Crampton Hodnet (12 page)

‘Well, it’s something beginning with J,’ he said impatiently. It was annoying to be held up by such a triviality. What did it matter what her name was at this moment?

‘It’s Jessie, if you want to know, or Jessica, really,’ she said, without looking up from her knitting.

‘Oh, Jessica,’ continued Mr. Latimer, feeling a little flat by now, ‘couldn’t we escape out of all this
together
?’

Miss Morrow began to laugh. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘you must excuse me, but it’s so odd to be called Jessica. I think I rather like it; it gives me dignity.’

‘Well?’ said Mr. Latimer, feeling now as completely flat as any man might who has just proposed marriage and been completely ignored.

‘Well what?’ echoed Miss Morrow.

‘I said, couldn’t we escape out of all this
together
?’

‘Do you mean go out this evening?’ she said, with a casual glance at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. ‘To the pictures or something?’

Mr. Latimer was now so exasperated that he was determined to make her understand. Surely her stupidity must be intentional? She was trying to irritate him. ‘I am asking you to marry me, to be my wife,’ he said in a deliberate tone.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I thought you meant just to go out for this evening.’

Oh, I see
. Had anyone proposing marriage ever before been so answered? ‘You might at least give me an answer,’ he said coldly.

‘But are you really serious?’ asked Miss Morrow. ‘You don’t sound as if you were, but I suppose you must be. A man would hardly propose to me as a joke, in case I might accept him.’

‘You’re a very charming woman,’ said Mr. Latimer sulkily and without any enthusiasm whatever.

‘Well, I am certainly flattered that you should have wanted—or thought you wanted—to marry me,’ said Miss Morrow calmly, ‘but I’m afraid my answer must be no.’ She paused and went on in a solicitous tone, ‘I don’t think you’re quite yourself this evening. Perhaps you’re overtired. I’ll ask Florence to make you some Ovaltine, shall I?’

‘You might at least give me the credit of knowing my own mind!’ said Mr. Latimer angrily. ‘I respect and esteem you very much,’ he went on in the same angry tone. ‘I think we might be very happy together.’

‘But do you
love
me?’ asked Miss Morrow quietly.

‘Love you?’ he said indignantly. ‘But of course I do. Haven’t I just told you so?’

‘You have said that you respect and esteem me very much,’ said Miss Morrow without elaboration. ‘But you said something about escaping together? Hasn’t it occurred to you that if we did, you would soon find yourself wanting to escape from a marriage with a woman you didn’t love? And how much more difficult that would be than just finding new lodgings!’

‘I don’t believe in divorce,’ said Mr. Latimer stiffly. ‘And anyway, I shouldn’t want to escape.’

‘Oh, no.’ Miss Morrow smiled. ‘Clergymen aren’t the escaping sort, but you’d feel you wanted to and that would be just as bad.’

‘You don’t seem to realise that one can learn to care,’ said Mr. Latimer pompously.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Miss Morrow firmly. ‘Learning to care always seems to me to be one of the most difficult lessons that can be imagined. How does one set about it? Perhaps we might do it together, like Russian, in the long winter evenings?’

‘Now, Jessica, you’re just being frivolous. I have asked you to marry me and you have refused. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow in a low voice. ‘We don’t love each other, and I’m sure you could do better. There will be something else for you, I know there will.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Me? Well, my life will go on just the same as usual,’ said Miss Morrow, giving point to her words by picking up her knitting again. ‘But I shall always be flattered to remember your proposal,’ she added more graciously.

‘Jessica … ‘ began Mr. Latimer.

‘I think it had better be Miss Morrow and Mr. Latimer,’ she said gently. ‘We don’t want Miss Doggett to notice anything, do we?’

Mr. Latimer made no reply but a groaning sound. ‘I think I shall go for a walk,’ he said.

‘Yes, do,’ said Miss Morrow soothingly. ‘It’s quite a nice evening.’

But Mr. Latimer was already in the hall putting on his Burberry.

