ‘I imagine you’ve already tried—’
‘Of course.’
Benet led the way back into the drawing room.
‘We must find her,’ said Mildred to Edward, ‘she may have terribly regretted that note, she may now be simply a
fraid to say so, afraid to come to you - or she may intend to do something awful—’
‘Like throwing herself into the Thames. Yes.’
Mildred, who never got on very well with Edward, stepped back, putting her hand to her mouth.
Meanwhile Benet had already reached one of the guests by telephone, a former college friend of Edward, and was telling him that the wedding was cancelled. Why? Well, he was not sure, unfortunately it was just not on - postponed, yes perhaps - no, Edward wasn’t at Hatting he was here at Penndean - ‘I don’t know whether Edward would like to have a word—’
Edward, grimacing with exasperation shook his head violently.
‘Well, he’s not available just now actually — I expect later — yes, yes - I’m so sorry we’ve had to postpone — ’ Benet put the phone down. ‘Sorry, Edward - if it’s going to be like this—’
‘I’m going back to London,’ said Edward. ‘Here’s my list. No, keep the message. You can do what you like.’
‘Should we alert the police? And there’s her mother, only Rosalind doesn’t know where she is now—’
Edward strode across the room and across the hall. He banged the front door behind him. Benet prevented Mildred from following him. When he reached the door the car was already vanishing.
‘Mildred dear, do sit down, do lie down on the sofa, do, go and lie down somewhere, please - I’m just going to ring the Rector.’
Upstairs Rosalind, who had been awake for some time, was up and dressed and sitting on her bed. She was looking at her bridesmaid’s dress, laid over a chair, and her bouquet of flowers, which Clun had made up for her so carefully and placed in a jug. Tears were slowly moving down her hot cheeks. She closed her eyes and lowered her head and wailed silently. Where was Marian, oh where, where?
Not far away, in the Sea Kings pub, Owen Silbery was still asleep, dreaming that he was sitting at a table in a candlelit room alone with Caravaggio.
The wedding had been arranged for twelve o‘clock, but in the bright sunshine some villagers had begun to assemble much earlier. The Rector, Oliver Caxton, alerted early by Benet, had sent out one of his older choristers (there was to be a little choir) to inform these outsiders that the wedding was off. When Caxton, later, came down to address them, they pretended not to believe him. At any rate they had come for a show, and felt sure that there would, somehow or other, be one. They were in fact right, since Benet had been unable to reach all the invited guests by telephone. He had, for instance, not been able to warn Anna Dunarven. In any case he and Mildred had agreed they and the others would be on guard to accost any persons who attempted to enter the church under the impression of attending a marriage. After all, various friends of Marian, whom she had invited but forgotten to mention, might have decided to turn up.‘The others’ officially in fact comprised only Benet, Mildred, Rosalind, and Tuan. Owen, whom they reached at last, had said he would come along later. Mildred said that was just as well. Edward was an unknown quantity. Would he come back again? Telephone calls were in vain. They had decided to set out for the church soon after nine.
The enormity of the outrage, or rather the tragedy, seemed in daylight even greater. Why didn’t she say it earlier, they kept on repeating. It was so terribly cruel to spring it on him like that. Though, Mildred said, at least it needed enormous courage to do it at the last moment. The sealed envelope and the messenger remained mysterious. Had Marian herself brought the message, dropping it in quietly while they were all shouting and laughing over dinner? The thought of this, the picture of Marian standing in silence outside, crying perhaps, and wondering whether she should leave the terrible missive, or take it away or destroy it, was heartrending. It was, it was agreed, equally likely that it was delivered by someone else - someone who knew— or else some hired person, working for some official firm, arriving in the dark, told not to knock? Over and over they made themselves wonder if it were a vile joke, a hoax - but then, it was agreed, the writing was certainly Marian’s. Poor Edward, brave Edward, they kept on saying, and wondering whether after all Marian would come rushing back to him and he would take her in his arms. That would be best, wonderful. Perhaps when the time of the wedding came, the pair would suddenly appear together smiling. Mildred kept wishing and dreaming this. ‘And we shall forgive them instantly.’ At any rate Edward has not cursed her. A reconciliation later on, or indeed soon, was not at all impossible - and then they might look back upon their present emotions with amused relief. In fact, for each one of them, it was an agonising shock, from which it would take them a long time to recover.
