The Matchmaker (41 page)

They strayed for hours, it seemed, through the woods and by the hedges under the cloudless blue, and when they got home, intoxicated with fresh air and freedom, the sun had set and the fields were growing dim. On the doorstep, staring stolidly at the rising moon, sat a perfectly enormous cabbage. Oh bother, thought Jean, stepping round it, we haven’t got through the last one yet.

On the following day the two elder children were invited to tea by a school friend living near while Meg had been asked to spend the afternoon at the farm, because Mrs. Hoadley, with Joyanna in mind, thought that she would like to see how a baby girl behaved. She went off hand in hand with Sylvia, politely replying to the latter’s condescending questions and plainly
forgetting
Jean the minute the garden gate had closed upon herself and her guide.

An hour later Jean was coasting down a hilly road towards the village of Sedley, whose square church tower she had seen long since among the trees. Her cheeks were already burning with sun and the warm wind, the sleeves of her white blouse were rolled up, her jacket was off, and a bunch of wilting flowers trembled on the carrier. Each time the thought of Mr. Waite came into her mind she thrust it away, for she did not want to think about anything except the warm lazy beauty of this first day of summer.

The church stood on a little hill and looked across water meadows to Chanctonbury Ring, fifteen good miles nearer here, and no longer dark and mysterious. It was so near that she could see the bloom of young green upon its trees, and the hill blowing with summer grass. The church was very small, with a low square tower bursting out in tufts of wallflowers and some thick silvery plant she took to be houseleek; the porch was of oak, so ancient that its very lines and seams were shrunken, and of the same ghostly grey as the plant waving from the stone roof. The list of vicars (beautifully written, and adorned with gold and crimson capitals) began in 1145. She padlocked her bicycle to a stout oak bench, tied a scarf about her head because, in spite of the Bishops’ permission, she never felt quite comfortable in church with an uncovered head, and pushed open the massive door.

She expected dimness, silence, chill. But the church was filled with colour and light. The walls were distempered in apricot, and against them the unpainted leaden pipes of the organ looked a heavy blue green. There was barely room for the seats, the altar and pulpit and lectern; all the space seemed filled by the glowing amber curves of the low, sturdy, Norman arches whose heavy shoulders upheld the stone roof and above it the stone tower, and which were dashed with gleams and melting
rays
from the lustrous red, blue and amber glass in two minute lancet windows. The other windows were clear, and let in the burning sunlight. And the altar, the altar steps, the pulpit, the lectern, the font, were smothered in flowers from hothouse and garden and meadow; white lilies, amber lilies, yellow lilies; rows of humble glass pots supporting the dove-like heads of white violets mingled with crimson-tipped daisies; bowls spilling over with orange primroses; and winding among all this white and golden splendour, dark trails of ivy like traces of tears. Delicious fragrance floated across to her, drawn out by the heat and freshened by the cold ancient walls, but she saw that all these flowers were just, and only just, past their prime: on Easter Day they had been offered to God and soon they would be thrown on to the huge healthy heap of leaves, sweepings, mown grass, that she had noticed at the back of the church.

Entranced, she stood perfectly still, letting the joyful silence fill her ears. The impression of light and colour and happiness was so powerful that the stonework seemed transparent and all the heavy, ancient little building, sunk into its hillock for eight hundred years of time, nothing but a shell filled with light and sounding with praise. The sweet sacramental scents filled her nostrils and all at once she felt a longing, the strongest desire she had felt in all her life, to love and serve God.

The colours and light struck with fresh joy upon her senses. She went over to the lectern and mounted its little steps; she felt an obedient pleasure in being here, a delight in lingering in God’s house and examining all its furnishings. Slowly she turned the stiff pages of the old Bible, so thick that they seemed to retain some of the heaviness of the wood from which they originally came. She paused at the last chapter of Saint John the Evangelist:

15. So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs.

16. He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep.

17. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.

She shut the book gently, and covered her face with her hands and stood for a moment in silence.
Oh dear God
, she prayed earnestly and humbly,
I don
’
t know whether I love You, I long to love You but I don’t know if I can, but, oh dear, dear God, I
will
feed Your sheep
.

That is a thing I
can
do, she thought, stepping down from the lectern and slowly walking across the cool hallowed flagstones to the door, and I’ll begin to-morrow with those Dodders on the Froggatt road.

On the ride home she was still slightly dazed; and the joyful silence, the light, in the church returned again and again, each time with a cooling breath, into her spirit. She rode on in a kind of trance, avoiding the crown of the road by instinct and keeping well in to the hedge, and fortunately the byways by which she went were not much frequented, as everyone with a car had on this lovely day gone roaring into Worthing. Her mind was occupied with plans for equipping the little Dodders with undergarments and opening their small souls to the Christian faith.

She was so busy with all this that she was nearly at the gap in the hedge leading across the pastures to the cottage, when Mr. Waite came out through it with a chicken under each arm. She put the brake on just in time, but he fatally wavered from side to side, his grasp upon the chickens loosened, and they at once squawked and fluttered away into liberty. He uttered an exclamation of annoyance and gripped the bicycle, causing her to dismount hastily and almost on top of him.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she gasped, looking up at him confusedly. “I didn’t see you, I was thinking.”

“It’s all right. I am sorry, too; I startled you, I’m afraid.”

They were standing so close together that she caught a breath of some severe and nameless unguent with which he dragooned his hair. She became uncomfortable, and (as his expression slowly became purposeful) very anxious to escape.

“I’m longing for some tea,” she said bluntly, making a movement as if to pass him, “or I’d stay and help you catch the chickens.”

