A passing motor-car stopped to watch the procession. The townsmen had never seen anything quite like this before. Slowly, without thinking, they removed their hats. At the Nag’s Head, a ghost was standing in the doorway. Lily Sawdon, leaning on Chrissie Beachall’s arm, looked with envious eyes at the laden wagon. Tom slipped out from the door and joined the groom. “Couldn’t get away before,” he whispered. He was in his Sunday clothes, and a black tie. Grandpa Sellars limped out from his cottage, and took his place in the rear, mumbling and grunting. He had not thought that Castle would go before him, and the triumph of survival was worth the fatigue of walking.
As the horses turned the corner of the village street up to the churchyard, the off leader reared suddenly, almost knocked over by a car that whipped round the corner without sounding its horn, a gay car, hung with vivid yellow ribbons and great placards announcing:
“Vote for Dollan.
Come to-day and save your county.
Don’t let reaction strangle local development.”
The car was a big saloon; the street was narrow; the four-horse wagon took up more than half the room. The wagoner, who was driving, knew his business. He soothed the restive leader, got the others back into the middle of the road, and the car had to pull sideways on to the narrow pathway, and stay halted as the funeral procession passed.
As he came level with Dollan’s car, the groom spat viciously.
“No good. Too late. He’ll get in,” muttered Sawdon.
“Get in?” gasped Hicks, incredulous.
“I’m afraid so. It’s got out that Snaith’s going to bring a libel action against Carne. It’ll ruin him. He’s up to the neck in debt already. They’re saying too that he’s selling Maythorpe for use as a madhouse. I’ve heard plenty of talk.”
And it was so.
“They’re saying too, Dollan’s lot, that this do to-day comes under corrupt practices. They could sue him for it—giving a free feast to village on election day.”
After the funeral there was to be a dinner in Maythorpe kitchen. That huge stone-paved room had been used before on many more festive occasions. Lady vocalists had sung there at war-time recruiting meetings. Trenchers had twirled there at Christmas parties. Holly had hung across the bacon hooks, with scarlet berries, and girls had been kissed, playing Postman’s Knock, behind the half-closed door.
Now the big trestle tables were set for eighty. Beef and ham, bacon cakes and spice bread, apple pasties and great blocks of cheese, were spread along them, and urns were already singing on the banked fires. There was beer for the lads and port wine for the ladies and a drop of whisky for the veterans like Grandpa Sellars. Carne had promised Castle to bury him handsomely, and handsomely he had done it. What if this was election day? What if the laws were fussy? The Carnes of Maythorpe had never yet run a funeral meanly, and Castle had been in their service for fifty years.
Trouble might be closing in on the farm—debts, law suits, ruin; but Carne would keep his obstinate faith with Castle, his obstinate pride, his obstinate sense of honour.
The vicar had come down to the lych-gate. His white surplice fluttered above the flowers, the white narcissi, the yellow trumpeting daffodils and the scarlet tulips, as the bearers shouldered the coffin from the cart.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.”
Dolly Castle, brazen till now, red lipped and stubborn, bent her pretty head with a stifled sob.
“We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Carne followed his foreman’s body through the graveyard, into the porch, into the crowded church.
“I said, I will take heed to my ways,” read the vicar, “that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle: while the ungodly is in my sight.”
It was not true; Carne had not bridled his tongue; he had offended; he had taken no heed to his reckless wilful ways. He would bury his foreman with pomp and feast his neighbours; his debts were unpaid; his enemies in Kingsport were discussing warrants for libel with their lawyers.
“My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled; and at last I spake with my tongue.”
He, Carne, the silent man, had spoken; the fire had kindled; he had done for himself, though he did not yet quite know it.
“Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be certain how long I have to live.”
The doctor at Manchester had said:
“If you go slowly, you’re a youngish man, there’s no knowing. You might have another attack. You might live till seventy. But I must warn you. Your heart’s in a pretty poor condition. You’ve had two attacks. Any sudden exertion, any anxiety . . . I wouldn’t promise anything.”
“Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with thines ears consider my calling: hold not thy peace at my tears.
“For I am a stranger with thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.
“O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”
That night, after counting votes in the school house, it was announced that Mr. Stanley Dollan had been elected County Councillor for Maythorpe by a majority of forty-seven votes.
5
The Head Mistress Introduces a Governor
ON MARCH 15th Kiplington High School was to be inspected by Miss Emily Teasdale.
Sarah had met her in London, knew and liked her. She looked forward with confidence to her visit. She was aware of the merits of her staff and pupils. Seated at her desk, preparing for Miss Teasdale, she reviewed in her mind Miss Masters’ energy, the devotion of Miss Parsons, the vitality of Miss Becker, and the brisk ability of Miss Vane, Miss Sigglesthwaite’s successor. She regretted bitterly that for this term Lydia was missing, but she had planned herself to coach the girl twice weekly; next term her father might be married, and then at last the star pupil could settle down to work uninterrupted.