As they set off to the church in Benet’s car, each pain was deep. They talked of hopes, but really without hopes. And in each of them there were very private griefs, losses, regrets, and disappointments, even feelings of shame. Benet was reflecting that really, profoundly, it was all his fault. He had imagined how wonderful that particular union would be, how absolutely made for each other they were. In fact this idea (obvious enough once thought of) had been put into Benet’s head by Uncle Tim a long time ago. How sad Uncle Tim would be now! Or, another thought struck him, if Uncle Tim had been alive now of course all would be well — or it would have much earlier been found to be impossible. I have messed it up, Benet thought, I hustled the two of them together, I was always arranging that they should pair off, they should go walking together, they should sit next to each other at dinner! It had all seemed to sail along! Other selfish personal worries now crowded into Benet’s head. Suppose Edward were now to marry some awful girl who was hostile to Penndean, or else that Edward would never marry at all, sell Hatting, let it pass into the hands of vile cousins or strangers? Benet had no children. Marian and Rosalind had become his children, I saw them as so happy, he thought, he had pictured himself playing with their children! But I was pressing her into a match which she increasingly felt to be impossible - at any rate she had the courage to say so at the last moment. And this at least could seem a consoling thought. Mildred, restraining her tears, was thinking it’s all our fault, we had not been deep and loving enough to see what the difficulties were, we had not tried, we had thought selfishly of our own satisfaction, really we didn’t know Edward enough, we built up some solemn ideal Edward, and now it’s somehow really Edward’s fault, he should have seen it coming, he should have been brave enough to have it out with her. Rosalind, restraining her tears, was crying out in her heart, Oh Marian, Marian, what terrible pain you must be in, oh let me find you, let me come to you, oh I love you so much and you are so terribly wounded.
The church, which was dedicated to Saint Michael and All Angels, was strikingly situated upon a grassy hillock on the (from Penndean) far side of the river Lip, reached by an ancient stone bridge. Continuing from the bridge a little lane, just viable for cars, led up the hill, ceasing at the church gate. The church was built out of the local grey stone which often gleamed and sparkled. It had a sturdy square tower, and a statue of the saint, battered it was said by Cromwell’s men, over the doorway. The interior was dark, the five windows, mostly decorated, being filled with Victorian stained glass. The east window presented the soldier saint triumphant, leaning upon his sword, the side windows Christ healing and teaching. The crucifixion was represented only by a wooden gilded image, nineteenth century, hanging in the chancel arch. The elaborately carved pulpit was Jacobean, made to glow by many hands which had stroked the saints who were portrayed upon it, the big solid fourteenth-century font was carved with interlaced arches with stars and crosses, there was a kneeling female figure in an alcove, and an alabaster reclining figure of a knight in armour, open-eyed and praying, with his dog at his feet. Tablets remained on the walls, but not in great numbers since some cleansing Rector at the beginning of the century had stripped away many of these. Two memorials, beautifully lettered in slate, commemorated the village victims of two wars, forty-five in the First World War (including a relative of Edward’s) and four in the second. The handsome church had contained in its long past many more embellish
ments and trimmings, only time, warfare, thieves and loss of congregations had dimmed it.
They parked the car over the bridge, on the church side, deciding to walk the rest. Here Benet felt his guilt at having abandoned the attentions which had bound him to the people of the village. Beyond the church, close to it served by little lanes on the other side, was the small but serviceable eighteenth-century Rectory, opened for Oliver Caxton’s regular visits. The sun was shining from an almost cloudless sky. Benet and his party neared the church gate.
A large crowd had now gathered outside the gate. Benet was thinking, why on earth have I brought Rosalind, she just insisted on coming, and now this mob will see her tears. The news has got round already! Oliver must have been busy. They look threatening, we shall have to elbow our way. However, as they approached, there were some friendly and courteous faces, and Benet quickly led his party through. Only a few stared with amusement, most lowered their eyes, some bowed their heads, and there were a few incoherent murmurs of sympathy. One youth (on holiday) who said loudly, ‘Too bad, chum, she’s bolted!’ was hushed up by others. Rosalind was not crying. They mounted the little grassy path, Oliver Caxton, standing at the door of the church, ushered them into the cool dark interior. There was a strong scent of innumerable flowers. Mildred and Rosalind sat down near the front. After a moment or two Mildred pulled out one of the kneelers, finely embroidered long ago by ladies of the parish, and knelt down, gazing up at the gilded figure of Christ which, in the sudden dark, seemed to be poised alone in mid-air above the chancel. Benet stood with Oliver in the aisle. The church was otherwise empty.
‘Has anyone arrived yet?’
‘Benet, I am so sorry — ’
‘Has anyone -?’
‘No. I’ve put sentinels out in all the lanes. There’ll be some cars I suppose.’
