“ ’Tain’t natural,” she said. “If it was meant to have been seen it would have been. If the good Lord sees fit to cover it up, that’s how He wants it.” I knew it was serious when the good Lord was brought in. His name implied that it was a question of right and wrong, and on such occasions Mrs. Penlock and the Lord were always together on the right side.
So I gathered that the exploration was unpopular.
“If it were meant to be discovered,” said Mrs. Penlock to me, “it would never have been covered up.”
“But it has been covered up, over the years. People have to discover these things. It teaches things about the past. People want to know and the Lord helps those who help themselves, remember.”
“ ’Tain’t natural,” was all she would say.
Protests came vociferously from one quarter. This was from old Stubbs. He lived in the cottage near the pool. He and his daughter Jenny were a strange pair. They had lived alone since Stubbs’ wife had died. She had been a kind of white witch who grew herbs and was said to be able to cure all sorts of ailments. Jenny Stubbs was as Mrs. Penlock said “Not all there.” She was in fact a little simple. She would go about crooning to herself, but she would be on the quay when the catch came in, picking up any fish that was thrown aside because it was not up to standard. I had seen her once or twice gathering limpets and snails. She made a broth of them, I believe.
They lived a hermit-like existence. Old Stubbs was said to be a footling which meant that he had been born feet first and therefore had special powers. He did occasional work, like clipping hedges; and my father had allowed the family to go on living in the cottage.
We were there, with Jonnie and Gervaise digging and Grace and I fetching and carrying, when the old man suddenly appeared. His eyes were wild, his hair unkempt.
He said: “Lay down them shovels. What be doing on our land?”
Gervaise smiled charmingly. “We are exploring and we have permission to do so.”
“Get off our land or ’twill be the worse for ’ee.”
“Really,” began Jonnie. “I don’t see what right …”
“This land ain’t meant to be disturbed. There’s people that don’t want it and won’t have it.”
“Why there’s no one here.”
The old man looked crafty. “They be ’ere … but you can’t see ’em.”
Jonnie was exasperated. Gervaise of course thought it was a joke; but nothing concerned with this place could be a joke to me.
“This land belongs to the dead,” said old Stubbs. “Woe to them as worries the dead.”
“I should have thought,” said Gervaise, “that they would have liked us to find their buried monastery.”
“You’m worrying the dead. ’Tain’t right. ’Tain’t proper. You go away from ’ere. Go back to your big city. That’s where you belong to be. No good will come of this I promise ’ee.”
With that he shook his fist and hobbled away.
“What an interesting character!” said Gervaise.
I told him about their cottage nearby and how he and his daughter scratched a living from the soil.
Gervaise was quite interested but Jonnie wanted to get on with the dig.
For three days they worked, but knowing the people well, we in the family were aware that there was general disapproval of the excavations.
“It’s so silly,” said my father. “Why shouldn’t we know if there was really a monastery there? Why all this objection?”
“You know how the people hate change,” my mother reminded him.
“But this is not going to change anything in their lives. I’d like to know how the story got about that there was a monastery there.”
“You don’t propose to drag the pool, do you?” said my mother.
“I hardly think that would be possible. But it would be nice to know that at least the monastery was there.”
What followed was inevitable.
A groom, exercising one of the horses, passed the site. It was dark, and he distinctly heard the sound of bells. They were coming, he thought, from the bottom of the pool.
Then there was talk of nothing but the bells.
They rang, didn’t they, when disaster was threatened? Someone had displeased God and you didn’t have to look far to see who that was. Dead folks didn’t want to be disturbed and it was reckoned that “all they monks at the bottom of the pool don’t take kind-like to people coming up from London and starting to dig all round their resting place.”
People were saying they heard the bells and it was always at dusk.
Two weeks had passed and I think that even Jonnie was beginning to realize that it was no use going on. They had uncovered what could be part of a stone wall. It might have been an old cottage. There was nothing to show that it was part of a monastery.
“We should need to have special equipment,” said Jonnie. “We’d have to go down a long way …”
“And possibly find nothing,” added my father.
“What a pity!” said Grace. “I am so sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Oh no,” cried Jonnie. “It was the greatest fun, wasn’t it, Gervaise?”
Gervaise said that he was satisfied. He had found new friends which was far better than an old monastery.
“Charmingly said,” replied my mother. “But I know you are disappointed. Never mind. Perhaps Pompeii will be more rewarding.”
“Well, we shall certainly find something there,” said Jonnie.
There had been some talk of our going back with him and staying in London for a while, but my father said he could not go for there were all sorts of problems to be dealt with on the estate.
I was disappointed, but relieved that they had stopped digging, and the recent activity at the pool had made me feel that I wanted to escape for a while.
“Angelet does so love London,” said my mother. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t go, darling. Grace could go with you.”
Grace said: “Oh, that would be wonderful.”
So it was arranged.
