A Night in Cold Harbour

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘Not very many.’

  ‘But there’s some laid up somewhere, an’t there?’

  ‘In the bank at Severnton. Yes, I must go to the bank. I shall need money, if I’m to get to Lancashire.’

  Dickie had heard of banks but did not know what they were. He pictured a great chest full of money buried in some secret place on the banks of the Severn.

  ‘Could you get it easy?’

  ‘Oh yes. At least … I believe …’

  A new idea occurred to Dr. Newbolt. He began to tremble again.

  ‘You’d best get it quickly, then. They don’t let mad folks handle money, I believe. Go tomorrow.’

  ‘I fear … I fear … you may be right … I’d never thought of the money!’

  ‘Ride over there tomorrow, before they’re astir. They’re late risers all. Get your guineas.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I think I will. No harm in that.’

  ‘I’ll be off, soon as ’tis dark. I’ll meet you there tomorrow. I’ve been in Severnton once. Fair time. There’s a cross they call Martyr’s Cross. Know it?’

  ‘Yes. I know it. But …’

  ‘I’ll meet you there. Then, when you’ve got your guineas we may take the coach to Bristol.’

  ‘Bristol? No, no. We’ll go north.’

  ‘You’ll be all safe if you send ’em a letter from Bristol. Like Billy Bowles done. A letter for to say you’ve sailed away on a ship.’

  ‘Billy Bowles! That fellow? Who went to America?’

  ‘Not he. They was after him for sheep stealing, and he scarpered and sent a letter from Bristol for to say he’d gone to America. It was true seemingly. They sent to Bristol. There was a writing somewhere for to say he’d sailed in that ship. But he never went only to Cork. That’s a place over the sea too, but not so far off. This ship, she puts in at Cork, and Billy gets off. He come back from Cork after the hue and cry was died down, and he got work as a tin miner in a place they call the Red Ruth. Nobody knew till a cousin of his went down into Cornwall and saw him there. That’s what you might do, sir. But you need guineas for to go on a ship.’

  ‘I could never do that.’

  ‘Get your guineas first. No harm in that.’

  ‘No, no. I believe I’d better make sure of … it will distress them … but I could never bear … Venetia! She must have been persuaded by the rest. We’ll talk of this again tomorrow. When you bring my newspaper tomorrow.’

  ‘But, Parson, I’m off tonight. I’ve stayed overlong as it is. I’ll wait for you by the Cross all day tomorrow. If you don’t come, I’ll go my ways.’

  ‘No, Dickie! No. You mustn’t run off like this. A child of your age! You might come to some harm.’

  ‘I’ll come to harm if I stay here. So will you.’

  ‘Never fear. I’ll care for you. I’ll take you to Eccles. He’ll have some scheme for you, I don’t doubt. I’ll get the money and meet you by the Cross tomorrow.’

  Dickie nodded and went off. A pocket full of guineas would, he thought, be necessary, whether they went to Bristol or to Lancashire. He could himself run off, at any time, if the old gentleman proved obstinate.

  For the rest of the day Dr. Newbolt sat staring in front of him. He did not blame his children. He no longer felt able to blame any particular person for the world’s sins and the world’s sorrows. He had relinquished all effort to distinguish between the innocent and the guilty, and had tried to say so in his address from the chancel steps. These distinctions were, he knew, necessary in the conduct of human affairs, but they are made by the partial and intermittent light in which human affairs are normally beheld. Any alarming premonition of Perpetual Light must make such a task impossible. He had therefore, perhaps, become unfit for participation in the world’s work, including the work of a pastor. He must resign the living. He must give no trouble to those still labouring in the field. He must school himself to think and speak as one having no authority.

  Yet the thought of a madhouse was more than he could endure. He had seen one once, on a visit to an unhappy friend, and had thanked God when the poor wretch died a few weeks later. Nor did he think himself mad; confused, bewildered, at a loss, perhaps, but not irrational. His memory might be failing; but that was common enough at his age. But these illusions … the keys … the chocolate … the tray … the snake in his wig cupboard … He began to tremble again. If he could but be sure that they were illusions he would thank God from the bottom of his heart. Madness was very terrible, he must bear it as best he might, but there was another, more terrible, doubt which he could not bring himself to face. Sooner than face it he would … what was it the child had said? He would scarper. There was one illusion which he must, at all costs, preserve.

  I’ll go to Eccles, he thought, and tell him everything. And then knew that this supreme terror could never be divulged to Eccles, or to any living soul. He had ventured as near to it as he dared, on this evening, in his own thoughts. He had ventured too near. He must not see her again, or listen to her caressing voice. He must preserve himself from that, escaping to some place where she could never come, to some existence where he need never think of her. Like Billy Bowles done. Cork … Why not?

  5

  NO STRETTON NEWS could reach Romilly since he had decided upon a strategic disappearance, and concealed himself in an inn at Tintern. This was partly in order to assert his right to do exactly as he pleased, whether married or not. He also thought it a very good trick to play upon Charlotte and Charles Newbolt. They would conclude that he meant to slip out of his engagement. Charlotte would triumph, far too openly. Charles would pen a challenge ready for despatch so soon as he could discover Romilly’s whereabouts. Both would look very silly when he eventually returned, perfectly ready to marry Venetia and blandly surprised that anyone could have doubted his intentions. Venetia, to do her justice, would probably enjoy the joke as much as he did.

  All this was apparent to Markham, who understood his master better than anybody else in the world. He had his own channels of communication with Stretton, and knew all that had happened, but he thought it better to hold his tongue until asked for information. The sudden appearance of a blue waistcoat did at last inspire a question. Romilly, finding it put out for him, asked if it had not been left behind at the Priors.

  ‘Yes, sir. But we can’t well do without it, so I took the liberty of writing for it to Mr. Partridge.’

  ‘Partridge? H’m…. And he sent it? Had he any news? All goes on much as usual, I suppose?’

  Markham hesitated and decided that he had now better speak up.

  ‘Pretty well, I believe, sir. Except that they are distressed at losing his Reverence. He’s left the country, it seems. Gone to America, so Mr. Partridge says, and written to his family that he’s never coming back.’

  ‘His Reverence? Who … you don’t mean Dr. Newbolt?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Gone to … impossible! Are you sure? You must be mistaken. Partridge must have meant somebody else.’

  ‘No, sir. Dr. Newbolt disappeared very suddenly some days ago. Nobody knew where he was gone. Then the family got a letter to say that he was off to America.’

  ‘Good God!’

  After a short pause Markham continued:

  ‘They say his mind was unsettled. Had been for some time.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Romilly, remembering the infant apprentices. ‘But … America! I can’t believe it.’

  Markham went round behind him to brush his coat at the back, murmuring:

  ‘He had a shock, sir. One of the young ladies died very sudden. They say it drove him clean out of his wits.’

  Romilly stood very still. He did not ask which young lady. Markham stole a look at him, saw that he guessed, and went off to put some boots away in a cupboard.

  ‘A severe cold,’ said Romilly at last. ‘She had a cold.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Markham, with his head in the cupboard. ‘It went to the lungs.’

  ‘When … whe
n was it?’

  ‘The day after we came away, sir, I believe.’

  ‘I see. You can go now.’

  Markham went into the next room and began to pack the portmanteaux, foreseeing that they would now return to Stretton.

  After an interval of stunned stupor Romilly told himself that nothing in particular had happened, so far as he was concerned. He had lost her a long time ago. Death could scarcely part them more. It was very sad; a blow to her father and her family. But for him it signified no momentous change.

  He was growing tired of Tintern and toyed for a while with a notion of going north. He had always wished to inspect Hadrian’s Wall. They would miss her in the village. Who would bring them baskets? The old man … America? … what had Markham said? He rang the bell.

  ‘What was it, exactly, that you said about Dr. Newbolt?’ he asked.

  The story, as Markham had learnt it from Partridge, was repeated. Dr. Newbolt had grown so eccentric, after Miss Jenny’s death, that his family had taken fright. A surgeon from Severnton had been consulted. It was thought that the Doctor, getting wind of this, had gone off so as to escape a madhouse.

  ‘I suppose … I ought to go back …’ said Romilly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  That night they got as far as Severnton. In the morning Romilly ran into old Mr. Freeman, father of all the Free-: man boys, stamping about the inn galleries. He had come to Severnton on some business connected with a law suit. They breakfasted together and Romilly heard more about the recent scandals at Stretton Courtenay. The old gentleman might have been less outspoken had he heard or remembered the rumours connecting Romilly with Venetia. He repeated all the stories current about neglect, the deaf ear turned to appeals from Kitty, and the lonely death in a summer dawn.

  ‘Not one of them by her! Not one to bid her God speed! What d’ye think of that? Why, she’d devoted her whole life to ’em. A shabby crew, those Newbolts; always were. All save poor Jenny. I’ve no patience with ’em. So soon as she was gone they turned on the old man. It seems he’d written to some friend … was planning to endow a little school for poor children in her memory. Why not? Very right and proper. His own money, wan’t it? But Miss Venetia got wind of it; by all accounts she played some very double game, though I don’t know the ins and outs of the matter. They had a letter from this friend after the old man had run off, and then it all came to light. And now, so it’s said, they’re all at loggerheads over a bed-ridden old nurse. Who’s to keep her? Did you ever hear of anything so pitiful? Stephen declares he won’t have her at the Parsonage when …’

  Mr. Freeman broke off in some confusion, remembering that Stephen’s succession to the living could not be taken for granted. Romilly would have some say in the matter.

  ‘Tibbie …?’ said Romilly, recalling a shadowy presence in an enormous cap, of whom even he had once stood in awe. ‘You mean to say she’s still alive?’

  ‘Alive and kicking, thanks to Jenny’s care. But I never meant, you know, to put you against Stephen Newbolt. He’s not a bad sort of fellow. One must allow for gossip. And you may depend upon it he … all the boys … would have showed up better if Venetia … she was at the bottom of it all. She’s a sly one, that girl. My boys never liked her.’

  Romilly nodded. He had not yet realised that he must shortly appoint a new parson. He was trying to remember what he had been doing at the moment when Jenny breathed her last. Fast asleep, probably. Dreaming in some soft repose….

  ‘She’s buried now?’ he asked.

  ‘Who? Jenny? Why, yes. It was some weeks ago, you know.’

  ‘I knew nothing of it. I only heard yesterday.’

  ‘We supposed not, or you would have been there.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Oh yes. All of us. All came who could, I think.’

  Mr. Freeman sighed and added:

  ‘One blames the family. But we felt amongst ourselves that we’d never made enough of her. We said so, the boys and I, riding home. She was a very good … What? Are you off? You han’t touched your eggs and bacon.’

  ‘I’ve had all I want.’

  Markham was promptly dragged from eggs and bacon which he would have liked to finish. On all the drive homewards Romilly was oppressed by an increasing sense of unreality. The forest trees, the fields, the village green, were not solid, not actual; they were painted screens set up to mask vacancy. He remembered such a sensation once before; he had known it for a moment in the garden during his first call at the Parsonage. At the Priors he told Partridge that he would be in the library and must on no account be disturbed.

  Once in that haven he flung himself into a chair. Nothing, he decided, was very much amiss save for the dark and the cold. These advanced. Total darkness threatened to break through the bright screen of sunshine and green trees; a slow chill was gradually creeping along all his limbs. To sit still, yielding to their threat, was intolerable. He went out at last, into the sunlight. He crossed the park, not defining his own intention, but aware that he must see for himself.

  They had put back the slab on the grave beneath the yew tree. The new mortar looked white against the mellowing stones. He picked up a dead daisy chain which hung forlornly on one corner, and flung it away into the grass. The cold was now so terrifying that he looked up at the sun, half doubting that it could still be there. As he stared a curious tingling in the back of his neck told him that he was not alone. The yew tree was staring at him, as trees could and did stare if they caught a man quite alone. He turned sharply. The shadows under the upper branches were full of eyes.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s that?’

  A thin husky voice muttered:

  ‘We seen you.’

  Another said, more clearly:

  ‘You threw away the poor lady’s flowers.’

  Children, he thought, relaxing. Nothing worse than children. But his own eyes were so dazzled by sunlight that he could not locate them.

  ‘They were dead,’ he said.

  ‘So is the poor lady,’ piped a third voice.

  ‘Come down! You can’t play here. Come down at once.’

  There was a rustling and crackling. Three dirty little creatures slid down the tree and stood in a row before him.

  ‘Who are you? Where d’you live?’

  After a long silence the tallest murmured:

  ‘We don’t live nowhere now. We got to go away.’

  ‘Right away,’ agreed the smallest dreamily. ‘Our Mam’s a-tying up our bundles.’

  ‘Hugga!’ cried his sister. ‘Run! She’s after us!’

  All three promptly took to their heels. There were quick footsteps on the other side of the hedge. Venetia appeared, an angry whirlwind in crisp black.

  ‘If I catch you here again …’ she cried in a voice which Romilly had never heard before.

  Then she saw him and drew up. They gazed at one another over the newly mortared slab. She spoke first, dropping to the habitual low, slow tone.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking at the grave,’ he said simply.

  ‘You could have done that at the funeral. It’s too late now to make a fuss about Jenny. You threw her over once, and she cried her eyes out. But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘You knew that?’

  ‘I had eyes in my head. Even in the nursery. I daresay you’d like to believe that she always loved you. It’s years since she gave you a single thought.’

  ‘I understand that perfectly.’

  ‘Then pray don’t come here again till we’ve gone. We shall be off very soon … as soon as my brothers can settle which of them is to take me home with him. Once we are out of the way you may come and mope over Jenny’s grave for the rest of your life, if you’ve nothing better to do.’

  Her voice was still casual and easy. Anyone at a distance might have thought it an amicable interview. She paused and then went on:

  ‘You’re not listening. Please attend. I want you to
tell your mother that I have broken off my engagement to you. I could never marry you now. I could never live in a place where such stories are told against me. You’ve heard them, I expect?’

  ‘I’ve heard some of them,’ he agreed wearily. ‘As far away as Severnton. Are they true?’

  ‘Quite untrue.’

  Her voice sharpened a little and she coloured.

  ‘Charles saw Jenny shortly before she died. He suspected nothing amiss. He’s as much to blame as anyone for that disaster. And it was entirely against my wishes that Dr. Colley was brought to see my father. I protested, but I was overruled. But now … I can’t set foot in the village lest some brat behind a hedge should throw a stone at me. They are all … you are all my enemies.’

  Her indignation was manifestly genuine. There was in it a touch of bewilderment, as though the feelings of her fellow creatures must always be a little mysterious to her. Up to a point they would think and act as she did, ruled by self-interest, supported by duplicity. Then, suddenly, they would turn on her.

  ‘I’ll tell my mother,’ said Romilly. ‘And she can tell the rest. I shall say that these … these dreadful disasters have been too much for you — that you can’t bear to stay here.’

  ‘That will make Mrs. Brandon very happy.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak of you unkindly.’

  ‘Nor of anybody else.’ She gave a slight shrug. ‘You’ve heard plenty from your sisters to make up for that.’

  Suddenly and unexpectedly he felt sorry for her, getting a glimpse of the isolation in which she lived — aware of no existence save her own, knowing no tie closer than that of an occasional accomplice. But with this first stir of feeling he suffered another pang so dire that he turned and fled without bidding her farewell.

  On his return to the Priors he went to his mother’s dressing room and told her of the broken engagement. She showed no great signs of joy but said that it was probably for the best.