A Close Run Thing mh-1

by Allan Mallinson

  If Armstrong’s conversation in the first barouche was of an unusually respectable nature, however (sensible as he was of the lady’s maid’s disposition), that in the principal carriage was positively high-minded, for John Keble’s presence, mannered yet warm though he was, seemed not at first to admit of gaiety. Elizabeth was troubled by the disturbances at Hindon, it seemed, fearing that they might spread to the malcontents on Warminster Common. John Keble believed the situation to be a paradigm for the general condition of the realm, and spoke with some passion, and evident knowledge, of poverty in the cities, and also in Ireland. ‘You will do well there, Mr Hervey, to keep clear of the disputes between the owners and their tenants, for it is very bitter, much worse than here, more bitter than you can possibly imagine, fuelled as it is by religious bigotry.’

  Hervey nodded.

  ‘An unhappy place indeed, Mr Keble,’ agreed Elizabeth.

  ‘As unhappy as ever a country could be, I believe, Miss Hervey, and the scars are deep. There is a saying there: “Old sins cast long shadows”.’

  ‘Whose are the greater sins there, Mr Keble?’ asked her brother. ‘Is it possible to discern? For I have read of perfidy on all sides.’

  ‘It is without doubt a confused and confusing story, I am the first to admit. Neither am I the best to tell it. Indeed, I know it very imperfectly. You must call on Canon Very in Cork as soon as you are able, and he will tell you fairly. He is of the same mind as those in the Church of which we spoke when last we dined together. He is leading his congregation back to proper observance and will do great things.’

  But Henrietta would have done with politics. ‘I do not like only talk of trouble, especially now we learn that Mr Hervey is to go away so very soon. Mr Keble, you have been composing poetry at Lyme, have you not? May we hear some?’

  John Keble blushed. ‘Lady Henrietta, you are most flattering. I should in ordinary have been honoured to read some, but that which I have been composing recently is of a religious nature and, because of the sentiments you express, not, I think, what you have in mind. I do, however, have some Shelley with me.’

  ‘Shelley, Mr Keble! You do surprise me,’ she replied with a smile which conveyed nothing but approval nevertheless.

  Hervey looked mystified: ‘Shelley, ma’am?’

  But Henrietta did not catch his meaning in the inflection (he neither knew of Shelley nor had the slightest idea why Henrietta might be surprised that Keble should carry his poetry), or else she did not reveal it. ‘Yes, Mr Hervey, I am quite astonished!’

  ‘You mean, I think,’ ventured John Keble, ‘that Shelley is a notorious atheist?’

  ‘That, Mr Keble, is the very least of his transgressions, is it not?’ she challenged, and with an even greater smile.

  Elizabeth now resolved on some evading action to spare John Keble’s blushes. ‘I think, Mr Keble, that we are alluding to Mr Shelley’s elopement with Miss Westbrook, and she barely sixteen.’

  But, before John Keble could respond, Henrietta positively shrieked with horror. ‘My dear! That is nothing. He has eloped once more, this very month – and to Switzerland, it seems – leaving poor sweet Harriet and two children! And his new paramour is but sixteen, too! Really, Mr Keble, how these Romantics have a strong attachment to innocence!’

  Elizabeth was dumbfounded at her failure to avert the moment. John Keble sat in open astonishment as Hervey tried manfully to suppress the laughter which threatened to convulse him.

  ‘Mr Hervey,’ said Henrietta, seeing his condition and deciding he was not to be spared, ‘do you approve of Mr Shelley?’

  ‘I must confess, ma’am, that I do not know of either Shelley or his poetry.’

  This was in truth scarcely a confession of towering ignorance, for during all the time that Shelley’s star had been rising Hervey had been on campaign. Conversation touching on such things was not uncommon in the regiment by any means, but six years was a long time. In the course of the next half-hour, though, the extent of his nescience was truly to disturb him: Byron, Wordsworth, and so many others, were all unfamiliar names. Had he been in some profound sleep? Milton, Dryden, Pope – these he had learned at Shrewsbury, yet not once were they spoken of. Not even Coleridge whom he had of his own volition read copiously. Southey they praised with something bordering on reverence – Elizabeth dazzled them by her discourse on The Curse of Kehama – yet when Hervey had become a soldier Robert Southey was known only as a hothead whose Jacobin sympathies were attracting the attention of the authorities. How might he now have become a high Tory and poet laureate? And then John Keble read some (unpublished) sonnets by a surgeon’s apprentice whose work he predicted would yet surpass even Southey’s. The war, it seemed to Hervey, had touched little beyond the battlefield.

