Crusader's Tomb Page 4

  ‘Good God, Desmonde.’ Glyn leaned forward, brows drawn down. ‘What a bloody idiotic question. Succeed? What do you mean by success? Don’t you know that you can’t get guarantees in this game, you’re out on your own from the word go? And you don’t get into it for any other reason than that you damn well can’t help yourself. If you’re serious you give up everything, starve, steal, cheat your grandmother, break every one of the Ten Commandments, just to get your hands on a tube of colour and a palette knife.’ Glyn broke off, relaxed his posture, then went on more quietly. ‘ I believe you have talent, extraordinary possibilities, otherwise I shouldn’t bother my head over you. I know how hard it is for you – bogged in tradition. You’ve had all the wrong start. You should have been like me, born in a workmen’s row in a rotten colliery town. As it is, you must make your own decision. And if it’s no, I daresay you’ll make a passable parson.’ Abruptly he tugged out the nickel watch. ‘Well, I have to cut along. There’s packing to do. And various odds and ends. Good-bye, Desmonde. Write me when you have time.’

  While Stephen remained motionless, Glyn stood up. As he came forward he saw on the mantelpiece a perforated card in the colours of the Marylebone Cricket Club. It was a rover’s ticket for the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match due to be played next month. Following Richard’s glance, Stephen flushed.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said stiffly. ‘All the family will be there.’

  Glyn shrugged sadly, gripped Stephen by the hand, and went out.

  Chapter Five

  The match was over, stumps had been drawn and, as the low sunlight sent long shadows over the greensward of Lord’s, a party of seven could be observed in the fashionable throng – one could not refer to such a gathering as a crowd – moving slowly towards the main gates in St John’s Wood Road. Caroline and Claire were in front with Davie and his cousin Geoffrey, while a few paces behind, Stephen followed with General Desmonde and his wife. A parochial emergency had at the last minute prevented the Rector from attending, and Julia, of course, was an annual absentee. For that matter Stephen had come only that he might be with his brother, and while Davie’s enjoyment of the game – the more touching since because of his complaint he was not permitted to play cricket – had in some measure been his reward, it had been a trying day for him, his head still rang with Geoffrey’s incessant yells of ‘Well played, sir!’ and, as always, the General’s wife – he rarely thought of her as Aunt Adelaide – had exercised upon him that familiar combination of condescension and arrogance which aroused his wildest and most perverse instincts. A cold, thin-faced, overbearing woman, reared in the Army tradition and toughened by the suns of India, she was still handsome in a hard, dashing way, her figure admirable though inclined to leanness, her glance, at times, lethal as a bayonet thrust.

  Now, as they left the ground, and stood together rather indecisively while hansoms and carriages pulled away from the kerb, she spoke with rapidity, in her clipped ‘county’ voice.

  ‘Today has been so delightful it seems a pity to let it die prematurely.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Have you, by any chance, a suggestion. Hubert?’

  General Desmonde surveyed the group. Tall, straight-featured, erect as a ramrod, even in his grey top hat and morning coat he looked a soldier, and a distinguished one. A clipped moustache emphasised the incisive brevity of his speech.

  ‘I thought we might all go to supper at Frascati’s.’

  ‘I say, what a lark, Pater,’ Geoffrey said, adjusting his tie, then his embroidered waistcoat, for perhaps the two-hundredth time, as though determined to maintain the sartorial supremacy which made him, he felt sure, a conspicuous object of admiration. Style, which he named good form, was indeed Geoffrey’s major occupation, whether on the parade-ground or in Piccadilly, and already it had shaped him, at the age of twenty-four, to the pattern of a smart, if somewhat brainless, young man about town.

  ‘Davie must be back by seven,’ Caroline interposed. ‘And it’s after six now. But none of you need trouble, I’ll take him to the train.’

