The Dark Clue (15 page)

‘Surely,' I said, suddenly remembering some of the rumours I
had heard. To call such behaviour “simple living”, when there is no occasion for it, might seem …?'

‘Yes,' said Gudgeon, ‘I know that he was considered mean. But that is not how I should describe him. Frugal, yes. Careful – and quick to anger, undoubtedly, if he feared he was being cheated, or imposed upon. But I have seen him give five shillings to a young widow with a crying child at her breast, and tell her to buy something for it, and make sure it went to church, and learnt right from wrong.'

‘Was it bravado, then?' I said, recalling Turner's delight in displaying his skill on Varnishing Days.

‘In part, perhaps. He certainly took a great pride in being able to
make do.
And partly, too, that he feared losing his independence; for he told me once, when we had both drunk too much, that he detested above everything being subject to the whim of patrons.' He paused; and when he went on again, it was with a doubtful tone, as if he was giving voice to some question that had just struck him, and that he had not yet resolved. ‘But there was, I think, something else, too. Something akin to a
superstition.
'

‘You mean,' I said – and I don't know why, save that it seemed, of a sudden, to fit with all those recurrent images of luxury and ruin and destruction at Marlborough House – ‘that he believed that if he was wasteful it might provoke some sort of a catastrophe?'

For some reason Gudgeon coloured slightly, as if I had confounded him; and then he nodded and said: ‘That is very astute of you, Mr. Hartright. And not just a catastrophe for himself. But for the country. Or even for the world.' He smiled, and laid a finger impulsively on my arm. ‘I think you will do very well, sir. Very well indeed.' And then, nodding towards the brush. ‘Keep it, please. I should like you to have it.'

‘Really?'

He nodded again.

‘I shall carry it with me always,' I said, slipping it into my pocket. ‘As a talisman.'

It was a small enough thing, of course, and yet I could not help feeling delighted by it; for this was the first real encouragement I had received from anyone but Lady Eastlake – Mr. Ruskin's comments, for all their ineffable condescension, having
had much the same effect on my spirits as a bucket of cold water over the head. And it seemed to confirm what I had increasingly begun to feel (though still scarcely dared to hope) since seeing Turner's paintings: that I was, at last, starting to get the measure of the man. It was, in consequence, in the highest good humour that – when Gudgeon took a watch from his pocket, and looked at it, and said: The woman'll have dinner ready, I fancy; best not to keep her waiting; shall we go in?' – I replied, ‘Gladly, sir,' and followed him back into the house.

It was a hearty, old-fashioned meal, in an old-fashioned dining room with heavy beams and a huge open fire that must have consumed a whole tree in the time it took
us
to eat a boiled fowl, a pudding, and half a leg of mutton. Since Gudgeon could not carve, I thought his wife might ask me to do it in his stead; but she took the burden on herself, and I soon saw why: when she came to her husband's portion, she discreetly cut it into little pieces, so he should not be humiliated either by his own incapacity to hold a knife, or by having to ask, like a child, to have it done for him on his own plate. Another man, perhaps, understandably reluctant to draw attention to his disability, might have chosen not to acknowledge this kindness; but Gudgeon touched the back of her hand, and thanked her with a smile of a great sweetness. I must have seen, as we sat together, twenty such instances of their mutual affection and regard. Let us hope, my love, when we are their ages, that we make such a picture!

When we had finished, Mrs. Gudgeon cleared away the dishes, and then left her husband and me alone with the wine. We talked a little of his family; and then, without my having to prompt him, he started to tell me more of his adventures with Turner: of how Turner loved storms – ‘the fouler the weather, the better' – of how they took a boat once at Brighton, and a gale came up, and the sea broke over the gunwales with a sound like thunder, and all were ill, save Turner, who merely stared intently at the water, remarking its movement and colour, and muttering ‘Fine! Fine!'; of how they walked twenty or thirty miles a day, in rain, shine or deluge, and put up sometimes at the meanest inns, where Turner would be content with a piece of bread and cheese, and a glass of porter, and a table to rest his
head on, if there was no bed to be had. Those were wonderful evenings for a young man,' said Gudgeon at last, shaking his head in wonderment at the memory, ‘for there was Turner, who would show you nothing of his work, and barely say a word, during the day; but when the ale had freed his tongue would sing, and make jokes (though you could hardly understand them), and boast of his success, and how he meant to be the greatest painter in the world.'