  But in the midst of this feast of letters Henrietta gave Hervey perhaps the surest sign of her regard: ‘Matthew, will you tell us something of the countryside of Spain? I believe it can be called magnificent, can it not?’

  It was not merely that she had said ‘Matthew’ (she had not called him by his name since his return), it was her evident sensibility in so changing the course of their conversation. He responded keenly, describing the landscape of the Peninsula as best he could, though he found his words less than adequate after so much poetry, and each time he appeared to be nearing a conclusion Henrietta would smile encouragingly, prompting him to reminisce yet more. When he recounted the aftermath of the battle at Toulouse, John Keble pressed him to details of the nunnery, which he then recalled in more precise terms.

  ‘I conclude from your description of their dress and rule that your Sister Maria is a discalced Carmelite,’ said Keble at length.

  Henrietta giggled. ‘That sounds faintly disreputable!’

  John Keble smiled: he was getting the measure of her. ‘No, Lady Henrietta; the Carmelites are a very ancient order which trace their origins to the desert fathers on Mount Carmel. Discalced simply means that the order goes barefoot. It is part of their austere regimen.’

  ‘Do not you remember,’ smiled Elizabeth, ‘calceus – a shoe?’

  ‘Of course. How could one forget those days in the schoolroom! How I admired Matthew for the way he could decline a noun!’

  Hervey shifted in his seat, unsure whether her remark portended a return to mocking. But he did not have to trouble with a reply, for the appearance of the great henge itself, a half-mile distant, brought instead little cries of awe and appreciation from Henrietta. And the object of that appreciation was not only the henge, for here, on the eastern extremity of the plain, as empty as it must have been in the earliest times but for sheep grazing unattended, the resplendence of Longleat House had been transported to the middle of the ancient stone circle. Silver stood on damask tablecloths, wine lay chilling in huge coolers, and gilded chairs were arranged by a round table. Two footmen, conceding nothing to the heat of the day, neither wig nor livery, attended close by.

  ‘Have you seen the stones before, Mr Keble?’ asked Henrietta as they got down from the carriage, feigning not to be overly distracted by the Longleat extravagance.

  ‘Only once, ma’am, but I have read much of them.’

  ‘They were erected by the Romans were they not?’

  ‘No, I do not think so,’ he replied. ‘That is what Mr Inigo Jones concluded because he did not believe any people of antiquity in these islands other than the Romans could have carried out such a task. He was an architect of the classical school, and it is therefore not surprising that that was what he conceived it to be. He made a very fine drawing showing how the stone circle might have looked as a classical building. But it is very circumstantial – indeed, almost wholly conjectural, I would say.’

  ‘What of the theory that it was a place of coronation for the Danish kings?’ suggested Hervey.

  ‘It is remarkable that whoever has treated of this monument has bestowed on it whatever class of antiquity he was particularly fond of.’

  ‘That is a very shrewd judgement,’
he replied.

  ‘Oh, not my words, Mr Hervey – Horace Walpole’s. No, of all theories I think the Danish is the least convincing. There is sufficient literary evidence to suggest it is much earlier.’

  ‘Then, what do you think is the explanation of the stones, sir?’ Hervey pressed.

  ‘Well, I consider that Mr Aubrey’s study is the most scholarly. He suggests that the henge is a religious site of the Ancient Britons and their priesthood, the Druids.’

  ‘Ritual sacrifices?’ said Hervey.

  ‘I fear so.’

  But for sheep beyond the cursus, and the footmen, the four were quite alone. Sitting in the middle of the stone circle after their luncheon, even with so much Longleat finery, it was not difficult perhaps to imagine these Druids, especially since John Keble seemed to know so much about their religion, its rites and ritual. Elizabeth and Henrietta wished to view the circle from one of the tumuli, leaving Hervey and Keble to the Druids and a last glass of Madeira. When they were gone, John Keble interrupted his own speculation on the nature of primeval belief to ask Hervey so direct a question that the latter was all but stunned. ‘Mr Hervey,’ he began, fixing him with a benignant expression that belied his junior years, ‘you are, I perceive, much troubled by your affections for Lady Henrietta. Are you uncertain of them, by some chance?’

  Hervey made not a sound.

  ‘Permit me, my friend, but is it – as I suspect – that you are not able sufficiently to discern what is love and what is merely admiration? Do not misunderstand me, mind, for there is infinitely much that a man might admire in Lady Henrietta – and love might follow as a consequence. Yet, it seems to me, after so many brutal years in Spain one might be inclined to be enamoured of something merely because it stands in such contrast to the brutish.’

  Hervey smiled thinly. ‘You have said “merely” twice, sir; I wish it were indeed thus!’

  John Keble smiled, too, but warmly.

  ‘Holy, fair, and wise is she;

  The heaven such grace did lend her,

  That she might admirèd be.’

  Hervey threw his head back, smiling broadly:

  ‘Is she kind as she is fair?

  For beauty lives with kindness.

  Love doth to her eyes repair,

  To help him of his blindness …’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Hervey! We are two gentlemen indeed, if not actually of Verona. But permit me to make one more observation on the matter of searching for perfection – and a profound one, I trust. At the beginning of the gospel which bears your name, the apostle sees fit to place the genealogy of our Saviour, and in it are the names of four women: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.’ Hervey studied him intently as John Keble’s expression turned to one of even greater warmth. ‘Tamar’s sins we both know of, as indeed we do Rahab’s; Ruth was an alien, and Bathsheba was both adulteress and conniver to murder. Yet these women are of our Lord’s family. I commit this to your reflection, Mr Hervey.’

  Never before had Hervey considered the passage in more than the driest genealogical terms, but before he was able to reflect, or even to make some interim acknowledgement to this man whose charity now seemed as great as his incisiveness, the contemplative peace of the stone circle was broken by the return of his sister and Henrietta.

  ‘Mr Keble,’ began Elizabeth ‘my companion is tired of the sun. Would you hold my parasol while I sketch the stones?’

  John Keble agreed readily.

  After they were gone, and after an even longer silence, Henrietta asked: ‘Is it not perfectly horrid to imagine human sacrifice in this very place?’

  ‘It is; horrid,’ Hervey agreed, somewhat abstractedly.

  ‘But, if there were sacrifices, there must surely have been weddings here, too!’ she added brightly. ‘Do you not think it a perfectly wonderful idea to be wedded in such a place, the stones draped with mistletoe perhaps?’

  Hervey was startled. ‘I … I had not thought of it,’ was all he could manage by reply.

  ‘What? Had not thought of marriage, or not of such a thing in this place? Surely you do not lack heart?’

  The mocking again – why did she taunt him so? He said what first came into his head (and cursed himself as he did so): ‘Are you thinking of such a place for marriage with Mr Styles?’

  ‘Matthew,’ she began quietly, ‘how could you possibly have supposed that I should wish to marry Hugo Styles?’

  He struggled for some explanation. ‘Well, I … that is,’ he stammered. ‘That day in the park when you read from your novel – you seemed to be suggesting—’

  ‘Suggesting what?’ she continued softly.

  ‘You seemed to be suggesting that a yeomanry officer was irresistible – something about regimentals, and the ladies of the district or whatever. I took it to mean that you referred in particular to Styles. He has a very handsome income at least, has he not?’

  ‘Matthew,’ she said with a smile, taking no apparent offence at his actuarial recommendation, ‘have you since read Pride and Prejudiced?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Well, go and do so!’ she laughed. ‘At least, read that passage carefully when they are all at Meryton, the one I read aloud that day – chapter six or seven, I think it is!’