  ‘Darling, you are so kind, always so obliging,’ Adelaide smiled. She did not want Caroline at Frascati’s, her face peony-red from the sun, and in that hideous maroon frock which made her look like a parlourmaid on her day off, those legs, too, such a misfortune, like the underpinnings of a grand piano; Caroline to Aunt Adelaide was always a social liability, and annual mortification at the hunt ball when, seated by the doorway, unclaimed, with empty programme, she waited sadly for some elderly gentleman to be led up to her; and now it had been bad enough having her with them all day. ‘You must come another time.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must go back, too,’ Stephen said. If Davie weren’t going, he had no wish to be there.

  ‘Must you?’ Hubert raised a good-natured eyebrow – he rather liked, at least tolerated, his young parson-to-be nephew. ‘ So soon?’

  ‘Surely you can stay, Stephen.’ Claire stood beside him, restrained yet somehow appealing, her soft complexion and well-modelled features shaded by a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with roses. Today, more than ever, in this setting, she looked what she was – a most amiable English girl whose good sense and manners and frank pleasant cordiality made friends for her wherever she went.

  ‘Do stay,’ she added.

  ‘Darling,’ Adelaide cut in before Stephen could reply, ‘we mustn’t interfere with rules and regulations. After all, it is, I imagine, more or less a monastic life at the Settlement, is it not, Stephen, and I’m sure a most worthy one. It is a great pity that you cannot come. However, we four must make the best of it ourselves. Geoffrey will take Claire and I shall pretend that Hubert is my beau.’ Adelaide smiled again, and with satisfaction – she had her own reasons for not wishing Stephen to be of the party.

  ‘Can we drop you anywhere, Caroline?’ asked Hubert.

  ‘Oh no, Davie and I will take the tube.’

  ‘And I a bus,’ said Stephen.

  Good-byes were exchanged, then, vaguely conscious of the regret in Claire’s eyes, Stephen moved away with Caroline and Davie. As they had a few minutes to spare he stopped at the Fuller’s in Park Road to give his young brother a strawberry ice and Caroline a cup of tea which, surreptitiously easing her feet from her shoes, she confessed she had been dying for all day. Then he saw them off at the Baker Street Underground and settled himself in a number 23 east-bound omnibus.

  As he rattled towards Stepney, despite the relief of again being amongst unpolished people who demanded no more than their share of a hard seat, a slow depression settled upon Stephen. How physically and spiritually diminished, how utterly different from the others he had felt during the promenades round the wicket, the meetings and greetings, the luncheon in the Guards Club Marquee – ‘odd little devil’ – he could almost read the thought behind the indifferent glances directed towards him by his cousin’s friends, as with Geoffrey they discussed the newest musical comedy, the West Sussex point-to-point, and the latest fancy for the Cambridgeshire. In this mood he reached the Settlement. In the hall, still redolent of the midday odours of boiled beef and cabbage, he passed Loftus, who was going out, and gave him ‘Good evening’. The junior curate barely answered and as he glided past, discreet and elegant, his eye held so noticeable a glint of malice and amusement that Stephen instinctively drew up.

  ‘What’s the matter, Loftus?’

  Already at the door, the other half turned, his lips twitching with restrained, ecclesiastic humour.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Of course not, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing much, I suppose. Except that the little Dill seems to be rather in a pickle.’

  What on earth is he talking about? thought Stephen. But he shrugged it off and, having seen that there were no letters for him in the rack, went upstairs. And there, seated upright in a hard chair in the centre of his room, wearing her outdoor clothes, a flat straw hat with a narrow ribbon, and white cotton gloves, was Jenny.

  At his entrance she rose immediate
ly, but with composure, and while he gazed at her in surprise, since she did not normally come to the Settlement on Saturday, she began:

  ‘I apologise for the liberty, sir. But I did want to make sure I’d see you. And there didn’t seem no other place for me to wait.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Stephen said, uncertainly. ‘Won’t you sit down? That’s better. Now what is it?’

  While he went over to the fireplace she reseated herself on the edge of the chair, her gloved hands neatly folded.

