The Feast (14 page)

After tea she walked with Mrs. Paley up to the post office to buy stamps. They had scarcely left the house
before she burst suddenly into all those confidences which had been left unspoken the night before. She poured out the whole story of her life with many exclamations and repetitions. When, for the tenth time, she announced that nobody would ever know how awful it all was Mrs. Paley cut it short.

‘Don’t keep saying the same thing over and over again, Angie. It’s a bad habit. And plenty of people can guess how awful it is. You’re not the only person with an odious father. Gerry Siddal, as far as I can see, has a stiff row to hoe.’

‘Yes. I suppose so. Er … have you spoken to him yet?’

‘No. I’ve not seen him to-day. But I will. Now tell me: how on earth did your father ever get to be a Canon? What do you suppose induced anyone to ordain him at all?’

Evangeline had no ideas about this. But from her vague reminiscences it emerged that the Canon had not always been so impossible. His ill-temper had grown on him. He had been a notable preacher and successful in any kind of controversy. The Low Church party had hoped to make use of him and the old Bishop, the Bishop who gave him the living of Great Mossbury, had admired him.

‘But he quarrelled with everyone,’ she said. ‘And at last nobody came to church. Nobody at all. For a whole year he read the services just to our family. You can’t think how awful … sorry!’

‘How many were there in your family?’

‘Oh, there were six of us; I’ve three brothers and two sisters. But he’s broken with all of them so I never see them. Well, so the parishioners asked the Bishop—the new Bishop—to get them another Rector. But Father wouldn’t resign, though they broke his windows and all sorts of things. You can’t think … You see I stayed at home, when the others went, because of Mother. I couldn’t bear to leave her alone. Well, so the Bishop
sent for Father one day to the Palace, and Father found he had resigned. He’d flown into such a rage he didn’t know what he was saying till he heard the Bishop
accepting
his resignation. He said it was a trap and he wouldn’t go, and he barricaded the Rectory. And none of the tradesmen would sell us anything. It was in all the papers; the reporters stayed at the inn. They called it the Seige of Mossbury. I was twelve. You can’t think … well, so he gave in at last; I don’t know why. And he never got another living. Only luckily he had some money of his own, and he does locum sometimes in a parish. But we’ve never had a home since Mossbury. And he was forbidden to preach after one sermon he preached … that was all in the papers. Everywhere it’s been awful. You can’t … Mother died three years ago. She was ill for a long time. Always in pain. You can’t think … Mrs. Paley, it was awful and I must say so. And when she was dying she asked me to promise never to leave Father. I couldn’t refuse. It was the last thing she said. She was worried over what would happen to him. So you see!’

‘How could she condemn you to such a life?’

‘Well, you see, she had rather a gloomy idea of life. She thought we are all born to suffer, and the more we suffer now the less we shall hereafter. She thought it was wrong to be happy. I expect she worked all that out because she was married to Father.’

‘And you feel you must keep your promise?’

‘Oh yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Even if you end by going crazy or murdering him?’

‘Mother said God would give me grace to endure it.’

‘And does He?’

‘No.’

‘I thought He didn’t. Here’s the post office. Go in and ask for your stamps, just once, not several times. But try to be audible. The postmistress does not eat human flesh. Say: four twopenny halfpenny stamps, please.’

Evangeline obeyed and returned in triumph. On the walk home she told the whole story over again, in fuller detail, while Mrs. Paley let her talk and pondered upon schemes for freeing the girl from her rash vow. The most obvious would be that of the astute Bishop. Canon Wraxton, if sufficiently enraged, might be manœuvred into dismissing his daughter of his own accord. He might cut her off with a shilling and turn her out into the snow. But he must not do this until some refuge had been found for the girl. Some friend must be waiting in the snow who would snatch Evangeline away before the Canon changed his mind. And she has no friends, reflected Mrs. Paley, except me. She must have other friends. I must see to it, and I must do something about Blanche Cove’s back.