  More riddles. Why? How was he to discover her meaning? Was it merely that a spoiled existence was to be relieved by dallying? Or was this sumptuousness around them another kind of riddle, a sign of the gulf between them perhaps? However close their childhood in that schoolroom, and however close Henrietta’s friendship with Elizabeth, perhaps that gulf were so wide as to be a chasm, unbridgeable. It was a wretched, hopeless conclusion, and he lapsed into unhappy silence.

  As if then, at some unheard trumpet-call, Serjeant Armstrong, who had so far dutifully stood aloof (indeed, unseen – on the instructions of the lady’s maid), now appeared from between two of the sarsens. And never had Hervey been so pleased by his appearing, for it reminded him of the promise of their return to the regiment, and the promise of— What? Relief from the necessity of confronting these other … intrusions?

  Henrietta seemed equally delighted. ‘Serjeant!’ she called, ‘come here and give us your opinion.’

  In God’s name, thought Hervey, was he now to be humiliated by having his serjeant drawn into this? He made to protest, but—

  ‘Serjeant, we have been discussing these stones. Could they have had some military purpose, do you think?’ asked Henrietta.

  Relief coursed through him.

  ‘I couldn’t honestly say, miss,’ began Armstrong, ‘but a circle’s a powerful defensive position, for sure.’

  ‘Could you imagine that the circle was used for sacrificing maidens to pagan gods?’ she asked, smiling coyly.

  And, with the sure coup dœceil that had so evidently deserted Hervey, Armstrong smiled, too, pausing only for an instant: ‘Not if they were as bonny as you, miss!’

  Hervey was dumbstruck as Henrietta shrieked with laughter.

  Three days later Elizabeth made the shortest entry in her journal in many months:

  August 28th, St Augustine’s Day

  Today Matthew and his serjeant left for Ireland, and the house is once again silent. Matthew is grown to manhood yet somehow there is an innocence about him which, though endearing, is cause enough for concern. His serjeant is a fine man, however, and devoted to him, and I think no ill should become him while he has such a man to serve with. Of any expectation that we had of Matthew and Henrietta we must no longer speak, for he showed not a moment’s feeling for her, or, rather, no ability to convey any feeling if feeling there were – though hers for him was plain to see.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE LESSON OF HISTORY

  The Cove of Cork, 3 September

  ‘Have you ever seen the like of it?’ thrilled Hervey, so taken by the prospect of Cork’s great sheltered bay as to be oblivious to all else. ‘Anything so … inspiring as those headlands, and the sheer size of the anchorage?’
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  Serjeant Armstrong leaned over the weather rail and retched loudly again. ‘For God’s sake, Mr ’Ervey, never ’ave I known ought like this crossing. Even Biscay after Corunna was no match for it. I’ve been throwing up me accounts ’alf the night.’ And he leaned over the side again and retched even louder.

  Strong south-westerlies had made St George’s Channel no place for a soldier in whom the gentlest of swells invariably induced nausea. The Bristol merchantman which regularly plied this route – no longer in convoy now peace was returned – had hove to for a night in Carmarthen Bay rather than risk entering the channel with St Gowan’s Head on a lee shore. However, by this, their fourth morning, the winds had backed and moderated to no more than a fresh breeze which now took them effortlessly into the great harbour at Cork. Three men-o’-war – a first-rate and two frigates – lay at anchor under the sentinel of the gun batteries on the headlands, in scale no more than daisies on the lawn at Horningsham. And the land itself, distant though it still was, looked as green as legend had it.

  ‘Do you know what day it is, Serjeant Armstrong?’

  ‘If you said Judgement Day, I’d believe you,’ he replied, still clutching the rail for all he was worth, though there was but the merest swell now.

  ‘It is the anniversary of the battle of Worcester.’

  ‘Is that right, sir?’ Armstrong sighed. ‘And what might that ’ave been about?’

  ‘The Civil War – you must surely know of the battle of Worcester? After Worcester the king was a fugitive, and his officers, too. I was thinking of Captain Thomas Hervey: he came here, to Cork, after the battle.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘He lived peaceably in Dublin, so I understand, until the plague carried him off. He had been a cavalryman, with Prince Rupert.’

  ‘That’s right cheering, Mr Hervey,’ said Armstrong, a little colour at last returning to his face.