The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (20 page)

Robert was waiting for them at the gate of the house, having arrived in their absence and stabled his horse in the yard. He was there. He was actual. He was a dream made manifest. Something, something of glamour, was lost to her in the process. Eagerness, having unbelievably attained its object, died within her. She experienced a moment of sick reaction. The moment passing, everything was normal again: ordinary, matter-of-fact. Robert was here. There was nothing more to wish for. Her heart resumed its long-suspended motion.

He was exchanging greetings with the parents. He was lifting a hand in casual salute to the girls, still some twenty yards distant. Talking with Mrs Peacock he disappeared into the house.

Catherine's next sight of him left her new problem still unresolved. Was he what she had thought him, or was he, after all, a man like other men, no thing of wonder? He said ‘Hullo, Catherine!' and she responded in like manner, cool and friendly. That was the policy she had resolved on, for her pride's sake; and here, with her family about her, it was easy, as well as necessary, to
pursue it. But gradually the shock of finding him actual, and therefore subtly different from her feverish imagining, wore off, giving place to a sense of miracle. Her frozen feelings thawed: the dream resumed its sway. He is here, she said again, but with a new meaning. He is here, and I am seeing him, and he is Robert.

Covertly, during the long, leisurely luncheon, she watched him, being careful, unlike her former ingenuous self, that no one should observe her doing so. She saw, or thought she saw, that he was preoccupied, unhappy. His face in repose had always had a certain sombre gravity: that, and the quality of the smile that would suddenly and unexpectedly irradiate it, were the chief part of his personal attraction for her. But today there was an absentness as well. Conversation flowed with no apparent effort, and Catherine played her small necessary part in it, but Robert's contribution was meagre until, halfway through the meal, as if uneasily conscious of his long silences, he became suddenly loquacious and launched into a long account of a great new work he had been reading, by his favourite modern poet. It was the story, told again and again, in a series of dramatic monologues, of a murder and its sequel, in seventeenth-century Rome. Catherine, had she been less intent on the speaker, would have been fascinated by his discourse; but the subject had features that did not commend themselves to Mrs Peacock's sense of what was suitable for discussion at table, and on Sunday of all days, and in the hearing of young women; and Robert, becoming belatedly aware of her disapproval, stopped in mid-flow, flushed, frowned briefly, and lapsed into silence.

Catherine said defiantly: ‘I should like to read it. Will you lend it to me, Robert?'

‘Mr Crabbe, my dear,' said Mrs Peacock, ‘is not a lending library.'

‘So much the better,' said her husband. ‘He won't demand a subscription.'

Robert, glancing from one to the other, decided to say nothing.

In the afternoon, as usual, the two men made a tour of the home fields; and by Sarah's contriving she and Catherine were permitted to go with them. A still larger party was proposed, but neither Mrs Peacock nor Julia felt inclined for the excursion. Before it had proceeded very far, Sarah attached herself to her father and by imperceptible degrees drew him away from the others. In his tweed jacket, knee breeches, and gaiters, he was today, as always on Sunday afternoons, the country gentleman, the gentleman farmer, consciously savouring the pride and pleasure of owning these acres of good English earth, precious moiety of an estate that had belonged to his family for something over a hundred years. He stared about him in a knowing, satisfied fashion; admired the ruminating cattle; discoursed upon the quality of the grazing; tut-tutted at sight here of a gate that needed mending, there of a newly-made gap in a hedge; and in fine enjoyed himself hugely. Sarah, for her part, enjoyed him. In a minor degree she shared his interest in the farm; she was flattered to find that she was an adequate substitute for Robert in his capacity of intelligent listener, always ready with the sage comment, the encouraging question; and, seeing the distance
between themselves and the others steadily increase, rejoiced in the success of her stratagem.

Catherine, however, was not happy. She was in a state of dizzy, tongue-tied suspense. She had watched her sister's unplanned, unexpected manœuvre with a mixture of eagerness and nervous dread; and now, alone with Robert at last, she could find nothing to say. With no clue to his mind, and afraid not only of anticlimax, of having this crucial moment circumvented by trivial talk, but also of the very joy she so much desired, almost she wished herself home again, surrounded by dull everyday things, safe from the agony and splendour of this intolerable crisis.