She had been worrying about Blanche Cove’s back ever since the forenoon. Yesterday she would have sighed and dismissed the matter as being none of her business. But to-day she was convinced that such pain must not be permitted, if anyone could do anything to relieve it. To-day she was a new woman, changed in the twinkling of an eye, between the fall of two waves. So far as her own problems were concerned she was still a helpless, hopeless being: the deadlock with Paul
continued
. But, in the case of Evangeline and Blanche, who were equally oppressed, her natural energy—frustrated for years—gushed out in a torrent.

She hobbled briskly down the hill, for sleeping in the heather had given her a touch of rheumatism, and went in search of Blanche’s mother.

Mrs. Cove was sitting, as usual, upon the terrace, knitting for dear life. But she looked a little less grim than usual, and almost smiled when Mrs. Paley came to sit beside her. It was not quite a smile, but the small straight line of her mouth relaxed a little and she said that it had been a beautiful day. Something must have happened to please her.

She made short work, however, of enquiries about
Blanche and intimated plainly that she thought them impertinent. The pains, she said, were growing pains such as all children had. Blanche was tall for her age. She was not in the least disturbed, and she thought it a mistake to encourage complaints.

Mrs. Paley accepted the rebuff and spoke of
Dorsetshire
. Her father had known a Cove, Sir Adrian Cove, of Swan Court. Was he, by any chance, a connection?

‘My husband’s uncle,’ said Mrs. Cove.

‘Was he really? He’s dead now, isn’t he? Who has the place now?’

‘Another nephew. Gerald Cove.’

‘And he’s able to live there? So many people
nowadays
…’

‘I believe so,’ said Mrs. Cove. ‘But I really don’t know.’

The fate of landed proprietors was mourned for a while by Mrs. Paley before she hobbled away to look up Sir Gerald Cove in Burke’s
Landed
Gentry
,
which she had noticed on the bottom shelf of the lounge bookcase. She discovered that he had succeeded Sir Adrian five years ago, and that his wife had been a Miss Evelyn Chadwick, elder daughter of Guy Chadwick, Esq., of Grainsbridge. This was unhelpful, for she knew nothing of the
Chad-wicks
. But she could, at least, find out from the little Coves the Christian name of their father, and then, when next in London, she could go to Somerset House and look up any wills that might be relevant—his will and Sir Adrian’s will. She wanted very much to know how much money Mrs. Cove had got, and from whom she had got it. If she had none, and she presented every appearance of having none, an allowance from her
husband’s
relatives might be inferred. They might not, perhaps, give her enough to cure Blanche’s back. But if they paid the piper they could call the tune, and it would do no harm if they should come to know about Blanche’s back. The world is full of busybodies, of gossiping old ladies. It was not impossible that the tale
of Blanche, groaning on the cliffs of Pendizack, might some day find its way to Swan Court.

If, on the other hand, it should appear that Mrs. Cove possessed an independent income the problem would be greater. Nobody can force a mother to cherish her children. Unless, thought Mrs. Paley, with rising spirits, it should turn out that the children themselves had been beneficiaries. Pressure might be brought to bear on their mother if she was mismanaging an allowance intended for their maintenance. There might be trustees or other guardians. She would find out. She would poke her nose into other people’s business and she would make an intolerable nuisance of herself, and she would go on and on doing this until a doctor had looked at Blanche’s back.

Her next task must be to tackle Gerry Siddal, while she was in this deedy mood. She had promised that she would, and he was nearly always to be found pumping water, between tea and dinner, since Pendizack depended on a well.

The pump was close to the drive, hidden in a clump of rhododendrons. She went to the front door and listened. She could hear it creaking, but not so steadily as usual. There were pauses, as though Gerry’s mind was not entirely on his work. And as she took the narrow path between the bushes she heard a burst of laughter. Two people seemed to be pumping; two young voices, a tenor and a treble, were raised in song as the creaking was resumed:

Peeping through the branches she saw Nancibel, who had just gone off duty, with a strange young man—a very handsome young man. They were enjoying
themselves enormously, and Mrs. Paley would have retreated if Nancibel had not turned and caught sight of her. She explained her errand, and Nancibel said:

‘I think Mr. Gerry is chopping wood, Mrs. Paley. In the stable yard. We offered to do the pumping to-night.’