He was silent a long while after this, and I think must have fallen asleep, for he nodded, and then jerked his head up again, and stared at me for a moment, as if he did not know who I was. And then he smiled, yet still said nothing, as if our sitting there companionably were conversation enough. There was no sound save the plaintive stammering of distant sheep, and the whisper of the fire – which, like us, seemed to have grown sated and sleepy; for, though Gudgeon had thrown another log on when he had last filled our glasses, the flames had scarcely even charred it. The candles had burned low, and through the window I could see the first stars appearing in the sky; and I thought of those far-off days (yet not so far off, in truth) when young Gudgeon and not-yet-old Turner had sat together, just like this; and of how – in no more than one flickering iota of a second in a star's life – Time creeps up on us all, and overtakes us. And so at length must have fallen asleep; for the next I knew was that Mrs. Gudgeon was shaking my shoulder, and laughing, and offering to light me upstairs with a lamp.

The following day I rose late, and made a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen – at that hour, thanks to the fire, the only warm room in the house. Afterwards, I sat a while with Gudgeon in his study, and we exchanged ‘Thank you's and ‘It's been a great pleasure's until, at length, his wife entered, and told me that it was time to leave if I wished to be sure of the train. He came out into the yard with me – where the resourceful woman had already harnessed the trap to the brown pony, which waited, stamping its feet, as if anxious to be off. Then, sheltering in the doorway against the sharp east wind, Gudgeon unwound the cravat from his neck and stood waving it, like a scarf, in his good hand, as his wife drove me away.

In the event, she deposited me at Brighton station in ample time for the train to Chichester, by which I was to start my journey to Petworth, and I -

But no – if I embark on that now, I shall be another day in the writing. So, let Petworth be the matter of my next letter, and this one delay no longer its most important business – telling you that I am well, and that I love you.

Walter

XVI

From the journal of Walter Hartright, 19th September, 185-

Michael Gudgeon told me one thing more about Turner, which I set down here (as nearly as I can remember) exactly as he said it:

‘One day, I recall, everything pleased him: a gothic ruin, a view of the sea, an effect of the light he especially loved, where the sun breaks through at a slant, and grains the cloud like a piece of slate. Late in the afternoon we stopped at an ale-house, and then rolled back to the Royal Oak at Poynings, singing “I am a Friar of Orders Grey”.

‘Do you know the Royal Oak, Mr. Hartright? No? Well, I dare say you'd think it a simple enough house – I dare say I should, now – but it seemed a very palace then, after what we'd been accustomed to, for the beds were comfortable, and we had a room apiece, for a marvel.'
[A pause. A laugh.]
That night, as we sat drinking after supper, we fell into conversation with two big village girls, and Turner, I remember, told them his name was ‘Jenkinson' – with a twinkle in his eye, that told me not to gainsay him – and that made me laugh; and the girls laughed too, though I am sure they didn't know why; and the upshot, by and by, was that I took the one with the brown ringlets to my room, and he took the other to his.'

[I confess I do not know what I did to provoke this next comment; certainly I said nothing.]

‘Lord! You young people are such prudes, Mr. Hartright. Do you mean to say you've never had resort to a jolly girl?'
[Another pause, another laugh.]
‘I must say, though, Turner's didn't look so jolly the next day. Her eyes were red, and her skin was all chafed.'

XVII

Letter from Mrs. Tobias Bennett to Marian Halcombe,
21st September, 185-

Brentford,
21st September

Dear Miss Halcombe,

Thank you for your letter of 17th September. I should be delighted to see you – and your brother, if he is returned from his travels – any day next week. Thereafter we shall not be here, for the doctor orders us to the coast for my husband's health, and we may be gone some months.