It was the day before we were to leave when Gervaise said to me: “I want to take one last look at the site. Will you come with me, Angelet?”
“Why do you want to look at it?” I asked.
“I just have the fancy to. I tell you what. We’ll go at dusk. There won’t be anyone there. That is the witching hour.”
I shivered.
“Come,” he said. “I know the place fascinates you. It does me too.” He added: “You’ll be safe with me.”
We rode out together and he had arranged it so that we reached the pool just as the light was beginning to fade.
“We haven’t improved the countryside, have we?” he said, looking ruefully at the piece of wall with the heaped soil about it.
“Never mind,” I said. “I believe it is the fate of many archaeologists.”
“Well, if you didn’t look you would never find, and it has been a lot of fun being here.”
“Even though you failed?”
“I don’t look on it as failure because I have found some new friends. And now you are coming back to London with us.”
“I’m pleased about that.”
“Listen,” he said. “Listen to the silence.”
How eerie it was! But perhaps it was memories which made it so. The water was just visible in the darkness. There was the faintest breeze which ruffled the grass, and now and then broke the silence with a gentle moan.
“I can understand people’s building up legends about this place,” said Gervaise. “Did you come here often?”
“No … not now.”
“Listen …”
There it was … faint in the stillness of the air but unmistakable. It was like the tolling of a bell.
I turned to look at Gervaise. Had he heard it too? His expression told me that he had. Blank amazement showed on his face. He was staring at the pool. There it was again. The distinct tolling of a bell.
; He said: “You’ve gone quite pale. Do you feel all right? There must be a church somewhere near.”
“You couldn’t possibly hear church bells here.”
“How then …?”
I shook my head.
“It can’t be …” he began.
There was silence between us. We stood very still straining our ears, but there was only silence.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “There must be an explanation.”
“They seemed to come from the pool.”
“Impossible.”
“Then where?”
“Let’s look at it like this. We came here to hear them.”
“Did we?”
“Yes, I think that was in our minds. We were expecting to hear them … so we imagined we did.”
“Both of us … at the same time?”
“It must be so.”
He started towards the pool. I hesitated. “Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “We’ll go right up to it and listen … hard.”
I followed him. We were so close now that another step would have taken us into the dark water.
He shouted: “Who’s there? Play the bells again.”
His voice echoed back. It was uncanny.
But there was no sound at all except the faint noise made by the wind in the grass.
“It’s chilly here,” he said. “Let’s get back.”
After we had left the pool he did not speak for some time.
Then he said: “We imagined it.”
But he knew, and I knew, that that was not so.
When we arrived in London I noticed at once that the mood of euphoria about the war had changed considerably.
There had been no speedy conclusion; news had arrived of a cholera epidemic which had been responsible for the death of many of our men. Everyone was talking about William Howard Russell who was sending home disturbing articles which appeared in The Times. Men were dying of diseases and there was a lack of medical supplies to deal with the epidemic. There was chaos, little organization; and this was an enemy more formidable than the Russians. The war was ugly and frustrating—not the glorious road to victory which so many had been led to expect.
British and French armies had won the battle of Alma and hopes revived for a speedy conclusion to the war but those articles in The Times were more disturbing than ever.
There was talk of little else but the war. It seemed to me that everyone knew what should be done. Palmerston should have been brought in earlier; his advice should have been taken. If it had been, the war could have been averted. Palmerston was the hero of the day and war fever was rampant.
I noticed how thoughtful Jonnie had become. He was deeply concerned about news and studied the papers avidly.
Once when we were out we saw soldiers marching on their way to the wharf where they would embark for the Crimea. The people cheered them; bands were playing and they looked magnificent.
Then we went into the Park and sat on a seat watching the ducks on the Serpentine.
“It’s a righteous war,” said Jonnie. “We cannot allow one nation to subdue another just because it is strong and the other weak.”
Grace said that those men were heroes to go into an unknown country and fight for the right.
We walked home in a somewhat somber mood. I thought Jonnie had something on his mind. I wished that he would confide in me and wondered whether he had in Grace.
I had to conquer a smoldering resentment because he really did take more notice of Grace than of me; and not so long ago we had been such friends. He had once implied that he was a little piqued because I seemed to transfer my affection from him to Benedict Lansdon. He had spoken jestingly, of course, but I wondered if he had meant it … just a little. Now I felt the same about him and Grace. Of course she was older than I … older than us both … and she had read so much of archaeology since she had known Jonnie that she could talk to him almost as a fellow student would have done.
I did not see Jonnie all the next day and on the following one he told us what had been on his mind.
He made the announcement just before we went in to dinner. Helena looked very solemn and so did Matthew.
“I have joined the army,” said Jonnie. “We don’t have to do much training. There isn’t time. I expect I shall be leaving soon for the Crimea.”
