Like what? thought Mrs. Cleveland, sitting on the sofa clutching her shopping basket and waiting patiently for Mrs. Fremantle to throw some light on this curious situation.
‘He thinks I don’t know anything of what goes on in the world,’ continued Mrs. Fremantle in an aggrieved tone. ‘I may be an old woman and not very clever, but I have some experience of life. I’m not blind. I knew all about that time in Florence. A woman always does know, doesn’t she?’
It began to dawn on Mrs. Cleveland that Mrs. Fremantle was leading up to something more definite than general reflections on what goes on in the world; she was going to talk about Francis and Barbara Bird. She felt helpless, trapped in the great, dark drawing-room, but she just sat there feeling rather sick and clutching her shopping basket a little tighter while Mrs. Fremantle went on.
‘I just wanted to warn you not to listen to what people say,’ she said, laying a thin, spidery hand on her arm. ‘If you find your husband out in some little indiscretion, you mustn’t at once think of divorce. They all have little lapses, and it isn’t worth breaking up one’s home for the sake of a little lapse, is it? You must think of your child, you know. The only way is just to pretend not to notice,’ she added rather hopelessly.
‘But I wasn’t contemplating divorce,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, feeling that her voice sounded a little surprised, as well it might.
‘Oh, but you must have thought of it,’ said Mrs. Fremantle, sounding disappointed. ‘When I found out about Herbert and that American woman, my first thought was divorce. I know it was a wicked thought, because of course I don’t really believe in divorce, do you?’
‘Now, who is talking about divorce on such a fine sunny morning?’ said Dr. Fremantle, coming into the room.
‘Oh, Herbert, I didn’t know you’d be back so soon,’ fluttered his wife apologetically.
‘Well, I suppose I may come into my own house without asking anybody’s permission,’ he said, pleasantly enough. ‘ “I am the Master of this college, what I don’t know isn’t knowledge”,’ he declared, laughing his rumbling laugh.
‘I think I must be getting back now,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, standing up. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs. Fremantle. It has been so nice,’ she added diplomatically.
‘What has been so nice?’ asked Dr. Fremantle bluntly. ‘Sitting in a sunless drawing-room listening to Olive’s idle gossip?’ He glanced round the room, i cannot see any cups or glasses or any signs of food. Olive, did you not offer Mrs. Cleveland anything?’
‘Oh, I never take anything in the middle of the morning,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, moving towards the door. ‘It spoils one’s lunch.’
‘It spoils one’s lunch. Ha-ha!’ Dr. Fremantle stood rubbing his hands, laughing at some private joke. ‘You must not take any notice of what Olive says,’ he added. ‘She always gets hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
Mrs. Cleveland walked home thinking about what Olive Fremantle had said. If she knew about what Edward Killigrew had seen, then it was obvious that her husband must know too. And it was evident that he did not take the gossip very seriously. This knowledge somehow comforted Mrs. Cleveland. She saw Dr. Fremantle as a symbol of North Oxford respectability, although she was not sure why, especially when she came to remember the hints Mrs. Fremantle had given of his ‘lapses’. That showed that he was not above suspicion himself. But then who was? The idea of Dr. Fremantle’s essential respectability persisted. Perhaps it was his beard, she thought, smiling to herself. One didn’t somehow imagine that an old man with a beard could be wicked. Anyway, Barbara was com-ing to supper sometime, and she had to be given something to eat, so Mrs. Cleveland found her thoughts turning to suitable summer menus: salads, cold meats, strawberries… . There would be time enough for more serious thoughts later on.
But after all this planning Barbara did not come. When Mrs. Cleveland suggested it to her husband he asked her why she was so keen on having Barbara Bird to supper. They had never had her before. They didn’t want to get into the habit of asking all his pupils to supper; it would become a nuisance, a tie. And Mrs. Cleveland, determined to say nothing of the gossip, had agreed that perhaps after all it wasn’t necessary.
‘If you want to ask somebody to supper,’ Francis suggested, ‘why not ask somebody with whom we have something in common—Lancelot Doge and Arthur Fenning, for example?’
