The Daughters of Mrs Peacock (22 page)

Robert flushed. His rigid self-composure broke down.

‘I'm greatly to blame. I know that. I've been the
damnedest fool. I've behaved like a cad, if you like. But not to her.'

‘To whom, then?'

Robert did not answer.

‘To Catherine, by any chance?' asked Mr Peacock, dangerously quiet. Still Robert did not answer. ‘You love her, I think you said?'

‘Yes.'

‘And she …? Have you told her so?'

‘Yes, God forgive me. That's what I blame myself for. I didn't intend to. It was a sudden impulse. I had intended to wait till all was clear.'

‘A pity your good intentions did not persist.'

‘Yes. It was unforgivable in me. You realize, of course, that no blame attaches to her. It is all mine.'

‘And you,' said Mr Peacock, ‘realize, of course, that in the circumstances there can be no question of your marrying her?'

Taking refuge in pedantry, ‘I realize,' said Robert, ‘that she is a minor, and that I am
persona non grata
,' With an air of dismissing an unprofitable subject he asked: ‘What is your decision, Peacock? Are you and I to part company?'

‘That, so far as I am concerned, does not arise, my dear Robert. I have, for your consideration, another plan.'

‘What is it?' said Robert.

He felt like a prisoner in the dock, awaiting sentence. But the worst part of his sentence had already been pronounced.

The ensuing interview with Catherine was for her father even more painful. It took place in his study on the evening of the same day. Mrs Peacock, unsure of his firmness, insisted on being present.

‘Do you want me, Papa?' said Catherine, hesitating in the doorway.

‘Come in, child. Your father, my dear, has something to say to you.'

Catherine advanced into the room, leaving the door ajar. Mrs Peacock, having shut it, stood watchful, like a sentinel.

‘Sit down, Kitty,' said Mr Peacock. ‘There's no point in being uncomfortable. You too, my dear. This isn't a police case.'

‘I prefer to stand, Edmund.'

Catherine waited, her courage slowly ebbing. She was not deceived by his brisk, speciously cheerful tone. She noticed that he avoided looking at her direct. A bad sign.

‘What is it, Papa?'

‘It's about our friend Robert Crabbe, my love. He is going away, and it is unlikely that you will see him again.'

‘Going away? But——'

‘He is going to take charge of our London office. It'll be a great convenience. A great convenience,' Mr Peacock repeated, ‘and better for everyone concerned. Especially, my dear child, for you.'

‘What?' said Catherine quickly. She was on her feet again, pale and trembling but with eyes aflame. ‘
When
is he going?'

‘At once. Tomorrow morning. As soon as he has packed.'

She turned her back on him, took two steps towards the door.

‘Don't be foolish, Catherine,' said her mother.

Mr Peacock, controlling his voice with difficulty, said gently: ‘I'm afraid this piece of news is unwelcome to you, Kitty.' The sense of her youngness, his memory of the small child she had been not so long ago, worked havoc in him. ‘I don't ask what your feelings for him are, but——'

‘Why, Papa?' She wheeled round, to face him again. ‘Why don't you ask? Do you think it doesn't matter what I feel? I love Robert, that's all. I'm going to marry him.'

‘No,' said Mrs Peacock. ‘That is out of the question.'

‘Why? Tell me why, Mama.'

‘You are a young girl, Catherine,' said her mother, in a tone of longsuffering patience. ‘You must allow your father to know best. But if you insist on a reason, it is this. Mr Crabbe is not what you think him. He has behaved very wickedly. We have reason to believe he is … immoral. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. No doubt it's a great shock to you, but you leave me no alternative.'

‘You've told me nothing I didn't know already, Mama,' retorted Catherine coldly. ‘And whatever he's done he's not wicked … And even if he is,' she said passionately, bursting into flame again, ‘I still love him.'

‘Then I'm ashamed of you,' said Mrs Peacock. ‘To think that a daughter of mine——'

Her husband cut in. ‘Excuse me, Emily. Your mother and I, Kitty, don't see eye to eye on this point. I know Robert's value, as she doesn't. He and I have been friends and associates for many years. But we're fully agreed that in view of all that has happened he is not a suitable person for you to marry.'

‘Very well, Papa.'

He looked at her curiously, troubled by the sudden submission. His wife had no such misgivings.

‘
That's
better!' Her voice was warm and caressing. ‘
That's
more like my little Catherine. You know, don't you, my darling, that it's only your happiness we're thinking of, your father and I?'

‘Is it, Mama? So kind of you both. Have you any further plans for my happiness? Or is it happiness enough that I'm never to see Robert again?'

In the shocked incredulous silence that followed she escaped, dry-eyed, to her bedroom, and there the gathering grief, no longer to be contained, found vent. For an uncounted time she lay face downwards sobbing into the pillow. But presently, exhausted, she became aware of Sarah bending over her.

‘Papa has told me everything, my poor donkey.'

The embrace was loving but brief. ‘Don't start me off again, Sally. I've cried quite enough. Now I must think. Now I must think what to do.'

‘If you want him so much,' said Sarah fiercely, ‘you shall have him. You
shan't
be made to give him up!'

‘Give him up?' She stared, dry-eyed. ‘I've not the least notion of giving him up. Unless he wants me to.'

There followed, it is to be supposed, an anxious time for everyone. Mrs Peacock, though incapable of doubting her own judgment, was not uncompassionate. Secure of having her own way, which was all she ever demanded of life, she was quite ready to forgive and forget. Forgetting, however, was not so easy. Catherine's dutiful surrender had taken her by surprise: she had been prepared for a more protracted resistance: and the girl's quiet sub-missiveness in the weeks that followed, no sulks, no tears, no outbursts of rebellion, not only disarmed her but gave her some moments of uneasiness. She relied on time and absence to do their remedial work, but remembering her own young womanhood she could not disguise from herself that meanwhile the dear child was unhappy. Several times she found it necessary to assure her husband that they had acted for the best, and that henceforward, until the process of healing should be completed, they must treat Catherine very gently.

‘I agree with you, my dear Emily,' said he. ‘I am resolved to beat her not more than three times a week.'

Catherine, then, was forgiven; but her mother's anger against Robert Crabbe was increased rather than diminished. No punishment, she insisted, could be too bad for him, and the sooner Edmund could contrive to dissolve
the partnership the better she would be pleased. After the third repetition of this remark Mr Peacock, hitherto silent on the point, answered with a bland smile that he had no such intention.

‘Business, my love, is
my
domain. Yours, in which I do not interfere, is domestic felicity, of which we enjoy so great an abundance.'

Instantly recognizing defeat, she said no more. She was annoyed indeed, but mingled with her annoyance was a perverse satisfaction in having a husband she could not always control. Opposition from anyone else was insufferable, a cardinal crime; but in Edmund, though tiresome, it could sometimes be almost a merit.

Every week now, with unfailing punctuality, a letter arrived for Sarah bearing the Meonthorpe postmark, to be snatched, hidden away, and gloated over in private. No one knew, except the four immediately concerned, that sometimes, not so often as could have been wished, the envelope contained not only Edward Linton's letter to Sarah but a sealed enclosure for her young sister. Sarah herself, not Catherine, had devised this simple, audacious plan, and had written to Lincoln's Inn Fields suggesting it. Robert's answer had been awaited in a twitter of trepidation. Both girls felt guilty, on Papa's account, and surmised that Robert, being a man and therefore afflicted with precise unpractical notions of what was and was not honourable, might have scruples about deceiving their parents. It was even possible that a definite promise had been extracted from him. His answer set their minds at rest, at least on this latter point. Conscience consists in part of a fear of being found out,
and every time a letter arrived undetected that fear lost something of its power. Before long they were within sight of enjoying their strategy for its own sake and no longer needed to argue its grim necessity, a point on which Sarah had been emphatic from the first. Not to have let poor Kitty see Robert even once, even to say goodbye, was to Sarah's mind an unkindness that justified any deception, though she did wish that Papa were not involved, Papa who had been so understanding about Edward.

‘He's useful, my Edward, isn't he?' said Sarah. ‘I hardly know how we should have managed without him.'

‘Useful!' echoed Catherine indignantly. ‘I shall love him for ever! When do you think he will come to us?'

He would come, as it turned out, sooner than they had dared to hope, and by a route less circuitous than the one artfully proposed by Mr Peacock. Sarah, like Catherine, had discovered in herself a talent, born of necessity, for intrigue. His letters so far had been a miraculously kept secret, but she had made a point of mentioning him and confessing to a friendly interest in him, both with a view to preparing the way for his eventual arrival and because her woman's wisdom told her that half the truth, having an appearance of candour, would be more effective for her purpose, and more disarming of suspicion, than a secrecy that could not be indefinitely maintained; and there came a day when with an air of pleased surprise she boldly announced at the breakfast-table that—would you believe it?—he had written to her.

‘Edward Linton, Mama. You remember my telling you about him?'

His letter, composed with great care, gave Sarah a new sense of Edward's cleverness: he had improved on his instructions. She passed it to Mrs Peacock without a tremor. Beginning
Dear Miss Sarah
, he modestly introduced himself, reminded her of the occasion when he had had the pleasure of meeting her and showing her round the school, and hoped that she would forgive his presumption in writing to her. He thought she would wish to know that old Mr Pluvius had been ill with bronchitis but was now happily out of danger. Mrs and Miss Druid had been
most
kind and attentive. So indeed had all the neighbours, but none so much as Mrs and Miss Druid, who continued, he was glad to say, to enjoy excellent health, as no doubt she knew. There was, however, a serious outbreak of measles among the boys, and the school was breaking up on November the 14th, several weeks in advance of the normal end of term, so that he was likely to have more idle time on his hands than he quite cared for. The passage from Virgil that she had been good enough to inquire about was to be found in the
Georgics
, which she, being so much interested in farming, would perhaps like to read? It began
Alternis idem tonsas
… and he ventured to append a rough translation. In conclusion he expressed the hope that they might some day meet again, and subscribed himself, most faithfully hers, Edward Linton.

‘Very nice,' said Mrs Peacock. ‘He seems to be a well-bred young man.' She handed the letter to her husband.

‘H'm,' said he. ‘I like the sound of him. Does he play chess, Sarah?'

‘Yes, Papa, I'm sure he does,' said Sarah, freely
inventing. ‘No one could live in the same house with Mr Pluvius without playing chess.'

‘Then I wonder if he could be persuaded to visit us, having, as he puts it, idle time on his hands?'

‘I think he might, Papa. That would be nice.'

‘Do let's ask him,' said Catherine. ‘Don't you think so, Julia?'

Julia, smiling uncertainly, looked to Mama for her cue.

‘What do you say, Emily?' said Mr Peacock. ‘Shall we risk it? It would liven us up to have a visitor, don't you think?'

Meeting his glance Mrs Peacock read her husband's mind, or part of it. He was thinking, she supposed, of Catherine. It was she who needed enlivening, and what more calculated to do that, and more, than the company of an eligible young man?

‘Very well, Edmund. Sarah shall write to him, if you think it proper.'

‘But shall you be able to manage, Mama?' said Julia, ‘
I
shan't be much help to you, I fear, now that poor Mr Garnish is taken worse again.'

‘Never mind,' said Catherine. ‘Sarah and I will entertain him, won't we, Sally? That is, when he's not playing chess with Papa.'

‘That's my sensible chick!' said Mrs Peacock, smiling fondly. This flash of the old Catherine, hidden too long in a cloud of listlessness, comforted her. Her thoughts raced ahead, foreseeing romantic possibilities. A
young
man, with a neat handwriting and a civil way of expressing himself. So much more suitable than a dubiously respectable widower of thirty-six. A month ago her
habitual possessiveness would have resisted the idea automatically; but now, in view of all that had happened, she was more than ready to see her chick safely married to some really nice man.

No one at home, least of all her mother, disputed Julia's right to devote some hours of each day to the aged Mr Garnish, whose end, it could hardly be doubted, was now so near. Although she had visited him in the first place timidly and tentatively, moved by nothing but compassion and a sense of duty, by now, finding he depended on her and looked eagerly for her coming, she had become fiercely maternal, seeing him—in his dotage, stripped of all dignity—as a forlorn frightened child confronting the unknown. He was weary of living, yet afraid to die: the doctrine he had preached for half a century had apparently lost all meaning for him. Shocked, but only dimly conscious of the irony of the situation, she a young woman, he the accredited man of God, she talked to him of heaven and its glories, life everlasting, the reunion with loved ones who were waiting to welcome him; for it was no longer possible, in the face of his despair, to pretend that he would get better. At intervals he had spasms of pain, angina pectoris, during which he ceased to be human, became a groaning, grunting animal, and she, watching, prayed that he might die and be at rest; but the stubborn life in him would not yield. The spasm over, even the fear of its recurrence, than which nothing was more dreadfully probable, did not reconcile him to death. She was
deeply puzzled by his attitude, as well as distressed. It conflicted not only with all she had been taught to believe but also with her firm persuasion that the prospect of being reunited with his wife must be a comfort to him.