Jonnie’s action aroused a great storm in the family. Helena was very worried and tried to persuade him to change his mind; Geoffrey was resentful because he was not old enough to do the same. I think his father, in his heart, agreed with Helena, but Uncle Peter saw how the situation could be turned to advantage. There had been hints, in pacific circles, that those who were eagerly clamoring for war were not those who would have to go and fight it. But here was a prominent politician whose son had volunteered. He was a student studying archaeology but as soon as he understood his country’s need he had rallied to the flag.
“This will do infinite good,” said Uncle Peter soothingly. “The war will soon be over. Perhaps before Jonnie gets out there.”
Even so the Russell reports did not echo that view. There was an outcry in Parliament and throughout the country. Something would have to be done.
Then we began to hear a great deal about a lady called Florence Nightingale. Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis knew her family fairly well. They had always thought that Florence was a difficult girl who had caused her parents some concern because she would not do what every girl was expected to do—make a good marriage and settle cozily into society. Florence had all the necessary accomplishments; she was handsome and intelligent, charming and attractive to the opposite sex. But she had a passion for nursing. How ridiculous! they said. Nursing was not for ladies. It was the sort of work people did when they could find no other employment. It was rather like the drifters and ne’er-do-wells who went into the army. Only this comparison was not stressed now for the drifters and ne’er-do-wells had been miraculously turned into heroes.
But now those who had ignored Miss Nightingale began to notice her.
“I heard,” said Uncle Peter, “that Miss Nightingale is being taken very seriously at last. Sydney Herbert is most impressed. They realize the need for good nurses out there. She is suggesting taking a group of women out there … women whom she will train. It is an important step forward.”
Jonnie looked splendid in uniform. We were all very proud of him, but, of course, with each passing day, his departure grew nearer.
Then a strange thing happened.
Lord John Milward, of whom I had never heard before, died. There was a column in the paper about him. He had suffered an attack of the dreaded typhoid fever which had in a very short time proved fatal.
I had not thought that this could affect us at all. That was because at that time I was ignorant of the family history. Lord John Milward had left quite a large sum of money to Jonnie.
Jonnie was astonished and then suddenly he seemed to accept it.
It was some time later when I learned the truth.
Lord John Milward was, in fact, Jonnie’s father and not Matthew Hume, as I had always been led to suppose—and so had Jonnie himself.
Apparently when she was very young, Helena had been engaged to John Milward; there had been a scandal involving Uncle Peter and his nightclubs and the Milward family had insisted that the engagement be broken off.
My grandmother and grandfather Jake Cadorson, who had been visiting Australia to look after some property which Jake had acquired after his sentence had expired, took Helena with them. My mother was there too. Helena was at this time pregnant and my grandparents helped her over a difficult time. Jonnie was born in Australia. Matthew Hume had been on the ship taking them out; he was going to get material for his book on prisons—transportation being an important part of it—and there he met Helena and married her; and Jonnie had always thought that he was Matthew’s son.
John Milward however did not forget his son and thus it was that Jonnie was on the point of becoming
a rich man.
He said his new affluence would be of great use in his work and everyone was very pleased for him. I did love Jonnie; he had been a hero of my childhood. I was sorry that I had for a time allowed Ben Lansdon to usurp his place in my heart. Jonnie was gentle and reliable; Ben was powerful and exciting. Ben had gone away and left me with our secret. I wondered how Jonnie would have behaved. Jonnie would never have been in such a situation. He would never have thought of hiding the body in the pool.
But Shakespeare said that comparisons were odious; and how right he was.
Then came another bombshell.
Grace came to me one day and said she must talk to me.
She said: “I wish your mother were here. I am sure she would understand. But I want you to explain to her.”
I was mystified.
“I’ve made a decision,” she said. “If they will have me I am going to Scutari.”
“To Scutari!” I cried. “But how?”
“With Miss Nightingale’s nurses. I have been along to see about it today. They will let me know if I am accepted. I feel sure I shall be. They told me it was almost a certainty. They do not get many educated young women and these are the sort that are wanted.”
“But you are not a nurse.”
“Nor are most of the others. In fact there are no real nurses anywhere. The hospitals are full of incompetent people who take to nursing because they cannot get work elsewhere. I’ve been talking to people. I want to go, Angelet. Please explain to your mother. It seems so ungrateful to leave like this, but I always felt she took me in out of charity and created work for me so that I should not feel I was imposing.”
“Oh nonsense, Grace. My mother is fond of you.”
“I feel that and it makes me unhappy. I am very fond of her … and you and everyone at Cador.”
“I wish I could come.”
“Your mother will be glad you are too young. I imagine it will not be the most comfortable way of living … but I want to do it. Seeing Jonnie in his uniform … Angelet, please do not say anything to anyone until I am sure of being accepted.”
I promised I would not; but in a few days she heard that her application was successful.
Everyone was astounded, but they applauded her enterprise and bravery. Jonnie was overcome with admiration for her and again I felt that twinge of jealousy.
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