Mention Turner, and my first thought always is of the Thames, and boats, and picnics. I know this time of year is famously wild and wayward, but if we should be blessed with a fine day, would you care to undertake a modest expedition with us on the river (we keep a small skiff, just big enough for four), and see some of the haunts I most fondly associate with him?

Please be so good as to let me know what day would suit best, and whether my little proposal is agreeable.

Yours very truly,

Amelia Bennett

XVIII

Letter from Walter Hartright to Laura Hartright,
22nd September, 185-

Brompton Grove,
Friday

My dearest love,

It is past three o'clock, and here I am, at last, setting about the letter I promised you yesterday. I should have started this morning; but, having woken early, I decided to take myself to the park, and try to paint the dawn. The result – as I should have foreseen – is dreadful: an overboiled egg squashed on a bed of cinders. How did the man get such colours from his palette?

So – where did I leave you? Entering the train at Brighton
railway station, I think; which proceeded to hurtle me at breakneck speed through Shoreham and Worthing, Angmering and Littlehampton, and at length – little more than an hour after I had left – delivered me, like a well-cared-for parcel, at Chichester. I was then obliged to continue my journey to Petworth by walking to the Ship Inn and taking the London coach – which, needless to say, contrived to cover only half the distance in twice the time, and lurched and bumped so much that I soon boasted a fine pair of bruises on my shoulder and forehead, and was starting to feel like a very
badly
-cared-for parcel.

Yet although I did not realize it at the time – indeed, I was inwardly cursing my ill-fortune, in terms you would have been shocked to hear! – fate was smiling on me; for among my fellow-passengers (who also included two elderly widowed sisters; and a young draughtsman with a case full of drawings, which he tried manfully to review, until a jolt sent them on to the floor; and a party of drunken students outside, who whooped and jeered with every swerve) was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, who sat opposite me – and, as it turned out, was to play a material part in my adventure. She was well but not fashionably dressed – from her appearance, you might have supposed her to be the wife of a country doctor or attorney – and, as we bounced this way and that, smiled at me, with the conspiratorial air of a fellow-sufferer. At length (when I had received my knock on the head), she grimaced, gave a solicitous ‘ooh', and said:

‘Jabez Bristow.'

‘I beg your pardon?' I said.

‘Jabez Bristow,' I must have still looked blank, for she went on: ‘You're not from these parts, then?

‘No.'

‘Jabez is famous. Or infamous, rather. Can't drive unless he has a pint of brandy inside him to keep him warm, And who cares for anything after a pint of brandy?'

I smiled. I could not place her voice; it was not that of a lady, but it had a kind of confidence that spoke of prosperity, and a practised ease in conversing with people of all sorts and conditions.

‘How far do you go?' she said,

‘Petworth.'

She nodded. Her eyes flickered towards the two widows, and then she leant towards me and said, more softly: ‘Pity the poor souls who are going all the way to London. At least we shan't have to endure this much longer.'

We felt the horses slow, and then strain forward, as if their load had suddenly become heavier. Looking out of the window, I saw a little farm bounded with knobbly flint walls, and, beyond it, our road rising sharply up into the downs.

‘In a year or two,' said my companion, ‘we shan't have to endure it at all.'

‘Why?' I said. ‘Are they building a railway?'

She nodded. ‘Though you'll still have to walk when you get the other end,' she said, with a smile. ‘Or take a gig; for the station will be a clear two miles from the town.'

‘Good Lord!' I said. ‘Is it impossible to build it closer?'

She shook her head. ‘The colonel won't have it near his park.'

‘Colonel Wyndham?' I asked.

She nodded; and then, after a moment, said: ‘Why, do you know him?' Her tone was neutral, but she studied my face intently as she spoke, as if the question was prompted by something more than mere common politeness.

‘No,' I replied. ‘But I am hoping to meet him.'

‘Indeed?' she said non-committally, still watching me closely.

I had the strong impression that she knew something about the colonel, which might prove helpful to me, but that – like a card-player unwilling to disclose her hand until she has seen her opponent's – she would only confide it to me once she had satisfied herself as to my own purpose in visiting him, and established that it was of a purely professional nature, and that I was an entirely disinterested party, who posed no threat to her. I therefore said: