“I have,” he said.
“Then you will?”
“Yes,” said John Marco.
He said it so faintly that only Miss Croome knew what it was that he had said.
Chapter IX
Mr.Tuke was standing in front of his drawing-room fireplace, his long coat tails tucked under his arm, so that the fire could get on with its business of warming, unimpeded. All Amosite Ministers affected the frock coat; it was their reply to the cope, chasuble and stole of the older Christian Orders. Only on the Immersion Nights was the frock coat, for obvious reasons, changed for something lighter and less shrinkable. And he made a fine figure as he now stood there—bland, enormous, uncontradictable. He seemed, too, to be in an unnaturally good humour about something. Spread over his wide face was a smile like a sunset.
Mrs. Tuke, her eyes cast down to the hearth-rug, was sitting at his feet, wearing that expression of negative receptivity which Mr. Tuke liked to see when he was talking to her.
“And to think,” Mr. Tuke was saying, passing his tongue over his lips as he said it, “that it was I who engineered it.”
“I’m sure they ought to be very much obliged to you,” Mrs. Tuke remarked.
“They’re so exactly cut out for each other,” Mr. Tuke went on. “Two such sensible people. Steady and unspoiled.”
“She’s a good bit older than he is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Tuke put in suddenly.
Mr. Tuke paused: he looked at Mrs. Tuke in astonishment.
“A year or so, perhaps,” he said. “I attach no importance to it. They’re neither of them children.”
“They fell in love like children,” Mrs. Tuke observed.
There was a note of bitterness, of envy even, in her voice as she said it. She had not forgotten her own engagement to Mr. Tuke. It had lasted through three winters and four summers; during that time she had seen other girls fall in love, marry and produce children—while all she could look forward to was a chaste embrace on Sundays over the hard edge of a clerical collar. By the time she had married Mr. Tuke it had been almost like marrying a bachelor uncle. She had been pretty Miss Westrope then; and in the face of this five minute romance which had abruptly blossomed under their noses she was surprised to find how much of the original Miss Westrope still remained.
But her spouse was speaking again.
“We mustn’t misjudge them,” he declared. “She was lonely and he took pity on her. You must remember they met in very exceptional circumstances.”
“The old man hasn’t been buried a week,” Mrs. Tuke said almost to herself.
“But they aren’t thinking of getting married immediately,” Mr. Tuke replied. “There’ll be nothing unseemly. She told me so herself.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Mrs. Tuke rather sharply. “She didn’t seem so patient to me. She looked as though she was simply asking for it.”
Mr. Tuke let his coat tails drop.
“Really,” he said. “Really.”
He turned with dignity, rather like a large cart-horse being manoeuvred in a small space, and went out of the room. He had never ceased to marvel that anyone without meaning it could be quite so quietly maddening as Mrs. Tuke.
He remembered, however, that he had work to do: his visiting. In the course of a year he must, he had often reflected, have walked as many miles as a postman. And for the next hour and a half, he was the good shepherd working, unfortunately, without the assistance of any kind of dog to get the flock together. He knocked at doors, rang bells, climbed up to attics, descended into basements, and was shown into drawing-rooms, criss-crossing the whole of Paddington and half Bayswater on his mission. He sat —only for a minute or so of course—at three bedsides; he comforted a widow; he patted a family of young children on the head, some twice; he discussed with an anxious parent the incipient atheism of a backward boy of fifteen; and he visited a household where the mother of the family was lying coldly on a beautiful bed of lilies behind the drawn blinds of her own bedroom. In the course of it all he ranged the whole social scale from Westbourne Terrace to Chaffinch Row; and within each home he was a different human-being, tender, stern, paternal and philosophic by turn. Only one characteristic remained constant and unchanged: wherever he went he was still the messenger of grace abounding; the odour of sanctity surrounded him like an envelope. Even after he had gone, a little bit of it seemed to linger on in the corners like the aroma of a good cigar.
By the time four-thirty came round, he was an exhausted man. He had been disappointed in a chance visit to Southwick Crescent where one of the very best of his followers lived. Tea was served there from silver into egg-shell china, and the conversation was of the highest. But he was thwarted. The good lady was out, and he could do no more than leave a tract with the maid. He walked disconsolately back towards the Harrow Road, tired and thirsty, casting round in his mind for other duties that he ought to perform. Then he remembered the Kents, and doubling on his tracks, he went off in the direction of Abernethy Terrace.
The Kents were more than pleased to see him; they were gratified. He spent a few moments talking to Mr. Kent down in the shop amid the pendants and hair brooches and the innumerable watches, and then went upstairs where tea was on the table. Mrs. Kent had been busy while Mr. Tuke had been talking. She had cut bread and butter, laid a table and cleared away her mending. Mr. Tuke drew a chair up to the table and was well satisfied; this always seemed to him a singularly restful roof to come under. God was so very obviously in the house.
Mrs. Kent entertained him while Mary infused the tea. He sat back, not listening, watching Mary go first over to the tea-caddy and then outside to the scullery and finally come back into the room again carrying the big brown tea-pot, and reflected on what a beautiful child she had grown into; delicate, but beautiful. He was still thinking how charming—how “nymph-like” was the word for which he was actually searching—when he bowed his head and invoked a blessing.
During the meal the conversation turned to lighter topics.
“We have—another romance—inside the Chapel,” he remarked pleasantly, blowing across the scalding surface of the tea as he did so. “Another nuptial.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Kent with reviving interest, “and who is the lady?”
(It was always the lady on these occasions who was enquired after first.)
“I am pleased to say it is our poor Miss Croome,” he said suavely. “The young lady who was so recently bereaved, you know.”
“That one,” said Mrs. Kent turning down the corners of her mouth as she spoke. “And who’s she marrying?”
“Such a splendid young man,” Mr. Tuke replied. “A pillar. It’s young Mr. Marco.”
He reached out his hand and drew the glass dish of bramble jelly towards him. Of all preserves, it was bramble jelly to which he was most partial, and he spooned himself a large translucent blob of it like a quivering amethyst. Then, just as he was about to smear it over the rich, golden butter, he became aware that his two companions were staring at him. Quite motionless, they were sitting there staring. They had stopped eating, and from their appearance they might even have stopped breathing as well.
He turned from one to the other in some surprise and saw now that Mary was blushing. She looked charming, quite charming, he thought. But it was more than an ordinary girlish blush that he was regarding; her whole face was suffused. And as she sat there he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
It was only because he was a man of the world as well as a minister of the gospel, that he knew how to meet this situation. His quick mind jumped to it and he smiled as he realised that he must, all unknown, have stumbled on some shy infatuation. He leant over and patted Mary Kent on the hand with his forefinger.
“Your turn will come, my dear,” he said. “There’s a lucky man waiting somewhere.”
But his piece of tact was ignored; simply ignored. It was as though he had not even spoken. And he observed to his further surprise that Mrs. Kent was looking at him
as though she hated him. He might just have insulted her daughter instead of having tried to pacify her.
“Did you say Mr. Marco?” Mrs. Kent asked.
“Why yes,” Mr. Tuke replied. “Mr. John Marco. Our Sunday School teacher.”
There was another extraordinary silence. The two women seemed ready to leap on him.
“I only heard a few hours ago,” Mr. Tuke went on, searching desperately for anything to say that would break this awful silence. “It’s all very delightful and unexpected.”
“Very!” said Mrs. Kent shortly.
She went over and put her arm round Mary’s shoulders. And Mary, quite suddenly after all the reserve that she displayed, broke down. She slumped forward, scattering the plates and tea-cups and buried her head in her arms. At the same moment she began to cry. She cried noisily and shamelessly, her shoulders shaking.
Mrs. Kent looked across at Mr. Tuke. There was no trace of civility left in her.
“You’d better go,” she said. “I’ve got her on my hands.”
Mr. Tuke found his own hat and coat and let himself out. He paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs. The sound of crying was still painfully plain. And there was another sound as well: it was Mrs. Kent hammering on the floor with her heel as a signal to Mr. Kent that she wanted him upstairs at once.
Mr. Tuke shut the door and walked hurriedly up the street before he was any deeper involved. In all his twenty years in the Ministry he had never known such another case. And his tea! In the excitement that had been entirely forgotten. They had simply overlooked it. It was too late now to expect Mrs. Tuke to give him anything: it would get in the way of supper. The strange behaviour of the Kents would mean that he would have to go hungry right on until eight o’clock. He was a big man and he felt it when he missed a meal.
ii
Tuesday, the second day of the Sale, had been one of the busiest that Mr. Morgan could ever remember. Despite the unpleasant affair of the police officers the day had been a success; and they hadn’t been able to get up fresh supplies from the stockrooms quickly enough. It had made Mr. Morgan feel quite queer to see the crowds thronging into the Fancy Goods Department and no Mr. Jamieson there to attend them. And Mr. Marco with two departments on his hands was going about like a man in a daze. Mr. Morgan only hoped that he wasn’t making mistakes.
If he had known the real state of John Marco’s mind he would have been more anxious still. He did not see him cut savagely right across a length of good silk ribbon rather than rewind it, and then toss the remnant casually into the oddment tray. He did not see him replace one of the cases so violently that the cardboard end flew open. He did not see him hand customers the change as though the pennies were red hot. He did not see . . . but the other assistants saw. They knew that for some reason, obscurely connected with the visit of the smart young lady in black, Mr. Marco was a man to be avoided.
At nine-forty-five he took his coat down from the peg, jammed his hat on his head and went out saying goodnight to no one. The air in the street was cold and he stood there gulping at it. The hardest part of the day was still to come: he had got to see Mary and confess to her. Simply at the thought of Mary his mind cleared for a moment. She was so pure herself that she could afford to take his evil onto her; and in that instant it seemed less dreadful that he should lose her than that she should misjudge him for ever.
He turned and walked rapidly in the direction of Abernethy Terrace, praying for strength as he walked.
“Oh God,” he said, speaking the words half aloud to himself, “give me the power to be strong.”
But as he drew nearer his courage failed him. Was he brave enough, he wondered, to thrust her away as she came towards him, to pull his lips back from her eager ones, and tell her that never, after what had happened, would she be in his arms again? He feared that once she was beside him again he would never be able to let her go—and then this never-ending corridor of horrors would re-open up before him. No! He must tell her when he saw her: the very second, before he had time to feel her touch. But to hurt her: that was the torment of it. He would have to stand in front of her, robbing her of everything that they had planned together, destroying in the moment of meeting a life that had not yet had time to live. He closed his mind to the thought, but told himself nevertheless, that he could not turn back. Had he loved her less, it would have been simple: he could have written her a letter, could have filled it with phrases that healed the wound as they opened it, could have avoided looking into her eyes while he told her. But their love had been too great for that. And he was not a coward, not that sort of coward at least. Because he loved her he would have to hurt her, to hurt them both; he would have to confess and humiliate himself and then go away again—alone.
When he reached the house he stood for a moment looking up at it. He saw that it was all in darkness and, for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps it was too late, perhaps time alone had defeated his resolve. It added a new terror to his purpose to have to wake her from her sleep to tell her this thing. He paused undecided. But, as he looked, he saw the corner of one of the blinds move slightly, though the window itself was fast closed. And he knew that someone inside was awake and watching him; knew that Mary herself by waiting for him had made it almost easy. He could tell her alone. His lips were quivering and his face was white and drawn as he crossed the road and raised the knocker.
The door was swung open before the knocker had descended, and the black cave of the hall appeared before him. But it was not Mary who stood there: it was Mr. Kent. He presented a distraught, desperate figure. His hair was dishevelled—it stood up all over his head in little white wisps like feathers—and in his hand he held a thin malacca cane that he sometimes carried on Sundays. In his shirt sleeves and wearing a pair of gaudy carpet slippers, he was like a man possessed. Before John Marco could speak, he had raised the walking stick and brought it down full across John Marco’s face.