The chickens, wild with unaccustomed freedom, were now legging it down the lane as hard as they could go, amid peals of hysterical chicken-laughter. But he ignored them. His face slowly deepened in colour and became embarrassed, but he also looked determined, as his well-shaped lips parted, and he said firmly:

“Don’t go yet, I have something to say to you.”

The two pairs of brown eyes, the light ones still filled with lingering joy from Heaven and the dark that had gained their bitterness from looking on Earth, gazed questioningly at one another, but Jean’s only wish was to get away from him, to be once more alone with her happy thoughts.

“For some weeks now, since the last time I had the pleasure of having tea with you, I have meant to ask you to marry me,” he began, “and I—I think we should get on together. I think you need a husband to look after you, and—and to help you manage your late father’s business. I am not in the habit of saying what I don’t mean,” he went on gloomily, “and I admire you. You are almost my ideal of what a—a woman should be. I don’t know exactly what your feelings about me are, but I have given you every opportunity to show if you disliked me, and I am sure you don’t, do you?”

“Oh no,” said Jean—faintly, hanging her head and wishing wildly that she were running away with the chickens, whose maniacal cackles now sounded faintly round the curve in the lane.

“Then, that being so, I suggest that we should become engaged at once,” he said decidedly, looking relieved, and put his hand in his pocket and brought out a plump, heart-shaped case of worn red leather. He pressed the gilt fastening, and then and there displayed to her despairing eyes a ring of pale Victorian gold, carrying a heart of fine garnets. She gave a sigh of dismay. Poor little old-fashioned ring! It was the last straw. How could she refuse him now?

“It was my Aunt Janet’s,” he said, regarding it with satisfaction. “She always intended it for my wife. I wrote to my mother for it last Wednesday.”

And he took it from its bed of faded rosy velvet and held it out to her. She swallowed, and forced her dry lips to say faintly:

“But I haven’t said anything yet!”

The words came out in a protesting squeak.

He immediately looked dismayed. The garnet heart withdrew an inch or so and he frowned.

“You said that you—didn’t dislike me?” he said, and suddenly Jean understood that, by her admission, she had implied love to this extraordinary man.

Violent agitation now confused her. She remembered her disappointments in love—so many, so fruitless, so painful! How lonely she had been—how lonely she was! Her complete happiness of an hour ago was forgotten. She only saw, in the dark face gazing down at her, a companion for life, and a home, and perhaps children as lovable as Alda’s children. Alda’s advice—every word that Alda had ever said to her upon the desirability of the married state—sounded in her ears. She told herself that romance did not matter. She told herself not to be a fool, and she wanted to take away the puzzled and slightly hurt expression from his face. She held out her hand, saying in a low tone:

“Yes. Yes, I did. I do like you, Phil. I think we should get on together too, and I’m very glad you asked me. Please put it on.”

The garnet heart fitted perfectly upon the third finger of her
left
hand, that finger upon which she had so often been tempted to slip a ring in order to provoke Mr. Potter to ask leading questions. She held out her hand, gazing at it. It looked unexpectedly well; quiet yet romantic, generous in colour, graceful and elegant in shape. Yes, she liked her engagement ring. But did she like her betrothed?

After he too had looked at the ring for a little while, he suddenly took a step forward and clumsily bunched her into his arms. The kiss he gave her was determined rather than ecstatic. Still, she thought, at least I didn’t shudder, like people in Victorian novels (no one ever shudders in modern novels, or if they do they only enjoy it, her thoughts went on irrelevantly).

She glanced up at him inquiringly. Now would he insist on coming back to tea with her? The thought of the cool dark cottage and a cup of tea and a book in solitude amidst the bowls of silent flowers was so attractive that she could hardly refrain from going off at once to enjoy them. Oh, if only he would not want to come too!

But she forgot that he had a bachelor’s habits. He said nothing about coming to share her tea. He drew out the large silver hunter whose chain was looped across his middle and announced that he would go home and have some tea and change his clothes and look in at the cottage for an hour about seven o’clock.

“Oh yes, do,” said Jean amiably, thinking
That
’
s nearly two hours to myself
—
hooray
.

“I must go after those birds!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I’d forgotten all about them—they must be half-way to Horsham by this time. When you get home, Jean, run cold water on your wrists for three minutes, and make your tea a little stronger than usual. You look as if you’d got a little overheated riding—that’ll cool you down and act as a slight stimulant. (Not
too
strong, the tea, mind you.) And keep your jacket on in the house until you are cool; otherwise you may catch a chill. Good-bye, I’ll be over about seven.”

And he pulled his hat over his eyes and hurried after his chickens without another glance at his betrothed.

Jean wheeled her bicycle slowly homewards. Rings and Dodders and kisses and Alda and Phillip went round and round exhaustingly in her head. She tried to recall that breath of coolness and peace from another world, but in vain; only the memory, not the breath itself, remained. She continued to tell herself that she was engaged, but she could not believe it, and when she looked down at her ring it did not help her to realise the fact.

Meg was sitting placidly upon the doorstep as she came up the path, playing with three ants and a cockleshell from the garden border. Beside her lay a letter.

“Hullo, darling, had a nice time?” Jean asked, stooping down to her. “Who’s this for?” picking up the letter.

“Mrs. Holey did gib Meg a special cakie for her tea. It’s for you, Sylbia said.” And she went back to her game of scooping the wretched ants into the cockleshell.

Jean was staring at the letter. She knew that writing. The stamps were South African. It had been forwarded on from her parents’ flat in London. Her heart beat as it had not beaten for Phillip’s kiss as she tore open the envelope.