The winter, a panorama of drifting rain, wild gales, soft air, sparkling blue days and grey raging seas, rolled out its infinite variety over Helzephron. The vicarage vibrations had noticeably quickened since the arrival of Mallory. There was, however, no sign of routine as yet, beyond the already daily Mass. Laura soon decided that it was useless, even if she had wanted, which she didn’t, to make a pretence of routine, when every day began and ended a separate and completely self-contained unit, sometimes irrelevant, nearly always surprising, and generally entertaining. Laura knew enough about vicarages to realise that this was far removed from the home that she had dreaded to face, the well-ordered household with family prayers night and morning, breakfast at eight, herbaceous borders and, with luck, ponies in the paddock.
A trace of conventionality revealed itself in her when one morning a strange man came to the front door, and emptied a sack on the step, with the remark:
‘A good fine one!’
He was going the rounds with the fox he had shot, collecting money from grateful householders for deliverance from this pest.
‘Good heavens! A shot fox!’ She was actually horrified. And why? Since she was a small child she had been anti-hunt. As a member of the Band of Mercy (not Hope) she had even written little pieces for their weekly magazine, actually printed, some of them, railing childishly against cruelty to wild animals. Yet, alone in that silly prejudice, she had early been impressed into the convention that it was a heinous offence to shoot a fox. It was against the Law — it was not done.
But it was done in the Duchy.
The fox lay there dirty and draggled from his journey in the sack. He was dead. He had been well shot. He had ended a happy life with probably never a sound of hunting horn. She had read of the ‘treeing of a fox’ and even seen a picture of one with a gay crowd enjoying itself and the hounds ecstatically leaping at their prey. She knew that a live fox was sometimes flung to the hounds for their amusement. If foxes had to go, and of course they were a nuisance, this was surely the right way of it and the people were honestly served by the deed. The Duchy was right.
The Duchy was no doubt right, and as time moved on through that first winter at Helzephron, she revealed with shy wild charm her eccentricity, her indifference to criticism.
Yes, the Duchy was surely right, even in the matter of a hunt ball to which the Mallorys were surprisingly invited. It was a little ball not too remote from Helzephron, yet still just in Cornwall. They had left the Vicar smiling an oblique au revoir as they drove off in a cab to the station. They put up at a small hotel. Laura dressed in a dark little room, with a bedroom candlestick on the bed to temper the light from a glaring passage lamp on her dressing-table which blinded her. By a curious coincidence Mr Lloyd George had only just launched his National Insurance scheme on an astonished and outraged society. Loud was the hunt ball in detestation of this meddlesome Welshman. Only Guy was anti-social enough to applaud the little statesman’s action. But Guy was a Liberal from his first breath, and the fact that nearly all the guests were unknown to him did not worry him. The ladies dared to be enchanted by such, to them, novel views from this elegant young stranger. Their men were not so pleased and the atmosphere became more electrified than was usual at a small hunt ball. Laura found some good dancers and had no objection to Lloyd George or to Tory umbrage. It was, she thought, a jolly little country dance.
Return to Helzephron after three days’ of social activities was surprisingly like coming home. Though the Vicar was out when they arrived, there were ample reminders of his existence in the study, the floor was scattered with enormous sheets of seemingly blank super foolscap. On his writing-table were signs of a desperate struggle with a heavily loaded goose quill.
‘What has he been up to?’ Laura picked up a sheet from the floor on which was scrawled the one word ‘Keren-Happuch’.
‘Ah, here you are.’ The Father entered at this moment holding a slim pastoral staff. ‘Forgive the mess. I got caught in a nonsense verse, and then was called to visit a sick parishioner. Jude is taking him the soup we were to have tonight. Not much good, I’m afraid. Mrs Jolly’s dish-water. But it won’t hurt him, and they like the idea. Have you seen your post? Quite a pile, and I’ve got something that might interest you.’
Guy always eager, vanished into the hall.
‘Shall I pick up some of your papers?’ Laura asked.
‘No, no, pray don’t trouble. Mrs Jolly or Jude will see to that tomorrow. They want Guy to do a Lenten course for children at Polgrean.’
As there was no change of tone whatever on this obvious non sequitur, Laura attentively awaited its solution.
‘You see,’ the Vicar went on. ‘Guy’s Sunday School has naturally excited the Duchy. The general run of clergy are quite incapable of interesting themselves in Sunday afternoon pranks of that sort. They leave it to school teachers and the result is usually negative.’
‘You mean there’s not much chance of getting any proselytising done among the children.’
‘No, the chapel is too powerful. They take strong measures against that sort of truancy. Here it is different. Guy has an allure that no child can resist. A Lenten course at Polgrean would be packed. Midweekly, and he would be back here to keep the Sunday School alive.’
‘I see.’ There was a faint stir in her mind. She had watched the effect of Guy on the village children, and wondered at the magic spell he seemed to cast upon them. And when he inaugurated the Sunday School, it was done with concentrated zeal; it was a great project, yet as entertaining to himself and everyone concerned as the production of a new play might have been. It was amusing to introduce counters for behaviour and give each child a money-box to put them in, and not to know what virtue or sin they rewarded, until the monthly ‘Day of Judgment’.