And so they had a dull, academic little party and a not particularly enthusiastic discussion about the merits of the new Bodleian. Mrs. Cleveland felt as if she had been cheated. It was true that Lancelot Doge and Arthur Fenning would be able to tell people what a devoted family the Clevelands were, but having Barbara to supper would have shown them even more. It occurred to Mrs. Cleveland that Francis had been rather evasive about the whole thing, but, as it was the strawberry season and there was a great deal of jam to be made, she was really too busy to give the matter much thought, although she sometimes found herself brooding over it before she went to sleep at night. But that, as everyone knew, was the very worst time to think about anything. It was much more sensible to push all worries out of one’s mind and to play a nice little alphabet game until one went off to sleep.
XVI. Mr. Latimer’s Holiday
‘Well, tonight I shall be in Paris,’ declared Mr. Latimer at breakfast on the day when he was to start his holiday. Something of the delight and anticipation he felt in thinking of this gay city must have shown itself on his face as he stirred his tea, for Miss Doggett looked rather grave and said, ‘I hope you know where you are staying in Paris. Have you got the name of a good, respectable hotel from Cook’s?’
‘Well, we haven’t really decided,’ he said. ‘We’ll find somewhere when we get there.’
‘You ought to be very careful,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘Miss Morrow’s cousin had a very unpleasant experience.’ She turned to Miss Morrow. ‘It was in Paris that your cousin Bertha had that experience, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was, but I don’t think Mr. Latimer need be afraid of anything like that happening,’ said Miss Morrow, thinking that, after all, Bertha had been a young girl of nineteen and Mr. Latimer was a clergyman of over thirty.
‘Well, you never know,’ said Miss Doggett in a warning tone. ‘Everyone ought to be careful in a place like Paris. I wonder where it was that Miss Jeremy—my friend who lives at Tunbridge Wells—used to stay. I remember her telling me about a very good hotel there. All the staff spoke English, the cooking was entirely English, and the visitors too. They were mostly clergy. She told me that on one occasion when she stayed there she had two, or I think three, Archdeacons at her table for dinner. It would be just the place for you and your friend.’
‘It sounds very nice,’ said Mr. Latimer dutifully, although he privately thought that one Archdeacon was quite enough for anyone.
‘It is really a good thing you are going away,’ said Miss Doggett, with more seriousness than the occasion seemed to demand. ‘North Oxford is no place for a young clergyman these days.’
‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ murmured Miss Morrow, pouring milk on her cornflakes.
‘Denmark?’ Mr. Latimer looked up with an expression of polite surprise on his face.
‘I am glad that you do not seem to have heard any gossip,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You will be able to hear the whole story from one who knows the facts.’
Mr. Latimer flung a startled glance at Miss Morrow, as if he feared some mention of Crampton Hodnet or the conversation in the tool shed. But his fears were soon set at rest. It was nothing to do with him, only some absurd story about Mr. Cleveland that Miss Doggett seemed to have got hold of.
When she had finished telling it she paused impressively, waiting for some comment or exclamation of shocked amazement.
But Mr. Latimer went on eating his breakfast and when challenged was inclined to pooh-pooh it and say that he frankly did not believe it. ‘Mr. Killigrew must have heard wrongly,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mr. Cleveland isn’t that kind of man at all.’
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‘Mr. Latimer, you are a clergyman, and it is natural that you should wish to see the best side of everything,’ continued Miss Doggett. ‘But I know you would be the last person to shirk your duty.’
‘My duty?’ said Mr. Latimer, his voice taking on a high note of alarm.
‘Yes. I think it is your duty as a clergyman and friend of the family to speak to Mr. Cleveland about it. I have done my best. Nobody will listen to an old woman. A clergyman’s words carry more weight than anyone else’s.’ Miss Doggett put a corner of toast into her mouth with an air of finality.
‘But even if it were my duty, what could I say?’ said Mr. Latimer.