Robert too, for five interminable minutes, was silent. They walked side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, their eyes fixed on the ground. The day was warm and mellow, but the chill at her heart made her shiver, and her breath came tremblingly. When at last he did speak his voice seemed to reach her from a great distance.

‘Well, Catherine?'

He was looking at her. She met his glance with a look of polite inquiry, utterly resolved never again to betray herself. He smiled painfully.

‘Well, Robert?'

‘There's something I must say to you. I've no right to speak yet, but there may never be another chance, and I can't wait any longer.' He had come to a halt. She stood before him, waiting, trembling, stubbornly silent. ‘I'm in love with you,' he said. ‘That's how it is. I ought not to be. It's all wrong. But I am.'

It was said, but she could not yet believe it.

‘Are you sure, Robert? Are you quite sure?'

His answer, his burning look, disposed of all doubt. But the joy, so long hoped for, was too sudden. She could not yet bear it.

‘Thank you for telling me,' she said, in a small, cold voice.

‘Is that your answer, Catherine? Is that
all
your answer?'

‘Should I say more? Must I say that I love
you
? But you know that already. I made it too dreadfully plain.' Interrupting his protest she said: ‘Are you sure it isn't mere chivalry that you feel for me? Or, worse still, pity? You needn't, you know. I shall get over it in time. And even if I don't——'

He seized her hands. ‘I love you. I'm drowned in love.' His touch revived her, making the blood flow again. But both were conscious that the world, in the persons of Mr Peacock and Sarah, was still with them: out of earshot but not out of sight.

‘I'm too old for you,' said Robert. ‘I realize that.'

‘No. You're exactly right,' she answered, gently disengaging herself.

‘Besides,' he went on, as though she had not spoken, ‘I'm not a good man.'

She would not argue that point, lest he should be provoked into enlarging on it.

‘Aren't you, Robert? Never mind. You will be, now.'

‘Yes, of course, but——'

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘Don't tell me anything. I'd rather not know. Hadn't we better move on?'

He assented. They began walking again.

‘There are difficulties,' he said, ‘grave difficulties. That's why I ought not to have spoken.'

‘I'm glad you did. I think I should have died if you hadn't.' She smiled up at him. Tears stood in her eyes. ‘Am I being very silly, Robert?'

‘Not silly,' he answered. ‘Heavenly. But ill-advised. I'm warning you against me, Kitty.'

‘Too late for that,' said Catherine happily. ‘The damage is done.' They stopped again, to look at each other. The trouble in his eyes troubled her. He bent over her, forgetting caution. Their lips met in a brief, butterfly kiss.

‘We shall have to be very patient, my dear, and secret. Your parents will be against me, and quite rightly, because I don't deserve you.'

‘When shall we tell them? Today?'

‘No.' He shook his head sadly. ‘We must go very carefully. I'm not out of the wood yet.' He hesitated before adding: ‘There's someone ready to make trouble. I needn't say who. It's possible I may become a public disgrace. If that happens, my dearest, I shall go away and you must try to forget me.'

She smiled, tenderly scornful. ‘If you go away I shall go with you, Robert. Don't imagine you can get rid of me, because you can't. Not unless you stop loving me.'

‘I shall never do that.'

‘Very well then. That's settled,' said Catherine comfortably. In her present mood of exultation she was ready to defy all the world. Answering the thought she discerned in his mind, ‘I'm not,' she assured him, ‘so very young, after all. I shall be twenty-one, you know, in December.'

