"Written?"
"Yes. It is too indelicate, she maintains, to be a topic of conversation between us. But she feels most strongly and is so determined. I have always found her a gentle, obedient, almost complaisant woman. Her insistence—and it is not too strong a word—is quite astonishing. Ever since little Lionel died."
"It is not ignoble work."
"That makes the decision more, not less, difficult." And when John kept his counsel, Walter added, "Tell me what you think. You'll see her tonight."
"Look, if it's at all difficult putting the three of us up at such short notice, I've taken rooms at the Montague."
"Wouldn't hear of it, old fellow. Say no more. Cancel them. Is that where Mrs. Cornelius is now?"
"No. We came in our own coach all the way from Hertfordshire. Young John says he's tired of going everywhere by train. He said he wanted to go by coach as in the olden time! Before the railways kill all the horses. Our dreams are their yawns."
"And their children's nightmares. Is that your coach? I'll wave in case she can see us."
There were no other cracks in the brickwork. John did some rapid calculation before he said, "Give my firm three weeks, and for nine hundred pounds, I'll write you a guarantee on that column. I'll guarantee any of the others for five hundred. Each."
Walter looked stunned. "You can't possibly do it for that. It'll cost ten times as much, even reusing the same materials."
"The offer stands."
"Done!" Walter shook his hand hastily, in case he changed his mind. "How can you rebuild in three weeks?"
"Who said rebuild? I'm going to bring a hydraulic injector down here and force in a slurry of roman cement till every brick weeps gray. In my view that should be standard practise with every bridge."
Walter closed his eyes and laughed silently. "I would have thought of that myself, of course. Given time!" Moments later he said, "But then your price is outrageous."
They were back near the bank now where Young John was sketching. John stopped. He took Walter by both shoulders and said to him solemnly: "Take the contract yourself, Thornton. I'll lend you the hydraulics free. And I'll promise you this: Every pound you come out under my estimate I'll match with a pound from my own purse. There! Only remember: You'll be writing the guarantee at the end of it."
Walter was almost tempted, but prudence won in the end. "No. We'll each stick to our own trades. I'll just go and pay my respects and extend my invitation to Mrs. Carey."
"Mrs. Who?"
He laughed. "I mean Mrs. Cornelius. Oh—this bridge has upset me." He ran ahead of them to the coach up on the turnpike.
"Why did you make that suggestion to Mr. Thornton, Papa?" Young John asked.
"Because I knew he'd refuse. He's a salaried man, not a free man like me—and like you will be one day. They're a different breed. They don't take risks. All they take is decisions."
"Could I stay here with Mr. Thornton today and come home with him this evening, if we are going to stay with them?"
"We'll ask."
When they reached the coach, Walter said he'd be delighted to take care of Young John. He asked to look at the sketch. He passed no comment but went off with the boy's hand in his saying, "Perseverance and dedication are the two keys in life, young fellow. Apply them to any purpose and you cannot fail."
"He's a kindly, good-natured man," John said to Sarah when they were on the move once more.
"He is not being very kindly to poor Arabella at the moment. She is quite desperately determined to begin with the Refuge and he simply will not believe her to be serious."
"Oh, I think he does. He was talking about it only a moment ago."
"What did he say?" Sarah was very eager.
"He asked me to give him my opinion, after seeing Mrs. Thornton."
She was delighted. "So you will be able to tell him to let her."
"I will do no such thing. Never come between man and wife." He was watching Sarah closely. "He's in quite a state about it already in my view. He called you Mrs. Carey!"
She did not even twitch. "Well, Arabella is also in a state. As you will see. She has spent two years collecting money in every conceivable manner. She has the support of her church and of several prominent ladies in St. Paul's parish and the out-parish of St. James's—and you know what high tone their district has. She has done everything a reasonable man could ask of his wife to prove herself in earnest. If he denies her much longer, he will regret it."
"I may make a remark or two in that direction. An unfulfilled wife is—"
"Wife or woman—it has nothing to do with that. It's an unfulfilled person. You'd be the same."
"I know more than a little about lack of fulfilment, Sarah." He was smiling, not to seem to reprimand her.
She sighed and smiled back, reaching across the carriage and patting his arm. "I'm sorry, John. But Walter Thornton's particular brand of arrogance toward Arabella has always made me boil."
"You don't know what part she played in building it."
"Oh!" She parodied a sort of smiling anger at him. "You are so—laissez-faire about people."
"Fair, I would prefer."
"I'll give you an example of his arrogance. Despite all she's done to give proof of her seriousness—and she has worked herself to the bone since Corinna was born last year; she's collected nearly two thousand pounds—despite that, he tells her she's just bored with society out there in Kingsdown. He says she just wants to be like Nora. He has an obsession that Nora's way of life is a constant threat to his own domestic comforts."