A great project, but a game for everybody, even for the mothers of delinquent children who stole away from Chapel Sunday School and risked a good hiding. The mothers were most of them under the spell. The Vicar watched Guy’s progress with the children with a deep-seated satisfaction, weighted down, however, with an anxiety that irked him and set him wondering about himself. (He was always doing that. He often wished that he understood more of himself.) Apart from those Sunday gatherings, he was enchanted to see, and even sometimes to join in, the late afternoon walks when school was finished with and work over, and Guy with a child hanging or clinging to each hand and a troop of others following with ecstatic cries to the cliffs, led the search for wild flowers that was usually the avowed object of these peregrinations. Certainly, Laura would muse as she watched them going (she seldom went with them), this was not propaganda, but obviously a delight in children that he was at last able to indulge. He will love youth to the end of his days and he will want a big family. This was a stunning thought. It’s not what I want. Memories of impoverished rectors and vicars with immense unwieldy families, bright boys and girls worthy of first-class education struggling for scholarships or exhibitions, clouded for a moment the prospect of family life with Guy, which she had so far hardly contemplated. She decided not to contemplate it at all for the present. Life at this vicarage was strange and amusing enough to stifle apprehensions.
Guy came into the study with a sheaf of letters. He was radiant.
‘This is pretty good. I hope you think so, Father?’
‘Of course. At the same time you might amuse yourself by spiking up some of the old codgers in the district who badly need it.’
‘Oh, Laurie, two letters for you,’ Guy diverged for a moment and threw the letters on her lap.
Laurie? That was a genial novelty. She liked it and glanced at the letters. ‘Mother’s’ bold impulsive calligraphy, and a trail of pale sepia ink from Ariadne. Mrs Mallory was chiefly concerned for Guy’s health since he had had another tiresome pain in his leg. ‘A pity I mentioned it.’ Laura regretted the exaggerated sense of duty which extracted careful weekly logs from her lazy pen.
Ariadne’s concern was wholly her own health, the misery of wintering in her cold Chelsea room, the neglect of Clare Dobson, too busy at home with the sailor man on what seemed an endless leave. That was the worst of the mercantile marine. No sort of discipline or security. Poor Ariadne! Always at the back of one’s mind, but what hope of being any use to her at this distance. What to do but send her a pot of Cornish cream every now and then or boxes of eggs, and a little commiseration which perhaps she might enjoy. Perhaps not. Her pride was so intense, perhaps unreasonable. She would scorn a cheque or the slightest hint of charity. That had been clearly evidenced in the Terence letter. She had not changed much since her youth in Dublin. Ah, well, no use to bother Guy about it, especially now with the prospect of Lenten discourses to enthrall his imagination.
Miss Want appeared a few days after the news, bringing the batterie de cuisine for sweet-making.
The Vicar was standing on the front doorstep when she arrived. ‘What are all these depressing objects, Miss Want?’
‘These,’ said Miss Want with a faintly mocking glance, ‘are Mrs Mallory’s batterie de cuisine, as I believe you call it, for sweet-making. I suppose you knew that she was going to do it with me?’
‘I suggested it,’ he said with a far-away look. ‘I think the first night she was here I asked her if she would be interested.’
‘And she was,’ smiled Miss Want in triumph.
‘Oh, very well, very well — why not? And here is Jude to carry them in for you.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Oh no, you can’t. I’d rather you didn’t.’
Jude disappeared.
‘Wretched boy. Where has he gone?’
‘Beyond recall,’ said Miss Want with a grin. ‘Perhaps you would hold the pony while I carry these things in?’
‘Not necessary. I know this pony. He never moves except under heavy pressure. Give me the enamel basin. I insist upon carrying that. The Mallorys are out, by the way.’
‘Oh, and by the way, what do I hear about Mallory and children’s Lenten talks?’
‘I don’t know. You always hear such queer things. No truth in it, whatever you have heard.’
Maddening creature! It was all over the village, and naturally she wanted to be up-to-date and hold her own with the gossips. That was the last thing he wanted, and she knew it.
‘Why must you always tease me?’ she dared.
‘Tease you? My dear Miss Want, how can you suspect such a thing? What object —?’
‘I’ve often wondered. You are a difficult person,’ she plunged.
‘I should hope so. Now put some of those strange rubber squares into the basin and I will carry them in to the house.’
‘Those rubber squares as you call them are forms for fondants, new ones I bought for Mrs Mallory. My own are nearly worn out.’
‘That all sounds very much to the point. And where will the art be practised?’
‘Mrs Mallory thought the housemaid’s cupboard, with plenty of running water, and room for my Primus on the ironing table.’
‘Yes, yes, no doubt a good idea of Mrs Mallory’s.’