As for the school’s defects, its indifferent buildings, the abominable cloak-rooms, the cramped and distant games field, Sarah hoped for as adverse a report as possible. A real denunciation from Miss Teasdale might wake up the governors a little and strengthen her own hand in her fight for bricks and mortar.
She expected the inspector at half-past eleven. Miss Teasdale was motoring herself from Kingsport.
Sarah had been teaching for the first period and her unopened correspondence still lay on her office desk. She and Dolores had had one of their weekly arguments, and Sarah still felt a little deflated and limp in consequence. If only Pip would hurry up before I go mad, she thought. It had been easy to get rid of Miss Sigglesthwaite; but Miss Jameson stuck like a limpet to her job.
With quick precision Sarah opened her letters, cutting the envelopes neatly, sorting their contents—business, receipts, bills, estimates and the rest of them—letters from parents or staff about school vacancies—personal communications. She received fewer and fewer of this third category. She had become increasingly absorbed in her professional affairs. She neglected her friends. The school, the school, the school filled her deliberate mind. “You’re becoming a monomaniac,” Pattie had told her.
There was one envelope addressed in a slanting scholarly hand which was familiar. Sarah unfolded the thin blue paper and read:
“26a Canning Terrace,
Tunbridge Wells,
March 13th, 1934.
“MY DEAR MISS BURTON.”
It was from Miss Sigglesthwaite. A wave of nausea rocked in Sarah’s mind. She still felt that she had treated Miss Sigglesthwaite shabbily. She had given her rope to hang herself, longing to replace her. She had sacrificed her and secured her efficient Miss Vane, fresh from Cambridge. She had let her become the victim of bad mass-bullying, and had left unpunished the ringleader of her tormentors.
With stern self-discipline Sarah compelled herself to read the letter.
“MY DEAR MISS BURTON,
“You may doubtless be wondering why you have not heard from me. I apologise for any lack of courtesy, but knowing your kind thoughts for me I waited till I had cheerful news to send.
“I can now report that my own health has already shown great improvement, and that I have found another post.
“I am now installed as daily companion to an elderly lady living here who is almost blind. I conduct her correspondence for her, read to her, and wheel her out when it is fine in a bath chair. You would be amused at her literary tastes, and so am I. I shall soon become an expert in the works of Ruby M. Ayres, Pamela Wynne and Ursula Bloom. Do you know any of these novelists? I assure you that they have opened up a new world to me. My salary is not princely, but as I can live at home, we have been able to give up our maid and my sister does the housework while I relieve her at night, by looking after our poor mother, so I think with care we shall be able to manage if we can both retain our health.
“And now, my dear Miss Burton, may I at last be allowed to thank you, not only for your extreme kindness to me after my breakdown, but for your more than generous and heartening letter which arrived last week? Please believe me that I shall never forget your patience with my shortcomings; and your sympathy when they proved at last too much for me. I realise that I should have retired earlier, but you know my circumstances, and I am more than grateful that you never uttered one word of reproach.
“I shall always watch from afar your career in the world of teaching with the warmest interest, remembering how in your youth and vigour you found generosity enough to show kindness to my stupidity and failure. I feel sure that you will go far and I shall always rejoice in your well-deserved success.
“Believe me, yours gratefully and sincerely,
“AGNES SIGGLESTHWAITE.”
Sarah laid the letter on her desk, and sat staring out to the sea. A fishing smack with a brown sail dipped and tossed there and sometimes disappeared. Sarah held her breath till it re-emerged, but she was not really thinking of it. She was picturing the tall lank woman pushing her employer about in a bath chair through the streets of Tunbridge Wells, her hair pins tinkling behind her to the pavement, her skirt unbuttoned, her jumper gaping above her waist belt, her mild chin quivering below her sensitive mouth. She could hear her cultured voice pronouncing with its habitual precision the declaration of love, the luxurious descriptions of feminine underwear, the conflicts of vice with virtue, so frequently encountered in her employer’s favourite literature.
“So there goes the most distinguished scientist we have ever had on our staff—or ever will have,” she thought, and her heart rebuked her.
The simple generosity and goodness of Agnes Sigglesthwaite were too much for her. She had become morbidly self-reproachful for her part in that affair. She had lain awake telling herself that she had sacrificed the science mistress for Midge Carne, that it was Midge whom she should have sent away, that the child was hysterical, vain, a centre of exaggerated emotion, an unhealthy influence in the school.
She forgot the weeks when she had sheltered Miss Sigglesthwaite in her own house, sitting with her at night and reading to her, pouring into her exhausted mind the optimism and resilience of her own unstaled philosophy. She forgot her unstinted efforts to beat the sickness and sorrow of the overburdened woman. She only remembered that her kindness had been mingled with impatience, her benevolence soured by her planning mind.
“A companion to a blind lady who lives here.” And it’s my fault, she groaned in spirit. She put the letter in the basket marked “to be answered,” and picked up the next one.
But the telephone rang, and when she lifted the receiver she heard her friend Joe Astell calling to her in his hoarse and breathless voice.
It brought some comfort to her. The knowledge of his sympathy and support had meant much to her during the past difficult weeks. She knew that he liked and respected her, and his appreciation helped her to retain a modicum of her own self-respect.
“Hallo! Oh, it’s you, Joe.”
“I rang up to wish you luck. This is the great morning of your inspection, isn’t it?”
“Oh, how nice of you. Yes—in about half an hour she’s coming.”
“Well. You’ll be all right. The school’s all right. You’re doing a grand piece of work. I just rang up to tell you so in case you might forget.”
How kind of him. How kind of him. Her heart was warmed and reassured by his goodness. People were kind. People were nice.
For no reason that she could imagine, she found herself fumbling for her handkerchief. The intrusive tears that now so often pricked her eyeballs were at their inconvenient game again. The slightest thing nowadays, and she wanted to cry. Ridiculous.
She was blowing her nose when Miss Masters knocked and came in.
“Oh, I just wanted to ask you. That new anthology—The English Galaxy. Do you think one can let the lower Fifth just have a free run in it? If Miss Teasdale asks me what they’re reading shall I show her that?”
“I should think so. Is this it?”
She took the volume and idly opened it. She read the first poem on the first page.
“O western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!”
A pain more physical than mental wrenched her. She wanted to howl aloud in her wild wretchedness. She bowed herself low over the desk and muttered.
“Yes. I remember the book. It’s good, I think,” and held her breath till the young English mistress closed the door.
Then she sprang up and began to pace her room. Oh, God! she thought, what fool was it who said that work heals longing? Had she not drowned and choked and stifled herself with work? Not a detail escaped her; not an opportunity had she neglected. She had hurled herself upon Kiplingtpn High School with energy sufficient to have saved Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. She had bullied governors, lobbied education officers, flattered parents, scolded and charmed and petted her staff and pupils.
But at a word, a name, the phrase of a waltz, a silly line of doggerel, she was up and tramping as she tramped now across her office, her hands pressing her aching breasts, her veins empoisoned, the Nessus shirt of humiliation scorching her.
Christ, that my love were in my arms!
She could not escape him.
All through the Christmas holidays she had waited at her sister’s home for him to write. At first she had tortured herself because he was ill; he might be dying, and she could get no news of him. Then Astell wrote to tell her of his own most recent campaigns on behalf of the housing scheme, and his successes, and mentioned Carne as a defeated enemy. He was alive, then; but sent no word to her. Had he been shocked? Had he been embarrassed? Had he been sickened by her crude pursuit?
Night after night she agonised, in forced inaction, living through their brief hours in each other’s company, picturing herself as he might see her—the images growing more cruel every hour. A schoolmistress of forty, ugly, clumsy, vulgar, not a lady, with big, reddish hands and a head too large for her small body—a blacksmith’s daughter and he was a snob. An elementary schoolgirl, aggressive, sharp of tongue. She compared herself with the portrait of Muriel Sedgmire, lacerating herself with his wife’s beauty.
She no longer criticised him. He might be obstructive, stubborn, stupid; his values might be anti-social, his vision narrow. But he was hers, hers, hers; and she could not touch him. She had seen him completely disarmed, helpless, unconscious, racked by pain, beyond all control or knowledge, and she loved him the more for it.
It was herself whom now she criticised, her age, her manner, the flaws of her mind and body. Well she knew the shape of her sister’s bedroom. Had she not lain there, extravagantly burning the electric light till four and five in the morning, because she could not bear to lie in darkness, watching the image of the man she loved forming and melting against the night?
She remembered every detail of their growing friendship—the first encounter at the governor’s meeting, the quarrel in the snow on Maythorpe cliff, the night at Minton Riggs when the calf was born, the anxious evenings and dawns when Midge was ill. Again she held back the curtain for him and they watched the sun rising out of the sea—all the world a melting dazzle of pale primrose and silver. Again she sat in front of his fire talking about the future of Midge, when Mrs. Beddows came and found them together. Fate had compelled them to share birth and death and sickness; conspiring to force them into a rare intimacy.
Oh, why did I spoil that? Why did I spoil that? Why couldn’t I leave well alone? I could have helped him. I could have been his friend. I could have comforted him. She saw herself growing old beside him, in honourable and enduring intimacy, relying upon him, as she relied upon Joe Astell, whom she could ring up for counsel at any hour, to whom she could tell almost anything.
But she had destroyed all that, and he avoided her. Terrible things had happened. He was ill; she knew that. She had made intensive inquiries about angina pectoris. She knew now the measure of his physical danger.
He was ruined. Every one said that Maythorpe could not last till harvest.
Then he had lost his seat on the council. She had heard about that. He had been wild, they said, with jealousy and malice. (She did not believe that, but she knew him to be obstinate and reckless.) He had spread rumours that Snaith and Huggins dealt in corrupt practices. Snaith had served a writ for libel against him, for a speech that he had made in his election campaign. Snaith was claiming three thousand pounds in damages. He could never pay it. He would fight, and then he would be ruined.
Oh fool, fool, fool, she cried to the ghost inhabiting her heart, can’t you see they’ll destroy you? Oh my dear, my love, why must you be so stubborn?
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