'I have often wondered,' said Stephen. 'The gentleman is a parson, I take it?'
'Yes. His father is the bishop. And I will not marry him, no, not if I have to lead apes in Hell. There is one man in the world I will ever marry, if he would have me—and I had him and I threw him away.'
The tears that had been brimming now rolled down her cheeks, and silently Stephen passed her a clean pocket-handkerchief.
They walked in silence: dead leaves, frosted, withered grass, gaunt trees; they passed the same palings twice, a third time.
'Might you not let him know?' asked Stephen. 'He cannot move in the matter. You know very well what the world thinks of a man who offers marriage to an heiress when he has no money, no prospects, and a load of debts. You know very well what your mother would say to such a proposal: and he is delicate in the point of honour.'
'I did write to him: I said all I could in modesty; and indeed it was the most forward, dreadful thing. It was not modest at all.'
'It came too late . . .'
'Too late. Oh, how often I have said that to myself, and with such grief. If he had come to Bath just once again, I know we should have come to an understanding.'
'A secret engagement?'
'No. I should never have consented to that: but an understanding—not to bind him, you understand, but just to say that I should always wait. Anyhow, that is what I agreed in myself; but he never came again. Yet I did say it, and I feel myself bound in honour, whatever happens, unless he should marry elsewhere. I should wait and wait, even if it means giving up babies—and I should love to have babies. Oh, I am not a romantic girl: I am nearly thirty, and I know what I am talking about.'
'But surely now you could make him understand your mind?'
'He did not come in London. I cannot pursue him, and perhaps distress and embarrass him. He may have formed other attachments—I mean no blame: these things are quite different with men, I know.'
'There was that wretched story of an engagement to marry a Mr Allen.'
'I know.' A long pause. 'That is what makes me so cross and ill-natured,' said Sophia at last, 'when I think that if I had not been such an odious ninny, so jealous, I might now be . . . But they need not think I shall ever marry Mr Bowles, for I shall not.'
'Would you marry without your mother's consent?'
'Oh, no. Never. That would be terribly wrong. Besides, quite apart from its being wicked—and I should never do it—if I were to run away, I should not have a penny; and I should love to be a help to my husband, not a burden. But marrying where you are told, because it is suitable, and unexceptionable, is quite different. Quite different. Quick—this way. There is Admiral Haddock, behind the laurels. He has not seen us—we will go round by the lake: no one ever comes there. Do you know he is going to sea again, by the way?' she asked in another tone.
'In command?' cried Stephen, astonished.
'No. To do something at Plymouth—the Fencibles or the Impress Service—I did not attend. But he is going by sea. An old friend is to give him a lift in the Généreux.'
'That is the ship Jack brought into Mahon when Lord Nelson's squadron took her.'
'Yes, I know: he was second of the Foudroyant then. And the admiral is so excited, turning over all his old uniform-cases and taking in his laced coats. He has asked Cissy and me for the summer, for he has an official residence down there. Cissy is wild to go. This is where I come to sit when I cannot bear it any longer in the house,' she said, pointing to a little green-mouldy Grecian temple, leprous and scaling. 'And this is where Diana and I had our quarrel.'
'I never heard you had quarrelled.'
'I should have thought we could have been heard all over the county, at least. It was my fault; I was horrid that day. I had had Mr Bowles to endure all the afternoon, and I felt as though I had been flayed: so I went for a ride as far as Gatacre, and then came back here. But she should not have taunted me with London, and how she could see him whenever she liked, and that he had not gone down to Portsmouth the next day at all. It was unkind, even if I had deserved it. So I told her she was an ill-natured woman, and she called me something worse, and suddenly there we were, calling names and shouting at one another like a couple of fishwives—oh, it is so humiliating to remember. Then she said something so cruel about letters and how she could marry him any moment she chose, but she had no notion of a half-pay captain nor any other woman's leavings that I quite lost my temper, and swore I should thrash her with my riding-crop if she spoke to me like that. I should have, too: but then Mama came, and she was terribly frightened and tried to make us kiss and be friends. But I would not; nor the next day, either. And in the end Diana went away, to Mr Lowndes, that cousin in Dover.'