  ‘Well, sir, the fact is, I’m leaving today, rather unexpected like. And you been so good to me I felt I ’ad to say good-bye.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jenny. I didn’t imagine you’d be going so soon.’

  ‘Nor me neither, sir. But the truth is I’m found out.’

  ‘Found out?’ he repeated, bewildered.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She nodded, frankly, in her practical way, quite without embarrassment. ‘It’s all my own fault, being silly enough to come yesterday without my stays. I didn’t realise I was beginning to show. But there’s no deceiving that cook. She ups to the Warden like a shot.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t you see, sir, I’m going to have a baby.’

  He was so utterly taken aback he could think of nothing to say. At last, feeling that his position demanded some moral reflection, he stammered:

  ‘Oh, Jenny … how could you?’

  ‘I suppose I got carried away, sir.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘We all have our feelings, sir. You can’t get away from that. Oh, it’s quite respectable, I assure you. Alf’s a steady feller. A ship’s steward, like I told you. We’ll be married when he gets back.’

  There was a brief pause, while Stephen studied her with rising sympathy.

  ‘I suppose you’re in love with him.’

  ‘I suppose I must be, sir,’ A faint, wise smile passed over her fresh young face. ‘He’s a lot older nor me, of course. And I will say this, but for them two beers I ’ad at the Good Intent I wouldn’t have gave in. But then again, I might have done worse. He’s decent, is Alf. And accomplished too. He likes music and ’as taught himself to play the mouth harmonica.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Well … we shall miss you, Jenny.’

  ‘I shall miss you, sir. I must say you’ve been more nor kind to me. Not like some of them others.

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Well, chiefly the Warden, sir. I must say he give me a regular going over before he let me have my notice.’

  ‘So you’re not leaving of your own accord?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. It don’t suit me at all.… I’m on my own, you see, and don’t have my parents living. But the Warden couldn’t have the place contaminated, he said, with three young curates around, and sacked me on the spot.’

  Stephen bit his lip. Gazing covertly at the girl, he perceived that beneath her usual expression of serenity and good temper, she looked pale and out of sorts. He would swear there was not an ounce of harm in her.

  ‘Jenny,’ he said impulsively. ‘I don’t want to interfere. But I hope you’ve made arrangements to be taken care of … to go to hospital … and that sort of thing.’

  ‘I shan’t go to hospital, sir. I have my own room. And I shall bespeak Mrs Kettle. She’s the midwife, sir, and highly recommended.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, sir.’ For the first time a note of distress crept into her voice. ‘I only hope I haven’t brought trouble on you. It’s all come about you getting me the job at the art class. And the Warden seemed terrible upset.’

  Stephen was somewhat disconcerted by this news. However, his genuine concern for Jenny, the admiration he felt for her courage and common sense, and his indignation at the treatment accorded her made him careless about himself. He had grown fond of her within the past months, and could not let her go without some expression of his good will. He turned sideways, fumbled self-consciously in his wallet, then took a step towards her.

  ‘Look, Jenny … I’ve no wish to offend you. But you’ve done so much for me here … and you really will need something to see you through. I’d like you to have this.’

  Awkwardly he put in her hand a five-pound note, which, to conceal its high denomination, he had folded small. But to his surprise, she would not have it, rose abruptly, and backed away.

  ‘No … I won’t take it.’

  ‘But Jenny … you must …’

  Tears did not come easily to her, but she had been through a good deal that day, and now they flashed hotly into her eyes.

  ‘No, sir, I couldn’t … what I done for you was nothing …’

  At that moment, while she retreated and he followed, tendering the money, the door opened and the Warden came into the room. There was a mortal silence while, for a moment, he stood in stony observation. Then, in a controlled voice, he said:

  ‘You may go now, Dill.’

  As Jenny turned and went out, devastated, with tears streaming down her cheeks, Stephen, despite his flushed and guilty look, was calm enough to take advantage of her distress and press the note into the pocket of her jacket.

  ‘Good-bye, Jenny,’ he murmured. ‘And the best of luck.’

  Her answer, if she made one, was inaudible.