‘I must leave that to you,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You should of course point out to Mr. Cleveland how wrongly he is behaving, what unhappiness he is bringing to his wife and family, and how it will be the ruin of him if he goes on like this. I have seen things like this happen before. He can’t break away and start a new life, you know.’
‘But even if it were true, which I can’t somehow believe, who am I to speak to Mr. Cleveland about it?’ said poor Mr. Latimer in bewilderment.
‘You are a clergyman,’ said Miss Doggett in an emphatic tone.
‘I know, but I am only a curate,’ said Mr. Latimer rather ridiculously and with a vague clutching gesture at his clerical collar. ‘I’m no better than any other man. I can’t go telling Mr. Cleveland how he ought to behave. I am not worthy.’
‘I should not like to think that what you say is true,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘It would be a poor thing if our clergy were no better than other men. But in any case you have a special duty, you know.’
‘I think Mr. Wardell would do it better than I should,’ suggested Mr. Latimer hopefully. ‘He is a married man.’
‘Well, Mr. Latimer, I am surprised to hear you imply that a married man should be more worthy than a single man,’ said Miss Doggett in a pained voice. ‘Especially when you believe so strongly in the celibacy of the clergy.’
‘But I don’t,’ protested Mr. Latimer.
‘But you told me so distinctly,’ said Miss Doggett in amazement.
‘Oh, well, I may have done,’ said Mr. Latimer casually, almost jauntily. ‘I dare say I did believe in it once, but I’ve changed my mind now. I believe that a clergyman cannot possibly do good and help others unless he has had the experiences which other men have. His life is empty and unreal if he hasn’t a woman with him. She can help him so much with everything; she can help him to know himself….’ Mr. Latimer went on talking almost to himself, as if he were unconscious of the presence of anybody else in the room.
‘Well, Mr. Latimer,’ said Miss Doggett at last in a cold voice, ‘there may be something in what you say, but I am sure that your views cannot have changed so much that you would condone adultery.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Latimer in a vague, inattentive voice, ‘I don’t think I would do that.’
‘I am sorry to hear that you are not more certain about it,’ said Miss Doggett. She paused as if an idea had suddenly occurred to her and then said in a solicitous tone, ‘Perhaps you are not feeling well?’
‘Thank you, I am perfectly well,’ said Mr. Latimer absently.
‘You must go on with the Sanatogen,’ said Miss Doggett, ‘and you ought to have milk or Ovaltine at bedtime. I expect it will be possible for you to get it in Paris. You know, we use up more energy in the summer,’ she added, remembering an advertisement she had seen somewhere, ‘and you had a tiring day yesterday.’
That was it. He had a tiring day yesterday, thought Miss Doggett, suddenly relieved. He would be himself again tomorrow, not this strange, inattentive man who seemed suddenly to have lost all his principles.
But Miss Morrow knew that it was the beginning of the end. Mr. Latimer was starting to break away, if he had not already broken. It would not be long now before Miss Doggett would have to be finding herself another curate, preferably an old, disillusioned one with no spirit left in him, who had long ago given up the struggle. One who would be thankful just to have a bed and food and a corner in a dark Victorian-Gothic house in North Oxford where he might end his days in peace. It was no use trying to keep young, handsome curates like Mr. Latimer on the leash, however emphatically they might declare their belief in the celibacy of the clergy. Before many months were over they would be looking round for a way of escape.
They got up from the breakfast table, and Mr. Latimer was at once busy with a hundred and one odd jobs. It was quite obvious that he would have no time to speak to Mr. Cleveland that day.
Miss Doggett said nothing more about it. She had evidently decided that all she wanted was to avoid doing anything that might frighten Mr. Latimer away from Leamington Lodge. It hardly mattered that he condoned adultery as long as he returned to her after his holiday. That was the chief thing.
At the last minute she sent Miss Morrow running out after him with a small package.
‘Here, don’t go,’ she called, waving it in the air. ‘Miss Doggett thinks you ought to have this.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Mothersill,’ said Miss Morrow, ‘for sea-sickness.’