“You blackguard,” he screamed in a voice like no voice that John Marco had ever heard before. “You seducer.”
John Marco raised his hand to his mouth. It came away wet and sticky. Mr. Kent’s blow had cut his lip and the blood was running down onto his chin. And as he stood there he saw that the little man was preparing to attack him again. He did not attempt to defend himself.
“Let me explain,” he said. “I’ve come to explain everything.”
The second blow fell across his shoulders: it was harmless. But Mr. Kent had lost all control of himself by now.
“Don’t you dare to speak to me,” he was shouting, still in the same terrible voice. “Don’t come near this house again.”
As he said it, he raised his stick above his head for the third time and made a fresh run at John Marco. But John Marco was ready for him. He caught the stick as it fell, and snatched it away. Then he broke it across his knee. It snapped like firewood. The silver band made a silly tinkle as he threw the broken stick into the gutter.
“You fool,” he said. “You fool. Why wouldn’t you listen?”
Mr. Kent stood for a moment looking at his stick, his beautiful stick, being broken in front of his eyes and then tried to throw himself on John Marco. It was a pathetic attempt. Mr. Kent was sixty and an invalid. When John Marco caught him by the arms he could do nothing: he struggled vainly like a pickpocket in the grip of a policeman. But he made one last helpless heroic effort; he spat in John Marco’s face. And when John Marco thrust him angrily from him in disgust he simply collapsed against the railings and remained there supported by the ornamental scroll work of the balustrades.
John Marco turned and walked away. He felt sick and faint. He did not even pause when he heard a voice-it was Mrs. Kent’s by this time—shout something after him. The words themselves were lost, but their meaning was clear enough; they came through the air like so many wasps. John Marco walked straight on in a kind of icy trance. He was trembling, trembling so violently that his foot-steps were jerky and unsure. A sweet, sickly
taste filled his mouth and he found that he was still bleeding. Mr. Kent’s malacca cane had cut his lip clean open.
He pushed open the squeaking gate and turned up the sedate tiled pathway of his house. It was quiet, very quiet there; it was somewhere where he could lie down and forget. He was still trembling and had to steady his hand before he could insert the key; but, as the door swung open and he stepped into the hall, he felt suddenly at rest again. There was a single high-chair beside the hat-stand and he sat down upon it exhausted, utterly exhausted.
As he did so, the door of the sitting-room opened and a woman came out. But it was a younger woman than his mother, dark-eyed, and bathed in a deep, musky scent.
“You’re hurt,” she said. “You’re bleeding.”
She took out her handkerchief, a small lacy one, and, gently, lovingly, it seemed, applied it to the wound.
Chapter X
John Marco and Hesther Croome were married three months later in the Tabernacle.
But it was not like a real wedding at all; and the half-crown which Mr. Morgan gave to the verger seemed more in the nature of hush-money than a tip. Mr. Morgan in fact was the only guest. He turned up wearing a wide butterfly collar, and a large white buttonhole. His pink face behind the bright pebble spectacles glowed until he saw the rows of empty pews stretching all round him like the streets of a deserted city; then the geniality vanished and he consoled himself with memories of the happy day nearly half-a-century ago when half Merthyr had turned out to see him and Mrs. Morgan get married. He would have liked something of that same atmosphere of jostling and excitement here. A trace of paganism did not seem out of place at a wedding, and he relished a bride who blushed whenever anyone caught her eye. Miss Croome whom he had only met once before struck him as a singularly cold young woman.
Old Mrs. Marco’s presence did nothing to enliven the occasion. Her rheumatism had knotted her up fearfully and she had to be carried into the Tabernacle. They dumped her down in the front pew and left her there, an isolated figure in a complicated assortment of black.
I Shall Not Want Page 11