Mrs. Paley retraced her steps, glad to think that
Nancibel
had got such a well-favoured boy. Poor Gerry,
chopping
wood in the stable yard, had no lovely girl to sing with him. He smiled when he saw Mrs. Paley, but he did not expect her to speak because he did not know that she could. Few people at Pendizack had ever heard her do so. Changed she might be, but she did not look it, and to Gerry’s eyes she appeared as grey, as pinched, as unsmiling as ever. He was quite astonished when she came up and asked if he would do her a favour. Might she borrow two lilo mattresses from the garden shed for herself and Miss Wraxton. They were planning, she
explained
, to sleep out in the cliff shelter.

‘Of course,’ said Gerry. ‘I’ll take them up for you. Will after supper do?’

‘Oh no. You mustn’t trouble to do that,’ said Mrs. Paley, who had every intention that he should. ‘We can carry them.’

‘They’re quite heavy. I’ll take them. Anything else you’d like? Rugs? Cushions?’

‘We’ve taken up rugs and cushions. Mr Siddal … I think that Miss Wraxton is very much worried about staying here. Naturally she wants to go, but she can’t when her father won’t. I told her I was sure that you understood.’

Gerry looked sulky, for he had Evangeline on his conscience.

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘In her shoes I should go, whatever my father did.’

‘She has no money. Only half a crown.’

‘Oh!’ said Gerry.

‘She feels she ought not to have had hysterics, but one can’t wonder, can one? The shock of her father’s
behaviour made a good many people behave … as they wouldn’t otherwise have done. Personally I think we should be grateful to her, for she did get him out of church, even if she was noisy. Nothing else would have got him out, and I hate to think what would have
happened
if he’d stayed.’

‘You mean …’ said Gerry, ‘she wasn’t laughing deliberately?’

Mrs. Paley opened her eyes.

‘But of course not. You’re a doctor. You must know hysterics when you hear them.’

‘I didn’t realize,’ he muttered.

‘You were some distance away. I was quite close.’

‘I’m afraid I was rude to her, yesterday afternoon.’

‘That doesn’t matter, as long as I can tell her that you—that you feel differently now.’

‘Oh I do,’ said Gerry. ‘Indeed I do.’

Mrs. Paley gave him her pinched smile and departed.

He went back to his chopping with a lighter heart. The memory of Evangeline’s stricken face as she crawled up the stairs would no longer torment him. Mrs. Paley had put it right. She might look like a sour lemon, but she wasn’t a bad old trout when you came to talk to her. He would take the mattresses up to the shelter for them, and he would make a point of saying something friendly to that unfortunate girl. Half a crown!
Somebody
ought to do something about a thing like that!

There had been no overt explosion when Mrs. Siddal came back from her shopping expedition to find that the garden room had been let to Anna Lechene. It had been done, as she well knew, to annoy her; but she held her
peace and asked mildly where the chauffeur was to eat. With Fred or in the dining-room?

‘In the dining-room,’ said Siddal. ‘At a cosy little table with Anna. He’s a secretary-chauffeur. Very high class.’

‘Very refained, except when he forgets,’ said Duff, who had taken a dislike to Bruce. ‘And he looks like a bit part actor.’

‘He’s done all the pumping for us,’ said Gerry.

‘Well, that was nice of him,’ conceded Mrs. Siddal.

‘It was for love of Nancibel,’ said Robin. ‘He’s fallen for her in a big way. He peeled the potatoes for her this afternoon. And now she’s taken him home to supper.’

‘Has she?’ exclaimed Mr. Siddal. ‘But how
intriguing
! Where was Anna?’

‘She was in her room writing her book.’

‘What fun! I think I’ll join the company to-night and see how they are all getting on.’

Shaving always took Siddal a long time, and when he went to find Anna she was already established on the terrace, with Duff, Robin and Bruce sitting on cushions at her feet. None of them much wanted to be there, but she wished it and her will was stronger than theirs.