‘But I told her I was a good sailor,’ said Mr. Latimer plaintively. ‘Good-bye!’
‘Remember my cousin Bertha and her experience,’ said Miss Morrow, laughing.
‘I certainly will,’ he called out as he drove away.
Miss Morrow watched the high two-seater with its tottering pile of luggage until it was out of sight and then walked slowly back to Leamington Lodge.
There was something particularly final about this departure of Mr. Latimer’s, she felt. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. It was like the closing of a door, she thought dramatically, this rattling of the car away from Leamington Lodge, up the Banbury Road, into St. Giles’ and then on to the road to Dover.
It was a lovely morning, when even the monkey-puzzle was bathed in sunshine. She clasped a branch in her hand and stood feeling its prickliness and looking up into the dark tower of the branches. It was like being in church. And yet on a day like this, one realised that it was a living thing too and had beauty, as most living things have in some form or another. Dear monkey-puzzle, thought Miss Morrow, impulsively clasping her arms round the trunk.
‘Now, Miss Morrow,’ came Miss Doggett’s voice, loud and firm, ‘you must find some other time to indulge in your nature worship or whatever it is. You look quite ridiculous. I hope nobody saw you.’
‘Only God can make a tree,’ said Miss Morrow unexpectedly.
Miss Doggett did not argue the point but remarked that the trunk was dirty and Miss Morrow had probably soiled her dress.
Miss Morrow glanced down at her bosom, so appropriately clothed in dust-coloured Macclesfield silk with a bluish-grey stripe.
‘I don’t think it shows,’ she said complacently. That was the best of drab clothes. One could be a nature worshipper without fear of soiling one’s dress.
‘The sheets must be taken off Mr. Latimer’s bed,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘Perhaps you would go and help Florence. The curtains can come down too; it will be a good chance to get them cleaned.’
Miss Morrow went into the house thinking about the trivial round, the common task. A companion asked really nothing, indeed, she had no right to, and Miss Morrow considered herself lucky to be able to occupy herself with those things that would furnish her with all she needed to ask.
‘Room to deny ourselves; a road to bring us, daily, nearer God,’ she thought, as she tugged the sheets off the bed. She felt no sentimentality as she did it. That heap on the floor was to her nothing more than a pile of sheets to be sent to the laundry. She was really a very lucky woman. It might well have been otherwise.
Meanwhile Mr. Latimer was bowling along in his high two-seater. Although he was going on holiday he did not feel entirely carefree. There was an uncomfortable feeling at the back of his mind. ‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those th
ings which we ought not to have done,’ he thought, the words coming automatically to him. Every Sunday the congregation of St. Botolph’s bleated it like sheep and he, who should have been their shepherd, bleated with them. He had meant to thank Miss Nollard and Miss Foxe for those alms-bags. He had meant to do that balance-sheet for the Boys’ Club. He ought really to have been less feeble about the Cleveland affair. If only he had somebody to help him, to make him do these things, perhaps even to do them for him.
As he got near the end of his journey he began to feel that he didn’t at all want to go to France. His friend, the Reverend Theodore James, was rather too serious a companion for a holiday. He couldn’t think now why he had suggested that he should join him. It wasn’t as if they had ever liked each other. Still, it was too late to do anything about it now, and at least they would be able to have a good talk about old times, rejoic-ing over those of their contemporaries who had not fulfilled their early promise and belittling those who had.
XVII. A Confrontation
Ought one to dress up as if for a ceremonial occasion? Miss Morrow wondered, as she got ready in her bedroom. Was her brown marocain good enough, or should she have bought a flowered chiffon from Webber’s? They had been showing some nice ones in the window. She set her beige straw hat firmly on her head, took her gloves and a clean handkerchief out of a drawer, and hurried downstairs.
Miss Doggett was already waiting in the hall. She was dressed in black, and her sombre magnificence made Miss Morrow feel light and summery and somehow inadequate.
‘Have you got my smelling salts?’ Miss Doggett asked. ‘Give them to me. I may need them.’
‘Here you are,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘Would it perhaps be better if I didn’t come?’