Tennyson's Gift (31 page)

‘And the boy?' he asked. ‘Do you mean young Herbert?'

Her eyes lit up.

‘I do.'

‘Well, if you look down the road there, you'll see he's j—just emerging from D-D—'

‘Dimbooala Lodge!' exclaimed the girl. ‘I knowed it! That Mary Ryan'll git sich a whistersniff in the chops one day!' And she scurried off after Herbert, while Dodgson – glad to take his mind off his current problems – couldn't help speculating how long he would have to stammer ‘W-w-w—' before anyone guessed he was trying to say whistersniff.

‘Ada has taken some of the pamphlets, Lorry,' declared Lydia, surveying a sorry mess in the Fowler quarters, which had got quite a lot worse during a rather wild hello-it's-me-back-from-Boston conjugal intimacy.

‘Mm,' said Lorenzo, still lazing in his stewy sheets. ‘But we can easily hire another maid, Lydia. Please don't exercise yourself about it, my Aphrodite. You have, after all, just rowed a very dangerous shipping channel before performing as a fully participant female in a quite exhausting marital act. You must surely deserve a breath or two, or even' – he looked at her steadily – ‘a drink.'

‘Lorenzo Niles Fowler!' she exclaimed.

Any other teetotal couple might have laughed at this suggestion. The Fowlers were not light-hearted, however; it was the secret of their marriage. Now each gripped the other's hand fiercely, as though rescuing somebody from the sea. They looked searchingly into each other's eyes, and held the pose for two minutes. And when this odd, non-dancing tango was released, they got back to normal again.

‘Besides, the girl seems to have done no other harm,' said Lorenzo.

‘But when I think what she might have done to Jessie!'

‘All she did to Jessie was offer her ham at breakfast. Oh, but there is something to tell you about our Infant Phrenologist. I meant to mention it earlier.'

‘Apart from the cut to her arm?'

‘Yes, apart from that.' Lorenzo had still not fully convinced Lydia that the cut was part of a party game that went wrong.

‘No. The fact is, Jessie read Orson's pamphlet one day when I wasn't looking.'

Lydia thought about it. He studied her face. Was she shocked? She wasn't.

‘Jessie is remarkable, isn't she, Lorry?'

‘She is.'

‘How old is she again?'

‘Eight.'

‘Good heavens.'

Lydia tidied part of a demountable brain into a box. It was the Fowlers' special delight to employ, in their passions, not only their own Organs of Amativeness, but someone else's too.

‘Shall we leave tomorrow?'

Lorenzo remembered he had an appointment with Mrs Cameron, to test the applications of phrenology on photographic models. The lady was counting on him, dammit, and he owed her a good turn. Briefly, he wrestled with his conscience.

‘I'm with you, divine one,' he decided. ‘Let's go!'

Lydia rose from her bed to draw back a curtain. She had firm views about fresh air at night; she had once written a hundred-page monograph about its benefits that had sold particularly well in the western frontier states, and had led to many readers being attacked in their beds by coyotes.

‘That's odd,' she said, as she climbed back into bed. ‘There is a youth outside sitting on the sea wall with a cap on. And beside him is a girl with very long hair. It's late for romantic trysts, don't you think? I hope they won't steal my boat.'

Lorenzo sat up.

‘Shall I go and see?'

She kissed him.

‘God,' she breathed.

She was not swearing. A Fowler never swore. She was simply doing the ‘goddess' thing in reverse. She drank a pint of water in a manner that set her husband's loins aflame. Which was why another half hour elapsed before Lorenzo could investigate the callow couple outside.

Dodgson had been right, you see, that the figure was Herbert. The lad made his last outing that night before being burned, with a horrible smell, in a kitchen stove at Dimbola Lodge the following day.

‘What is that? Is it wool?' asked Cook, as Mary Ryan wiggled the tweed with a poker.

‘Ah, isn't it such stuff as dreams are made on?' said Mary Ryan, significantly. As we mentioned earlier, Mary Ryan had been no slouch in the literature department.

Ellen adopted Herbert once more because she needed time to think, and no longer could she bear to stay indoors. The rain had subsided, and though a wind still blew, it was warm. She walked to the bay, where she watched the waves, and tried to sort out her life, starting with the most important thing, to wit, the astounding news that Watts had money. She kept saying it to herself. Watts has money. Watts has money. Watts – who has made his proud wife behave as little more than a mendicant – actually possesses heaps of the stuff that rents houses and buys food, and secures respectable independence away from interfering, condescending patrons.