  Still in that detached manner, the Reverend Crispin closed the door behind her; then, with a quick glance at Stephen, compressed his lips and fixed his eyes upon the ceiling.

  ‘Desmonde,’ he said, ‘I surmised that your conduct had been seriously indiscreet. But I never dreamed that it had gone as far as this. As a friend of your dear father, it grieves me more than I can say.’

  Stephen swallowed the dry lump in his throat. The colour had drained from his cheeks, but there was a spark in his dark pupils.

  ‘I don’t quite understand you.’

  ‘Come, come, Desmonde. You cannot deny that you are, and have been for some time, on terms of most improper intimacy with the young person I have just dismissed.’

  ‘I’ve been friendly with Jenny. She has done lots of little things for me. And I’ve tried to help her in return.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Warden in a significant tone. ‘And your idea of help was to have her frequently with you, alone, in your room.’

  ‘She came to do my room. And occasionally I made some sketches of her. That was all.’

  ‘Indeed! So you thought it part of your duties, as a candidate for ordination, to make a model, furtively, out of one of the servants of this house of God. I have made it my duty to examine some of the drawings which resulted from this illicit collaboration and I must confess they strike me as questionable in the extreme.’

  The blood mounted to Stephen’s forehead. His eyes flashed angrily.

  ‘From what I know of your taste, sir,’ he answered, trembling slightly, ‘I’m not surprised you failed to understand them.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Bliss, with that acid calm which he felt suited him so well. ‘It does indeed appear as though my standards, particularly those of morality, differ from your own.’

  ‘They certainly do.’ Stephen flung caution to the winds. ‘I should not have thrown that poor girl into the street because of one mistake.’

  ‘I daresay not. That precisely was what I feared.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Up until this time the Warden’s manner had been studiously controlled, but now his nostrils narrowed and something not unlike a scowl settled upon his lofty forehead.

  ‘Although Dill has given a name to her guilty partner, I am not altogether convinced. It is at least my firm belief that in your conduct towards this unhappy girl, by the manner in which you utilised her for your so-called artistic ends, you are responsible, or at least indirectly to blame, for the state of depravity into which she has fallen.’

  Breathing quickly, Stephen stared at Bliss with a wicked look upon his face. He burst out:

  ‘I nev
er heard such rot in my life. Or such cant either. Jenny isn’t depraved. She’s got a sweetheart and he’s going to marry her. Is it your idea of Christian charity to vilify her, and me, without proper cause?’

  ‘Be silent, sir. I will not have you speak to me so. Indeed, if I were to take a strict view of my duty I should ask you to leave the Settlement at once.’ He paused to recover himself. ‘But out of regard for your family, and also the future which may still lie ahead of you, I am disposed to be more lenient. I must give your father some idea of what has occurred. And you, of course, will give me your written pledge to abandon, once and for all, this obsession you are pleased to call “art”, which is wholly incompatible with your vocation as a clergyman. There will, moreover, be some further restrictions which I feel compelled to impose on you. Come to my study after evening prayers and I will advise you of them.’

  Terminating the interview, without giving Stephen an opportunity to answer, he swung round and went out of the room.

  ‘Oh, go to the devil!’ Stephen exclaimed violently. Unfortunately, the door was already shut.

  For a few moments Stephen stood tensely, with clenched fists, his gaze fixed on the panels of varnished oak. Then, with an abandoned gesture, he sank into a chair by the table, drew writing-paper from the drawer and seized a pen.

  DEAR FATHER,

  I have done my best here and made a complete failure of

  it. I do not wish to hurt you, not to take any final decision

  against your wishes, but under the circumstances I feel that I

  must go away for a while – a year, at least – which will give

  me time to see things more clearly, and also to test my abilities

  in that particular field which is so distasteful to you I shall

  not even name it. I realise what a blow this will be to you,

  and my only excuse is this – I simply cannot help myself.

  My love to all at Stillwater and to Claire. I shall write you again from Paris.

  S TEPHEN