John was intrigued now, even though he knew that had been Sarah's intention. "What 'way of life'?"
She shook her head, bemused, as if to ask where one could begin. "Well, it's hardly a natural way for a woman to live, is it?"
"It's not unnatural."
"No, no. It's just—Nora. It's unique. Thornton can't begin to comprehend it. Nor, incidentally, can our neighbours at Maran Hill. I've only lately begun to realize it."
"Do go on."
"Well…" Now that the topic was no longer so directly concerned with Walter Thornton, she relaxed and spoke more calmly. "I came to share your home in such a strange way that I, as it were, grew into the situation, accepting it as normal. And I love Nora now dearer than if she were a sister. But your neighbours loathe her—because, of course, they cannot understand her."
"What can they not understand? They've cut her ever since we came there. Except when hunting. They don't mind our four hundred a year subscription, so they'll tolerate her there—just."
"They don't, you know, John. They cut her even there. I used to think she was a saint of forgiveness, or very brave. But actually, she just doesn't notice—or is even rather pleased. When she goes hunting, she is interested in only one thing: the sport. The rest of the field might just as well not exist. Of course, it infuriates them."
John started to laugh. "I can imagine."
"And it infuriates them even more when they fail to call on her and fail to invite her—and she doesn't notice that either. It's so hard to snub someone who ignores you. Hetty Beador once told me that to watch Nora at a social gathering was a real study. She says nothing, listens to four conversations at once, watches everybody in turn with those sharp eyes of hers—until they feel ghastly. And that's it. Thank you for a splendid evening. I don't think it has ever once occurred to Nora that there is a whole way of life, called Society, which is going on around her all the time."
"It would bore her stiff."
"Oh, John!" Sarah laughed. "I think you're as bad as she is. It bores everyone stiff. That isn't the point."
"What is the point? I've lost it."
"We've strayed rather. The original point is that Arabella, after ten years of childbearing and Bristol society, wants to do more. She wants to stop being bored."
"She wants to be like Nora. So Thornton's right."
Sarah was patiently exasperated. "Not like Nora. Nothing to do with business or money or anything. It's still wo
man's work. You could say it's the supreme work for a woman—to rescue one's fallen sisters. It's hardly fit work for a man."
John made a noncommittal noise.
"And don't be deceived by her hospitality when we get there. I promise you, John, she is in a very wrought state."
He nodded and looked steadily out of the window.
"When she does begin," Sarah added, "I would take a few thousand of my capital to help start the Refuge—with your agreement, of course."
Still looking out of the window, he said, "All this—regardless of Thornton's desires?"
She was silent, forcing him to turn from the window. And when his eyes dwelled in hers, and hers in his, she said, "I'm more interested in Arabella's needs, and my own, than any desires Mr. Thornton may have."
"I am glad," he said, smiling until he made her smile too.
Chapter 53
Arabella asked Young John if he had a special prayer he would like to say. He, in his husky treble, mangling the metre, said: "'Lord preserve us through this night. Keep our souls unsullied white. Keep us from the sinful mire. Take us safely through the fire. To Thy cold eternal light. Amen.'"
She said it was beautiful and they must all be sure to learn it by tomorrow. "Now our last prayer," she said. The bowed heads bowed lower still. "Make us ever-mindful, Lord, that ere long our souls must stand in aweful judgement. And as when this darkness is o'er Thou willt unfailingly restore to us the light of day, renew then also Thine abiding grace, for without it we must shrink in dread of Thy wrath and certain fear of eternal damnation. Amen."
Young John kissed his father good night and scampered off with Nicholas to their bed, along the corridor.
"I believe the last thought of the night should always be a solemn one," Arabella said to John. "Will you come and tuck him in?"
"I think I'll go straight below," John said.
"Mama," Nicholas asked, when she had tucked them in, "why do we pray for God not to withhold His grace?"
"Nicholas! You know very well. It's as the prayer says—so that we shall not be eternally damned."
"But if God did withhold His grace and then later damned us, that would be very cruel."
"God is never cruel, dear, only seemingly so. Remember Job."
"But if we withheld the servants' wages until they were driven to steal from us, and then we gave them over to the police…"
Arabella laughed. "Bless you, child; it's not the same thing at all. Servants are bound to masters by law, but we are bound to God by love—as well as by His law. That is the great thing about our religion. You could spend all your life breaking the Ten Commandments and at judgement day your fate would still be in doubt, because of God's love. If there were only the law, you would know at once that you were damned. But because God is Love too, you may turn from your wickedness, even after a whole lifetime of sin, and not be damned."
Nicholas nodded, disappointed. Young John watched the exchange wide-eyed.
"Are all Jews damned, Mama?" Nicholas asked.
Arabella realized she had to tread very carefully here. The vicar had preached a most uncharitable sermon last Sunday on the mission to convert the Jews. She had agreed with very little of it. To her mind (though, of course, she would never say it aloud) the Jews had a perfect right to worship God—the same God, after all—in their own way. But she must not contradict the vicar to Nicholas.
"Only God can answer that, child," she said. "It certainly seems wicked to know about Jesus and not to believe in him. As the vicar said, they have not the same excuse as poor ignorant heathens. We must hope God's love really is infinite, or they will live in everlasting torment."
When she had drawn the curtains, it seemed momentarily dark, but soon the twilight crept back.
"You do ask her questions," Young John said after she had gone.
"You can always make her talk if it's about salvation."
"What are Jews? I thought they were only in olden days. I thought they were extinct."
"Arnold Jacobs is a Jew and I shall tell him he's going to rot in everlasting torment. Listen, d'you know what spunk is?"
"No."
"Well, it's time you did. It's what the mammy gives to the daddy to make the babby grow."
"What does that mean?"
"Johnny Potter, the stable lad at the Montague, told me that."
"Did he tell you what it means?"
"He showed me how to get spunk. I've nearly got some. Shall I show you? It's ever so ticklish."
"No, thank you."
"I'll give you one of those black liquorice straps if you let me."
"All right."
But it tickled too much and they had to stop.
Even without Sarah's warning, John could hardly have failed to notice the tension in Arabella.
"Well?" Walter asked when they were on their way to the Philosophical Institute in Park Street, where they were to meet Alderman Proctor.
"One can hear the fuse burning," John said.
"Oh dear. The complications!"
"I would have thought you'd be proud."
"There's no use beating around the bush, Stevenson. I've never flaunted my private life in front of you. But I've never made a great secret of it either. I do, from time to time—as most men, I suppose, do…a great many anyway…"
John laughed, a kindly laugh. "I have observed."
"Then I'll tell you: I shall not be coming directly home tonight after this meeting."
"Don't let me hinder you. But what shall you do about Mrs. Thornton?"
"Every time I think of her and that damned Refuge—full of the scrapings off my plate…!"
John suppressed a chuckle.
"You can laugh," Walter said. "My real point, my real objection, is not selfish. I think these religious people, and I include Mrs. Cornelius and all the Female Rescue Society people, have got the whole thing arsy-versy. I blame the vicar as much as anyone. He has a sheep's head—all jaw. He understands nothing."
"That may well be. What point do you think they miss?"
"Well, they do call it 'the oldest profession,' don't they. It certainly exists in every civilization. And I say that the established order always has a function. Nothing survives as long as that without a profound purpose."
"I wonder what it is?"
"I only know it's folly to meddle with the established order. If I and thousands of men like me have the need and the money, and all these girls are surplus, there's a pattern there, plain enough for all to see. And a pattern means a design. And a design shows a purpose."
The cab reached the foot of Montague Hill and turned right toward Maudlin Lane and the centre of Bristol. The smell from the open sewer was very strong at that corner.
"I believe it's a way of distributing wealth, d'ye see. And a lot better than income tax in that it goes straight from rich to poor. Think how much money—hard cash, heh heh!—must pass each year. It must be hundreds of thousands of pounds."
"Hah!" John gave a single scornful laugh. "I'll never offer you the job of quantity estimator."
"Why? It must be at least that."
"Heavens, man! The number of girls alone must be in the hundreds of
thousands. D'you think they earn but a pound a year each? The actual sum that passes must be at least ten million pounds."
"Ye gods!" Walter's voice was faint.
"I'll tell you your real problem, Thornton. It could also be your best hope: What are Mrs. Thornton and Mrs. Cornelius going to do when they find that virtually all of those hundred thousand girls rescue themselves—and very nicely too? These Female Rescue people, led by Lady Bear, who is a blind and selfopinionated virago, have the delusion that the harlot's progress is as Hogarth drew it. Now neither your wife nor Mrs. Cornelius is blind. Before very long, they are going to twig that the only prostitute that really needs rescue is a battered, blowsy, verminous, alcoholic wreck who couldn't even roll a drunken sailor after six months at sea."
"Eh? How will that help me?"
/>
"If I were you, Thornton, I'd encourage them all you can. Help them set up the Refuge. Help them find the girls. Pick them yourself." Walter gasped. "Indeed," John insisted. "Grasp the nettle, man! Pick the proud and pretty ones. The bright ones. The ones you know are only in it for the quick money—who are going to come out of it with enough to buy a small shop and a husband. I guarantee, within a fortnight such girls will tire of soap and sermons and hair shifts and being made to feel like vermin. And they'll go back to the streets, which offer them the only real hope they have of advancement in life."
The Rich Are with You Always Page 56