Catherine was no longer the ingenuous girl she had been three months ago: the situation in which she then found herself had discovered in her an unexpected talent for self-concealment. When she and Robert caught up with the others and returned with them to the house, when all the family and their guest were assembled at the tea-table, and when half an hour later she watched her lover mount and ride away, she behaved with exemplary calm and propriety. A close observer during the meal might have noticed that she had moments of starry-eyed abstraction and that her glance, if it strayed towards Robert, did not linger there but was quickly averted; but by contributing to the conversation just enough and no more, as became the youngest member of the party, she succeeded in being inconspicuous. No one knew, not even Sarah, that she was hugging a precious secret to her bosom. No one guessed, when the farewells were being said, what it cost her—nor with what sombre romantic pride she paid the price of discretion—to stand a little aloof, to refrain from darting forward to help Robert saddle his horse, to refrain from possessively touching him, to let him go without one eloquent look or intimate word. Since Robert for reasons she could only painfully surmise had ordained secrecy, it pleased her to please him by playing her part well. Moreover, the need for concealment granted, she could enjoy it for its own sake. It appealed to her sense of drama. It made her what she had so long dreamed of being, the heroine of a wonderful, hazardous, perhaps even tragic, love-story. Not that she
doubted, in her heart of hearts, that the story must have a happy ending: the alternative possibility was no more than a fiery condiment in the dish of her delight. And even if the future were uncertain, to know that Robert loved her was for the moment all-sufficient, a world-transforming ecstasy. They were in love with each other; no one knew but themselves; and no one, except Sarah, was to be told, until the way should be made clear. Dear, faithful Sarah! The bliss could hardly have been borne but for the near prospect of confiding in Sarah.

The evening that followed was much like other Sunday evenings: a second visit to church, then the ritual forgathering in the drawing-room where the girls must sit, hands in lap, mindful of what day it was, dedicating their enforced idleness to heaven. All looked confidently to Papa, who presently, having sufficiently teased their impatience with a number of evasive pleasantries, announced that he would read aloud to them for half an hour from a suitable, non-Sabbath-breaking, book.

‘That will be a great treat,' said Mrs Peacock, as though it were a delightful surprise, not an almost weekly event.

‘And then,' said her husband, blandly humouring the pretence, ‘we'll have a little music, eh?'

His choice this evening was the gentle Cowper, whose poetry in his happier moods, remarked Mr Peacock, might be aptly described in a famous misquotation as ‘the cup that cheers but not inebriates'. But if any of the girls should feel inebriation coming on, he warned them, they must stop him at once, seeing it was Sunday. He glanced slyly at his wife, cleared his throat, nestled deeper into his chair, leaning slightly towards the small glowing
lamp at his elbow, and began reading an invocation to evening. Behind him, through the unshrouded window, the fast-waning day was still visible, a ghostly presence.

‘
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long.
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step slow moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid,
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the Moon is thine
No less than hers, not worn, indeed, on high
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift.
'

He broke off, to direct a searching glance at Catherine and to say gently:

‘Mark that, my dear child. Composure is her gift.'

‘Yes, Papa,' said Catherine. How much did he suspect? Had her studious self-control been wasted labour?

He resumed the reading, and though she tried to listen, and was soothed despite herself by the gentle rhythms, its meaning went past her unheeded. When it came to an end Mrs Peacock, by general request, went to the piano and sang in her deep surprising contralto,
I know
that my Redeemer liveth
; Julia and Sarah played a duet; Catherine, for all must have a turn, obediently followed with a favourite piece by Sterndale Bennett; and finally Mr Peacock, without much persuasion, was prevailed upon to give them a sea song to which they were all much addicted. This was in the main a rollicking affair, with much noisy bass-work in the accompaniment to illustrate the anger of the waves; but it was redeemed from unsabbatarian impropriety by a middle section in which, the music changing to slow tempo and a minor key, a young mother drifting with her child on a raft invokes the mercy of heaven. The prayer over, the rescue achieved, all was triplets and jollity again, just Mr Peacock's style; for he too, like his wife, was an astonishingly different person when singing. By force of long habit he put tremendous gusto into the song's joyous conclusion: in earlier years it had always been a moot point whether he could reach it before one or another of his little girls was reduced to tears. Sarah on one occasion had been found hiding under the table, stifling her sobs, uncomforted by the knowledge that help for the poor castaways was close at hand, the prayer promptly answered. Now, recalling that ancient grief, she smiled maternally at her former self.