'Sophie,' said Stephen, 'you have confided so much in me, and so trustingly . . .'
'I cannot tell you what a relief it has been, and what a comfort to me.'
'. . . that it would be monstrous not to be equally candid with you. I am very much attached to Diana.'
'Oh,' cried Sophia. 'Oh, how I hope I have not hurt you. I thought it was Jack—oh, what have I said?'
'Never be distressed, honey. I know her faults as well as any man.'
'Of course, she is very beautiful,' said Sophia, glancing at him timidly.
'Yes. Tell me, is Diana wholly in love with Jack?'
'I may be wrong,' she said, after a pause, 'I know very little about these things, or anything else; but I do not believe Diana knows what love is at all.'
'This gentleman asks whether Mrs Villiers is at home,' said the Teapot's butler, bringing in a salver with a card upon it.
'Show him into the parlour,' said Diana. She hurried into her bedroom, changed her dress, combed her hair up, looked searchingly into her face in the glass, and went down.
'Good day to you now, Villiers,' said Stephen. 'No man on earth could call you a fast woman. I have read the paper twice through—invasion flotilla, loyal addresses, price of Government stock and list of bankrupts. Here is a bottle of scent.'
'Oh thank you, thank you, Stephen,' she cried, kissing him. 'It is the real Marcillac! Where on earth did you find it?'
'In a Deal smuggler's cottage.'
'What a good, forgiving creature you are, Maturin. Smell—it is like the Moghul's harem. I thought I should never see you again. I am sorry I was so disagreeable in London. How did you find me out? Where are you? What have you been doing? You look very well. I dote upon your blue coat.'
'I come from Mapes. They told me you were here.'
'Did they tell you of my battle with Sophie?'
'I understood there had been a disagreement.'
'She angered me with her mooning about the lake and her tragic airs—if she had wanted him, why did she not have him when she could? I do loathe and despise want of decision—shilly-shallying. And anyhow, she has a perfectly suitable admirer, an evangelical clergyman full of good works: good connections too, and plenty of money. I dare say he will be a bishop. But upon my word, Maturin, I never knew she had such spirit! She set about me like a tiger, all ablaze; and I had only quizzed her a little about Jack Aubrey. Such a set-to! There we were roaring away by the little stone bridge, with her mare hitched to the post, starting and wincing—oh, I don't know how long—a good fifteen rounds. How you would have laughed. We took ourselves so seriously; and such energy! I was hoarse for a week after. But she was worse than me—as loud as a hog in a gate, and her words tumbling over one another, in a most horrid passion. But I tell you what, Maturin, if you really want to frighten a woman, offer to slash her across the face with your riding whip, and look as if you meant it. I was quite glad when my aunt Williams came up, screeching and hallooing loud enough to drown the both of us. And for her part she was just as glad to send me packing, because she was afraid for the parson; not that I would ever have laid a finger on him, the greasy oaf. So here I am again, a sort of keeper or upper-servant to the Teapot. Will you drink some of his honour's sherry? You are looking quite glum, Maturin. Don't b
e mumchance, there's a good fellow. I have not said an unkind thing since you appeared: it is your duty to be gay and amusing. Though harking back, I was just as pleased to come away too, with my face intact: it is my fortune, you know. You have not paid it a single compliment, though I was liberal enough to you. Reassure me, Maturin—I shall be thirty soon, and I dare not trust my looking-glass.'
'It is a good face,' said Stephen, looking at it steadily. She held her head up in the hard cold light of the winter sun and now for the first time he saw the middle-aged woman: India had not been kind to her complexion: it was good, but nothing to Sophia's; that faintest of lines by her eyes would reach out; the hint of drawn strength would grow more pronounced—haggard; in a few years other people would see that Sophie had slashed it deep. He hid his discovery behind all the command and dissimulation that he was master of and went on, 'An astonishing face. A damned good figurehead, as we say in the Navy. And it has launched one ship, at least.'
'A good damned figurehead,' she said bitterly.
'Now for the harrow,' he reflected.
