The French Lieutenant's Woman (36 page)

You may have noted a
certain lack of Ernestina's normal dryness in this touching
paragraph; but Charles was not alone in having several voices. And
just as she hoped he might see the late light in her room, so did she
envisage a day when he might coax her into sharing this intimate
record of her prenuptial soul. She wrote partly for his eyes--as,
like every other Victorian woman, she wrote partly for His eyes. She
went relieved to bed, so totally and suitably her betrothed's
chastened bride in spirit that she leaves me no alternative but to
conclude that she must, in the end, win Charles back from his
infidelity.

And she was still fast
asleep when a small drama took place four floors below her. Sam had
not got up quite as early as his master that morning. When he went
into the hotel kitchen for his tea and toasted cheese--one thing few
Victorian servants did was eat less than their masters, whatever
their lack of gastronomic propriety--the boots greeted him with the
news that his master had gone out; and that Sam was to pack and strap
and be ready to leave at noon. Sam hid his shock. Packing and
strapping was but half an hour's work. He had more pressing business.

He went immediately to
Aunt Tranter's house. What he said we need not inquire, except that
it must have been penetrated with tragedy, since when Aunt Tranter
(who kept uncivilized rural hours) came down to the kitchen only a
minute later, she found Mary slumped in a collapse of tears at the
kitchen table. The deaf cook's sarcastic uplift of her chin showed
there was little sympathy there. Mary was interrogated; and Aunt
Tranter soon elicited, in her briskly gentle way, the source of
misery; and applied a much kinder remedy than Charles had. The maid
might be off till Ernestina had to be attended to; since Miss
Ernestina's heavy brocade curtains customarily remained drawn until
ten, that was nearly three hours' grace. Aunt Tranter was rewarded by
the most grateful smile the world saw that day. Five minutes later
Sam was to be seen sprawling in the middle of Broad Street. One
should not run full tilt across cobbles, even to a Mary.
 

33

O let me love
my love unto myself alone, And know my knowledge to the world
unknown, No witness to
the
vision call, Beholding, unbeheld of all...
--
A.
h. clough, Poem (1852)

It would be difficult to
say who was more shocked--the master frozen six feet from the door,
or the servants no less frozen some thirty yards away. So astounded
were the latter that Sam did not even remove his arm from round
Mary's waist. What broke the tableau was the appearance of the fourth
figure: Sarah, wildly, in the doorway. She withdrew so swiftly that
the sight was barely more than subliminal. But it was enough. Sam's
mouth fell open and his arm dropped from Mary's waist.

"What the devil are
you doing here?"

"Out walkin', Mr.
Charles."

"I thought I left
instructions to--"

"I done it, sir.
S'all ready."

Charles knew he was
lying. Mary had turned away, with a delicacy that became her. Charles
hesitated, then strode up to Sam, through whose mind flashed visions
of dismissal, assault

"We didn't know,
Mr. Charles. 'Onest we didn't."

Mary flashed a shy look
back at Charles: there was shock in it, and fear, but the faintest
touch of a sly admiration. He addressed her.

"Kindly leave us
alone a moment." The girl bobbed and began to walk quickly out
of earshot. Charles eyed Sam, who reverted to his humblest footman
self and stared intently at his master's boots. "I have come
here on that business I mentioned."

"Yes, sir."

Charles dropped his
voice. "At the request of the physician who is treating her. He
is fully aware of the circumstances."

"Yes, sir."

"Which must on no
account be disclosed."

"I hunderstand, Mr.
Charles."

"Does she?"

Sam looked up. "Mary
won't say nuffink, sir. On my life."

Now Charles looked down.
He was aware that his cheeks were deep red. "Very well. I ... I
thank you. And I'll see that... here." He fumbled for his purse.

"Oh no, Mr.
Charles." Sam took a small step back, a little overdramatically
to convince a dispassionate observer. "Never."

Charles's hand came to a
mumbling stop. A look passed between master and servant. Perhaps both
knew a shrewd sacrifice had just been made.

"Very well. I will
make it up to you. But not a word."

"On my slombest
hoath, Mr. Charles."

With this dark
superlative (most solemn and best) Sam turned and went after his
Mary, who now waited, her back discreetly turned, some hundred yards
off in the gorse and bracken.

Why their destination
should have been the barn, one can only speculate; it may have
already struck you as curious that a sensible girl like Mary should
have burst into tears at the thought of a mere few days' absence. But
let us leave Sam and Mary as they reeenter the woods, walk a little
way in shocked silence, then covertly catch each other's eyes-- and
dissolve into a helpless paralysis of silent laughter; and return to
the scarlet-faced Charles.

He watched them out of
sight, then glanced back at the uninformative barn. His behavior had
rent his profoundest being, but the open air allowed him to reflect a
moment. Duty, as so often, came to his aid. He had flagrantly fanned
the forbidden fire. Even now the other victim might be perishing in
its flames, casting the rope over the beam ... He hesitated, then
marched back to the barn and Sarah.

She stood by the
window's edge, hidden from view from outside, as if she had tried to
hear what had passed between Charles and Sam. He stood by the door.

"You must forgive
me for taking an unpardonable advantage of your unhappy situation."
He paused, then went on. "And not only this morning." She
looked down. He was relieved to see that she seemed abashed, no
longer wild. "The last thing I wished was to engage your
affections. I have behaved very foolishly. Very foolishly. It is I
who am wholly to blame." She stared at the rough stone floor
between them, the prisoner awaiting sentence. "The damage is
done, alas. I must ask you now to help me repair it." Still she
refused his invitation to speak. "Business calls me to London. I
do not know for how long." She looked at him then, but only for
a moment. He stumbled on. "I think you should go to Exeter. I
beg you to take the money in this purse--as a loan, if you wish ...
until you can find a suitable position ... and if you should need any
further pecuniary assistance ..." His voice tailed off. It had
become progressively more formal. He knew he must sound detestable.
She turned her back on him.

"I shall never see
you again."

"You cannot expect
me to deny that."

"Though seeing you
is all I live for."

The terrible threat hung
in the silence that followed. He dared not bring it into the open. He
felt like a man in irons; and his release came as unexpectedly as to
a condemned prisoner. She looked round, and patently read his
thought.

"If I had wished to
kill myself, I have had reason enough before now." She looked
out of the window. "I accept your loan ... with gratitude."

His eyes closed in a
moment of silent thanksgiving. He placed the purse--not the one
Ernestina had embroidered for him--on a ledge by the door.

"You will go to
Exeter?"

"If that is your
advice."

"It most
emphatically is."

She bowed her head.

"And I must tell
you something else. There is talk in the town of committing you to an
institution." Her eyes flashed round. "The idea emanates
from Marlborough House, no doubt. You need not take it seriously. For
all that, you may save yourself embarrassment if you do not return to
Lyme." He hesitated, then said, "I understand a party is to
come shortly searching for you again. That is why I came so early."

"My box ..."

"I will see to
that. I will have it sent to the depot at Exeter. It occurred to me
that if you have the strength, it might be wiser to walk to Axmouth
Cross. That would avoid ..." scandal for them both. But he knew
what he was asking. Axmouth was seven miles away; and the Cross,
where the coaches passed, two miles farther still.

She assented.

"And you will let
Mrs. Tranter know as soon as you have found a situation?"

"I have no
references."

"You may give Mrs.
Talbot's name. And Mrs. Tranter's. I will speak to her. And you are
not to be too proud to call on her for further financial provision,
should it be necessary. I shall see to that as well before I leave."

"It will not be
necessary." Her voice was almost inaudible. "But I thank
you."

"I think it is I
who have to thank you."

She glanced up into his
eyes. The lance was still there, the seeing him whole.

"You are a very
remarkable person, Miss Woodruff. I feel deeply ashamed not to have
perceived it earlier."

She said, "Yes, I
am a remarkable person."

But she said it without
pride; without sarcasm; with no more than a bitter simplicity. And
the silence flowed back. He bore it as long as he could, then took
out his half hunter, a very uninspired hint that he must leave.
He
felt his clumsiness, his stiffness, her greater dignity than his;
perhaps he still felt her lips.

"Will you not walk
with me back to the path?"

He would not let her, at
this last parting, see he was ashamed. If Grogan appeared, it would
not matter now. But Grogan did not appear. Sarah preceded him,
through the dead bracken and living gorse in the early sunlight, the
hair glinting; silent, not once turning. Charles knew very well that
Sam and Mary might be watching, but it now seemed better that they
should see him openly with her. The way led up through trees and came
at last to the main path. She turned. He stepped beside her, his hand
out. She hesitated, then held out her own. He gripped it firmly,
forbidding any further folly.

He murmured, "I
shall never forget you."

She raised her face to
his, with an imperceptible yet searching movement of her eyes; as if
there was something he must see, it was not too late: a truth beyond
his truths, an emotion beyond his emotions, a history beyond all his
conceptions of history. As if she could say worlds; yet at the same
time knew that if he could not apprehend those words without her
saying them ...

It lasted a long moment.
Then he dropped his eyes, and her hand.

A minute later he looked
back. She stood where he had left her, watching him. He raised his
hat. She made no sign.

Ten minutes later still,
he stopped at a gateway on the seaward side of the track to the
Dairy. It gave a view down across fields towards the Cobb. In the
distance below a short figure mounted the fieldpath towards the gate
where Charles stood. He drew back a little, hesitated a moment ...
then went on his own way along the track to the lane that led down to
the town.
 

34

And the rotten
rose is ript from the wall.
--
Hardy,
"During Wind and Rain"

"You have been
walking."

His second change of
clothes was thus proved a vain pretense.
"I
needed to clear my mind. I slept badly."

"So did I."
She added, "You said you were fatigued beyond belief."

"I was."

"But you stayed up
until after one o'clock."

Charles turned somewhat
abruptly to the window. "I had many things to consider."

Ernestina's part in this
stiff exchange indicates a certain failure to maintain in daylight
the tone of her nocturnal self-adjurations. But besides the walking
she also knew, via Sam, Mary and a bewildered Aunt Tranter, that
Charles planned to leave Lyme that day. She had determined not to
demand an explanation of
this
sudden change of intention; let his lordship give it in his own good
time.