Well, thought Miss Morrow, looking down at her new green dress, so it had been an occasion after all. A man had asked her to marry him and she had refused. But did a trapped curate count as a man? It had been such a very half-hearted proposal… poor Mr. Latimer! She smiled as she remembered it. ‘I respect and esteem you very much … I think we might be very happy together… .’
Might
. Oh, no, it wouldn’t do at all! Even Miss Morrow’s standards were higher than that, so high, indeed, that she feared she would never marry now. For she wanted love, or whatever it was that made Simon and Anthea walk along the street not noticing other people simply because they had each other’s eyes to look into. And of course she knew perfectly well that she would never get anything like that. It was only sometimes, when a spring day came in the middle of winter, that one had a sudden feeling that nothing was really impossible. And then, how much more sensible it was to satisfy one’s springlike impulses by buying a new dress in an unaccustomed and thoroughly unsuitable colour than by embarking on a marriage without love. For, after all, respect and esteem were cold, lifeless things—dry bones picked clean of flesh. There was nothing springlike about dry bones, nothing warm and romantic about respect and esteem.

Miss Morrow got up to look at the
Radio Times
. In spite of her commonsense reasoning, she could not help feeling a little sad. She liked Mr. Latimer; they had little jokes together, and that was surely something.

A concert of contemporary music, variety from Newcastle, a verse drama about some character in classical mythology she had never heard of—somehow she did not feel that any of these would fit her mood. Perhaps a continental station would have something better. She turned the knobs until music of a Viennese nature filled the air—all the romance of Vienna in the days of the Emperor Franz Josef was suddenly brought into a North Oxford drawing-room. Miss Morrow went on with her knitting and thought about the film
Mayerling
, which she had seen with Miss Doggett, who approved of anything historical and connected with royalty, however immoral the tone of it might be. But people said it hadn’t happened like that at all, really… .

‘I met Mr. Latimer out walking,’ said Miss Doggett, when she came in, ‘but he didn’t see me. He was striding along without a hat. I hope he won’t catch cold.’

‘He said he wanted exercise,’ lied Miss Morrow.

‘Well, of course, there isn’t much for him to do when I’m not here. I expect he was bored.’

‘Yes, I expect he was,’ said Miss Morrow, without raising her eyes from her knitting.

‘A young man needs stimulating and intelligent company,’ went on Miss Doggett. ‘Mr. Latimer is really very cultured.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow.

‘Why, Florence hasn’t taken away the sherry glasses,’ said Miss Doggett, seeing them still on the table. ‘You mustn’t let her get careless, Miss Morrow. It seems that I can’t be out of the house for an hour without something going wrong.’

Miss Morrow said nothing.

It had started to rain outside. Mr. Latimer strode along without knowing or caring where he was going. He was thinking of nothing, certainly not of the woman who had just rejected him. The feeling that had possessed him earlier in the evening was something fierce and elemental. It could not live in the drawing-room at Leamington Lodge.

On he went, taking no notice of anybody, until he bumped into a group of young men who were coming away from a political meeting. One of them was Simon Beddoes. He was feeling very pleased with himself, because he had asked a clever question that the speaker hadn’t been able to answer at all satisfactorily. He said ‘good evening’ to Mr. Latimer, whom he had met once before, hoping that he would stop, so that they could lead the conversation round to it.

But Mr. Latimer looked straight through him and walked down in the direction of the river.

And then suddenly he felt tired and rather silly. He no longer wanted to do wild things. He crossed the road and got on the first bus that came. And so there he was, he who had strode out into the night with the idea of escaping from it all, taking a twopenny bus ride home, letting himself in through the stained-glass front door, and creeping quietly up the ecclesiastical pitch-pine staircase so as not to wake anybody.

This is the way the world ends,

Not with a bang but a whimper.

The walls had closed round him again. There was no escape.

Nobody was surprised on a sunny May morning when Francis Cleveland announced at breakfast that he was going up to the British Museum that day to do some work on his book. It was not in the least unusual for him to go up to the British Museum. He did not think it necessary to add that he was taking Barbara Bird with him. Nobody would be surprised at that either. She was an intelligent girl and would be able to help him with various references that needed to be verified. His pupils had been helping him with his book for the past twenty years; it was really quite a wonder that it had not been finished before now.