‘My Primus’ woke an uneasy fear in the Father’s breast. Did this portend an occupation? A moving in? He had seen the Primus crouching on the jingle floor; the significance of it had not struck him at the moment. But now — Mrs Mallory must have her own Primus as soon as possible. He regretted, in this newly-born mood, that he had ever mentioned the question of sweets. He was being hospitable on that first night, charmed by Laura, and anxious to suggest amusements that might appeal to an intelligent young woman who should be carefully discouraged from flinging herself into parish enthusiasms for lack of social excitements. This was soon proved unnecessary, long before dinner was over. There had really been no need to mention sweets. Of course the emergence of Miss Want into the conversation, because of the Looe Pool apparition, was really responsible for it.
Rather reckless, perhaps, on thinking it over, but one never thought anything over in time. While all this was trailing through his mind, Miss Want was briskly occupied in the housemaids’ room.
‘This is capital!’ she was heard murmuring to herself. With a gasp at the sound he fled swiftly downstairs and quietly closed the study door, himself behind it.
Yes, certainly the Mallorys’ sojourn at the vicarage had opened a wide vista for Miss Want, she declared to herself. She could stay the night now, after late sweet-making or an evening Benediction or Vespers, or even Compline, without compromising the Father. Wide vistas —but it was not long before disadvantages which would have daunted a less determined character than Josephine Want arose. Whatever happened she had decided, was, worth it.
She knew that she would be the centre of attention as soon as she entered the vicarage, and that, whatever it might mean, was in its way, flattering. She knew that Guy Mallory was organising practical jokes, carried out with enthusiasm by the household, especially on Saturdays when it was augmented by a gay youth from a neighbouring town, who came over to play the organ. He wore his hair in a fair wavy bang. While Miss Want was fussily playing two-handed bridge with the Vicar in his study after dinner, she knew there was tip-toed activity upstairs. Her bedroom was being prepared.
She knew also that when she went to bed, as soon as she shut her door, a silent group gathered outside it.
‘I shall not make a sound, whatever happens.’
The carpet rolled itself up, pulled by strings under the door.
‘Childish.’
From the water jug she poured a helter-skelter of newts and little frogs.
‘All right, I shan’t wash.’ Defiantly.
Then the bed crashed when she got into it. A stifled giggle outside.
‘Hang it all! Well, I shall sleep on it as it is. It’s still flat. Apple pie, of course. That’s soon remedied. Pepper on the pillow! I will not sneeze.’
She had settled down, if it could be called that, before she discovered the last outrage, almost buried her face in it. But, damn it all, if she sat up all night holding her nose, she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
Let them wait outside, the longer the better. Father St John would, of course, have gone to bed. He wouldn’t approve of such pranks … Or would he? No, no, no, of course not. He would never allow such liberties taken in his house.
No, no, of course not. Mallory was at the bottom of it all. She couldn’t really like him. No, she couldn’t. She admitted his fascination, even when he teased her, which he had begun to do almost at once. Why? He must like her or he wouldn’t be bothered. It was quite good-natured most of the time; after all, she had brothers and knew what teasing was. She used to enjoy it, got a thrill out of it, and even now — it was better than being ignored. Not that there was any reason for that. No one had ever ignored her if she could help it.
What about Laura Mallory? She was a bit of a puzzle. Agreeable and pretty — no, not pretty — that was the wrong word, perhaps picturesque. Quite unsuitable for the vicarage and utterly incapable of running a house. Not that this house could be run by anybody — except perhaps herself …
Bother! The bed had collapsed again. She was now lying at an angle of about forty-five degrees from the floor. She moved the mattress and bed-clothes on to the carpet. All but the pillow, of course, which she flung to a far corner in a cloud of pepper. She was a good campaigner. By Jove, she was!
Laura Mallory … Yes, she was a puzzle. But safe. Too fond of Guy to be a danger to … (Yes, that was the name she never did more than breathe to herself, this time with a roguish smirk at the glass.) Mrs … No, no, no. After all, she believed in celibacy for the priesthood and blushed at the thought.
A knock at the window. Jude, of course, with a stick from below. No, on the window-sill — climbed up — a ladder probably. Let him stay there. Tiresome boy. He would not dare to do more than knock. The window was wide open at the top. She was a fresh-air fiend. Always had been since a girl. Out in all weathers. Her hair full of brine in sea mists. Her mac making puddles in the hall after one of her jolly rides around Helzephron with Rex in a full gale. Sailing along on its wings, or better still, fighting it tooth and nail on a bleak headland, sometimes actually being blown backwards, and once, indeed, nearly over the cliff in her madder moments. She knew the cliff road wasn’t safe in a gale, but there! What was life without a spice of adventure, and unless one made it oneself, one mightn’t have any. Those haunted, streaming nights on the lonely roads! Black as a pig, the night, sometimes, and her acetylene lamp always going wrong. And to think that she needn’t be out at all only added to the fun.
‘Very foolish, Miss Want,’ was all the response she got from the Vicar after a vivid description of one of her perilous rides. ‘Quite stupid, you know. One of these nights you may be murdered. There are a lot of queer people about. Yes, yes, queer people about. You can’t trust these natives. Not at all. Don’t blame me if you are murdered going back from the vicarage one night.’