'And after all,' she said, pouring out the wine, 'why do you pursue me like this? I give you no encouragement. I never have. I told you plainly at Bruton Street that I liked you as a friend but had no use for you as a lover. Why do you persecute me? What do you want of me? If you think to gain your point by wearing me out, you have reckoned short; and even if you were to succeed, you would only regret it. You do not know who I am at all; everything proves it.'
'I must go,' he said, getting up.
She was pacing nervously up and down the room. 'Go, then,' she cried, 'and tell your lord and master I never want to see him again, either. He is a coward.'
Mr Lowndes walked into the parlour. He was a tall, stout, cheerful gentleman of about sixty, wearing a flowered silk dressing-gown, breeches unbuckled at the knees, and a tea-cosy in lieu of a wig, or nightcap: he raised the cosy and bowed.
'Dr Maturin—Mr Lowndes,' said Diana, with a quick beseeching look at Stephen—deprecation combined with concern, vexation, and the remains of anger.
'I am very happy to see you, sir, most honoured: I do not believe I have had the pleasure,' said Mr Lowndes, gazing at Stephen with extreme intensity. 'I see from your coat that you are not a mad-doctor, sir. Unless, indeed, this is an innocent deception?'
'Not at all, sir. I am a naval surgeon.'
'Very good—you are upon the sea but not in it: you are not an advocate for cold baths. The sea, the sea! Where should we be without it? Frizzled to a mere toast, sir; parched, desiccated by the simoom, the dread simoom. Dr Maturin would like a cup of tea, my dear, against the desiccation. I can offer you a superlative cup of tea, sir.'
'Dr Maturin is drinking sherry, Cousin Edward.'
'He would do better to drink a cup of tea,' said Mr Lowndes, with a look of keen disappointment. 'However, I do not presume to dictate to my guests,' he added, hanging down his head.
'I shall be very happy to take a cup of tea, sir, as soon as I have drunk up my wine,' said Stephen.
'Yes, yes!' cried Mr Lowndes, brightening at once. 'And you shall have the pot to take with you on your voyages. Molly, Sue, Diana, pray make it in the little round pot Queen Anne gave my grandmama; it makes the best tea in the house. And while it is making, sir, I will tell you a little poem; you are a literary man, I know,' he said, dancing a few paces and bowing right and left.
The butler brought in the tray, looked sharply from Mr Lowndes to Diana: she shook her head slightly, eased her cousin into a wing-chair, tidied him, tied a napkin round his neck, and, as the spirit-lamp brought the kettle to the boil, measured out the tea and brewed it.
'Now for my poem,' said Mr Lowndes. 'Attend! Attend! Arma virumque cano, etc. There, ain't it capital?'
'Admirable, sir. Thank you very much.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' cried Mr Lowndes, cramming his mouth with cake, red with sudden pleasure. 'I knew you were a man of exquisite sensibilities. Take the bun!' He flung a little round cake at Stephen's head, and added, 'I have a turn for verse. Sometimes my fancy runs to Sapphics, sometimes to catalectic Glyconics and Pherecrateans—the Priapic metre, my dear sir. Are you a Grecian? Should you like to hear some of my Priapean odes?'
'In Greek, sir?'
'No, sir, in English.'
'Perhaps at another time, sir, when we are alone—when no ladies are present, it would give me great pleasure.'
'You have noticed that young woman; have you? You are a sharp one. But then you are a young man, sir. I too was a young man. As a physical gentleman, sir, do you really think incest so very undesirable?'
'Cousin Edward, it is time for your bath,' said Diana; but he grew confused and unhappy—he was sure it would not do to let that fellow alone with a valuable teapot, but he was too polite to say so; his oblique references to it as 'the dread simoom' were not understood, and it took her five minutes of coaxing to get him out of the room.
'What news from Mapes, shipmate?' asked Jack.
'What? I cannot hear a word with all this screeching and bawling overhead.'
'You are as bad as Parker,' said Jack, and poking his head out of the cabin he called, ' 'Vast heaving the after carronades. Mr Pullings, let these hands reef tops'ls. I said "What news from Mapes?" '
'A miscellaneous bag. I saw Sophie alone: she and Diana have parted brass-rags. Diana is looking after her cousin in Dover. I called on her. She asked us both to dinner on Friday, to eat a dish of Dover soles. I accepted for myself, but said I could not answer for you: you might not find it possible to go ashore.'