‘For goodness’ sake give yourself a good lunch and tea, dear,’ Margaret Cleveland had said. ‘I don’t know if they still have that depressing tea-room, but don’t go there. I believe there are some quite good little restaurants in Bloomsbury.’

Francis had said rather shortly that he had no intention of going to the British Museum tea-room. He wished Margaret wouldn’t fuss him so. The fact that she meant it kindly made him feel a little guilty, as if he were deceiving her about something, when really he was doing nothing of the kind. He was simply not mentioning Barbara, that was all. As nobody would think anything of it there was no need to mention it, he told himself rather defiantly.

He and Barbara had caught an early train from Oxford to Paddington, but as it was such a lovely morning they had first of all gone into Hyde Park and sat there for some time. This was very disappointing for Edward Killigrew, who also happened to be going up to the British Museum that day. He had seen them get into the train at Oxford, but at Paddington he had lost sight of them, and when he got to the Museum there was no sign of them in the Reading Room. He had quite assumed that this was where they would be going and had been unable to concentrate on his work all morning for wondering where they could be. Towards lunchtime all sorts of wild ideas came into his head and he was really a little disappointed to see them come into the Reading Room shortly before two o’clock. They sat down and appeared to be working quite hard, and at four they got up and went out. Edward Killigrew followed them. He was curious to see where they were going to have tea. Perhaps he might get near them and hear what they talked about.

But instead of going out of the Museum they turned to look at the autographs and manuscripts. Edward padded along behind them until he managed to get quite close. He was glad that he was wearing his shoes with crepe rubber soles. He had found them very useful in the Bodleian and had been able to approach people and hear many interesting conversations without being seen or heard himself. He was afraid that he had missed something here, as he had been rather a long way behind them, but when he got nearer he heard that she was only talking about the book they were looking at.

‘Milton’s commonplace book,’ she said in a rapt tone. ‘Just to think of Milton
himself
writing in it! This must be
his
handwriting.’ She bent lower over the glass case and peered down into it.

Edward Killigrew drew the curtain aside from an adjoining case and stood gazing at a letter from Lord Byron to his solicitor. This was dull, he thought, definitely dull. Mother had thought there might be something between these two. He had certainly expected something more interesting than a young woman going into raptures over Milton’s commonplace book.

‘I think it’s so wonderful to see things like this,’ she said. ‘It gives me an indescribable feeling, so that I can hardly keep from crying. I know it’s very silly, really.’

Edward Killigrew agreed that it was certainly very silly, but Francis Cleveland seemed to think otherwise.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not silly at all. It’s just how you would feel. Oh, Barbara, I love you,’ he said suddenly. ‘I love you!’

There was a rapt silence. Edward Killigrew held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe. If they turned round now they would see him. But even so he had heard; those words could not be unsaid, that was the main point. He waited eagerly for her reply but the girl’s voice was very low and the noise of somebody passing made it impossible to hear what she said. But luck was still with him, for after a moment or two Francis Cleveland said quite distinctly, ‘And you love me too, don’t you?’ and Barbara’s voice was not too low for Edward Killigrew to catch her ‘Yes.’

Trembling with excitement, he padded swiftly away and out to get some tea. He found himself walking rapidly along without knowing where he was going. He stopped to think for a moment and then decided that he would give himself a treat and go to the big Lyons’ Corner House. Mother always liked going there. He would have some splendid news for her when he got home tonight. Things in the library had been very dull lately, even the little feuds among staff and readers seemed to have died down. Fine weather was better for romances than for quarrels.

Edward ordered a pot of tea, a plate of cakes and something called a ‘Beano’, which he decided would fit the occasion very well. The orchestra began to play a rumba. He felt happier than he had felt for a long time. There had been nothing like this since that disgraceful affair of old Mr. Pringle and the underground bookstore.

Barbara and Francis remained as if rooted to the spot, still staring at Milton’s commonplace book. For a time they were silent, and then Barbara said uncertainly, ‘I think I should like some tea.’ When they were sitting down drinking tea, everything would be all right. They would become real people, themselves, again. Everything seemed unreal in this great building. Milton couldn’t
really
have written in the book they had been looking at, just as Francis couldn’t really have said those words and she have agreed with them. She felt rather funny, almost as if she were going to faint.