Watts had accumulated the money, of course, by taking care of the pence and looking blank and helpless whenever the cost of a ticket to the seaside was mentioned. He was paid for his portraits. He won £300 in the Westminster competition. She could never forgive him. In particular, she could never forgive him for instructing her to live on ninepence a week, and giving her nothing by way of presents except a cut-price proverb book at Waterloo Station. It is normally the case that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window. But Ellen stopped loving Watts only when she finally found out about his dosh.

It was as she sat there, staring at the sea, that Mary Ann Hillier first watched her from the shadows, tragically retaining her firm hold of the wrong end of the stick. It would be a shame to transcribe the exact words of this lovely girl on this occasion, especially if whistersniff or rantipike were among them. Besides, when Ellen ever after looked back on this tragical-comical scene, she remembered it rather differently:

said Mary Ann (aside), her face all blind admiration. (‘Poor lady!' thought Ellen; ‘She were better love a dream.')

Mary Ann gasped at the realization of what she was saying.

Mary Ann Hillier did not say any of this, obviously. Her heart was tore in libbets. Was it true, in any case, that love sought was good but given unsought was better? That's how it felt to the martyred giver, certainly; but to the receiver, love unsought was a pain in the neck. It did not flatter; it was beaten off with a bad grace, or shunned altogether. It was like unwanted wallpaper. Here was the lesson that Julia Margaret Cameron failed to learn every day of her life: simply, that oneway passion scares people off; it doesn't work. Ellen saw Mary Ann's hopeless attachment, and felt sorry for it. She suddenly realized how impossible it was to love in return just because someone loves you very much first.

The delicacy of the situation required Shakespeare to help her out. Forever after, when Ellen played Viola to crowds of adoring play-goers, her heart broke for her own dear Olivia, the sweet and beautiful (but very dim) Mary Ann, whom gently she rejected that momentous night in Freshwater.

If Julia thought the day had been a long one, for Emily Tennyson it was the worst birthday since Alfred had asked her in the first year of marriage what was in her pocket. Thinking it was a game, she gaily produced a thimble, and was astounded when he solemnly gave it back to her as a present. ‘I beg you to receive this elegant thimble,' he said. Since then she had largely hidden the fact of her birthday, and enjoyed it more. Alfred had performed one kindness today, however, by removing a roll of that awful wallpaper and disposing of it. No one could find it anywhere. She meant to thank him as soon as she could. It was a thoughtful deed worthy of a great man, and all the better for being utterly uncharacteristic.

In all other respects, however, Emily's birthday had laid her low completely. The battle with the dozen
Westminsters
had been so enervating that after the arrival of the late-night guests she could not even struggle up to bed unaided, and required Lionel and Alfred to carry her. In the pocket of her night gown she found this morning's ‘Yours in aversion' letter which she was about to slip into her bureau with the others when she realized – with a certain
frisson –
that it had been delivered by hand.

Was ‘Yours in aversion' a local, then? If only her husband were like other men, if only he could stand a bit of mild criticism, none of this tiring subterfuge would be necessary. It was true to say that the more you take on, the more you will be taken advantage of. All lay load on the willing horse.

Strangely, it had been quite comforting to see Wilson, the old governess. Emily had no idea Wilson might bear a grudge about not being paid. Was Emily herself paid for her duties in this household? Of course not. What price could be placed on feminine duties? No, she and Wilson had shared almost two happy years, and yes, there had been occasional quarrels over money, but Emily had always forgiven the outbursts. Wilson's unjust sense of furious grievance would expend itself (she did have quite a temper), and then the two women would get along famously again.

‘Wilson! It is a pleasure to see you, even at this unlikely time of night.'

Emily had thus taken the young woman aside while Alfred and Lionel picked up Dodgson from the carpet and carried him to the door. The whacking of Dodgson did not alarm the old governess. Being accustomed to the Tennysons, she wondered as little as anybody at the croquet mallet forming part of the house's hospitality.

‘No chance of tea, I suppose?' Wilson said. Emily laughed and rocked.

‘You and your strange wit, just like old times!'

In the bedroom now, Alfred entered and found her smiling. He decided to take advantage of the good mood.

‘Emily, do you think I should pose for Julia?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘What if I must?'

‘Must?'

‘Must.'

She pursed her lips tight.

‘Must?' she demanded again.

‘We will discuss it tomorrow, Alfred. Wilson was saying I looked peaky, and I believe she is right. You must take us both with you on your walk tomorrow.'