'She asked me?' cried Jack. 'Are you sure? What is it, Babbington?'
'I beg your pardon, sir, but the flagship is signalling all captains.'
'Very well. Let me know the moment Melpomène's barge touches the water. Stephen, chuck me my breeches, will you?' He was in working clothes—canvas trousers, a guernsey frock and a frieze jacket—and as he stripped the criss-cross of wounds showed plain: bullets, splinters, cutlasses, a boarding-axe; and the last, a raking thrust from a pike, still showed red about the edges. 'Half an inch to the left—if that pike had gone in half an inch to the left, you would have been a dead man,' observed Stephen.
'My God,' said Jack, 'there are times when I wish—however, I must not whine.' From under his clean white shirt he asked, 'How was Sophie?'
'Low in her spirits. She is subjected to the attentions of a moneyed parson.' No reply. No emergence of the head. He went on, 'I also saw to everything at Melbury: all is well there, though the lawyer's men have been hanging about. Preserved Killick asks may he join the ship? I took it upon myself to say that he should come and ask you himself. You will be happy to have the skilled attendance of Preserved Killick. I reduced my femur at the hospital—the leg may be saved—and wished my dement on to them, with a slime-draught to make him easy. I also bought your thread, music-paper, and strings: these I found at a shop in Folkestone.'
'Thank you, Stephen. I am very much obliged to you. You must have had a damned long ride of it. Indeed, you look dog-tired, quite done up. Just tie my hair for me, like a good fellow, and then you shall turn in. I must get you an assistant, a surgeon's mate: you work too hard.'
'You have some grey hairs,' said Stephen, tying the yellow queue.
'Do you wonder?' said Jack. He buckled on his sword, sat down on the locker, and said, 'I had almost forgot. I had a pleasant surprise today. Canning came aboard! You remember Canning, that admirable chap I liked so much in town, and who offered me his privateer? He has a couple of merchantmen in the road and he came round from the Note to see them off. I have asked him to dinner tomorrow; and that reminds me . . .' It reminded him of the fact that he had no money, and that he should like to borrow some. He had drawn three lunar months' pay on joining his ship, but his expenses in Portsmouth—customary presents, vails, a bare minimum of equipment—had swallowed twenty-five guineas and more in a week, quite apart from Stephen's loan. It had not allowed him to lay in stores, and that was another th
ing that was wrong with the running of the Polychrest—he hardly knew his officers except on duty. He had invited Parker and he had dined once with the gun-room during their long calm, tiding up the Channel, but he had barely exchanged half a dozen words with Macdonald or Allen, for example, outside the line of duty; yet they were men upon whom the ship, and his own life and reputation, might depend. Parker and Macdonald had private means and they had entertained him well: he had scarcely entertained them at all. He was not keeping up the dignity of a captain: a captain's dignity depended in some degree upon the state of his store-room—a captain must not look a scrub—and as his silly, talkative, consequential temporary steward kept telling him so officiously, his was empty apart from a hundredweight of orange marmalade, a present from Mrs Babbington. 'Where shall I stow the wine, sir?—What shall I do about the live-stock?—When are the sheep coming?—What does your Honour wish me to do about the hen-coops?' Furthermore, he would soon have to invite the admiral and the other captains of the squadron; and tomorrow there would be Canning. Ordinarily he would have turned at once to Stephen, for although Stephen was an abstemious man, indifferent to money beyond the bare necessities of life, and strangely ill-informed, even unperceptive, about discipline, the finer points of ceremonial, the complexity of the service and the importance of entertaining, he would always give way at once when it was represented to him that tradition called for an outlay. He would produce money from the odd drawers and pots where it lay, disregarded, as though Jack were doing him a particular favour by borrowing it: in other hands he would have been the 'easiest touch' afloat. These reflections darted through Jack's mind as he sat there, stroking the worn lion's head on the pommel of his sword; but something in the atmosphere, some chill or reserve or inward scruple of his own, prevented him from completing his sentence before the Melpomène's barge was reported to be in the water.
Book 2 - Post Captain Page 25
