A Clergyman's Daughter Page 28

shillings for the carriage. So Dorothy had five pounds fifteen in

  hand, which might keep her for three weeks with careful economy.

  What she was going to do, except that she must start by going to

  London and finding a suitable lodging, she had very little idea.

  But her first panic had worn off, and she realized that the

  situation was not altogether desperate. No doubt her father would

  help her, at any rate for a while, and at the worst, though she

  hated even the thought of doing it, she could ask her cousin's help

  a second time. Besides, her chances of finding a job were probably

  fairly good. She was young, she spoke with a genteel accent, and

  she was willing to drudge for a servant's wages--qualities that are

  much sought after by the proprietors of fourth-rate schools. Very

  likely all would be well. But that there was an evil time ahead of

  her, a time of job-hunting, of uncertainty and possibly of hunger--

  that, at any rate, was certain.

  CHAPTER 5

  1

  However, it turned out quite otherwise. For Dorothy had not gone

  five yards from the gate when a telegraph boy came riding up the

  street in the opposite direction, whistling and looking at the

  names of the houses. He saw the name Ringwood House, wheeled his

  bicycle round, propped it against the kerb, and accosted Dorothy.

  'Miss Mill-BURROW live 'ere?' he said, jerking his head in the

  direction of Ringwood House.

  'Yes. I am Miss Millborough.'

  'Gotter wait case there's a answer,' said the boy, taking an

  orange-coloured envelope from his belt.

  Dorothy put down her bag. She had once more begun trembling

  violently. And whether this was from joy or fear she was not

  certain, for two conflicting thoughts had sprung almost

  simultaneously into her brain. One, 'This is some kind of good

  news!' The other, 'Father is seriously ill!' She managed to tear

  the envelope open, and found a telegram which occupied two pages,

  and which she had the greatest difficulty in understanding. It

  ran:

  Rejoice in the lord o ye righteous note of exclamation great news

  note of exclamation your reputation absolutely reestablished stop

  mrs semprill fallen into the pit that she hath digged stop action

  for libel stop no one believes her any longer stop your father

  wishes you return home immediately stop am coming up to town myself

  comma will pick you up if you like stop arriving shortly after this

  stop wait for me stop praise him with the loud cymbals note of

  exclamation much love stop.

  No need to look at the signature. It was from Mr Warburton, of

  course. Dorothy felt weaker and more tremulous than ever. She was

  dimly aware the telegraph boy was asking her something.

  'Any answer?' he said for the third or fourth time.

  'Not today, thank you,' said Dorothy vaguely.

  The boy remounted his bicycle and rode off, whistling with extra

  loudness to show Dorothy how much he despised her for not tipping

  him. But Dorothy was unaware of the telegraph's boy's scorn. The

  only phrase of the telegram that she had fully understood was 'your

  father wishes you return home immediately', and the surprise of it

  had left her in a semi-dazed condition. For some indefinite time

  she stood on the pavement, until presently a taxi rolled up the

  street, with Mr Warburton inside it. He saw Dorothy, stopped the

  taxi, jumped out and came across to meet her, beaming. He seized

  her both hands.

  'Hullo!' he cried, and at once threw his arm pseudo-paternally

  about her and drew her against him, heedless of who might be

  looking. 'How are you? But by Jove, how thin you've got! I can

  feel all your ribs. Where is this school of yours?'

  Dorothy, who had not yet managed to get free of his arm, turned

  partly round and cast a glance towards the dark windows of Ringwood

  House.

  'What! That place? Good God, what a hole! What have you done

  with your luggage?'

  'It's inside. I've left them the money to send it on. I think

  it'll be all right.'

  'Oh, nonsense! Why pay? We'll take it with us. It can go on top

  of the taxi.'

  'No, no! Let them send it. I daren't go back. Mrs Creevy would

  be horribly angry.'

  'Mrs Creevy? Who's Mrs Creevy?'

  'The headmistress--at least, she owns the school.'

  'What, a dragon, is she? Leave her to me--I'll deal with her.

  Perseus and the Gorgon, what? You are Andromeda. Hi!' he called

  to the taxi-driver.

  The two of them went up to the front door and Mr Warburton knocked.

  Somehow, Dorothy never believed that they would succeed in getting

  her box from Mrs Creevy. In fact, she half expected to see them

  come out flying for their lives, and Mrs Creevy after them with her

  broom. However, in a couple of minutes they reappeared, the taxi-

  driver carrying the box on his shoulder. Mr Warburton handed

  Dorothy into the taxi and, as they sat down, dropped half a crown

  into her hand.

  'What a woman! What a woman!' he said comprehensively as the taxi

  bore them away. 'How the devil have you put up with it all this

  time?'

  'What is this?' said Dorothy, looking at the coin.

  'Your half-crown that you left to pay for the luggage. Rather a

  feat getting it out of the old girl, wasn't it?'

  'But I left five shillings!' said Dorothy.

  'What! The woman told me you only left half a crown. By God, what

  impudence! We'll go back and have the half-crown out of her. Just

  to spite her!' He tapped on the glass.

  'No, no!' said Dorothy, laying her hand on his arm. 'It doesn't

  matter in the least. Let's get away from here--right away. I

  couldn't bear to go back to that place again--EVER!'

  It was quite true. She felt that she would sacrifice not merely

  half a crown, but all the money in her possession, sooner than set

  eyes on Ringwood House again. So they drove on, leaving Mrs Creevy

  victorious. It would be interesting to know whether this was

  another of the occasions when Mrs Creevy laughed.

  Mr Warburton insisted on taking the taxi the whole way into London,

  and talked so voluminously in the quieter patches of the traffic

  that Dorothy could hardly get a word in edgeways. It was not till

  they had reached the inner suburbs that she got from him an

  explanation of the sudden change in her fortunes.

  'Tell me,' she said, 'what is it that's happened? I don't

  understand. Why is it all right for me to go home all of a sudden?

  Why don't people believe Mrs Semprill any longer? Surely she

  hasn't confessed?'

  'Confessed? Not she! But her sins have found her out, all the

  same. It was the kind of thing that you pious people would ascribe

  to the finger of Providence. Cast thy bread upon the waters, and

  all that. She got herself into a nasty mess--an action for libel.

  We've talked of nothing else in Knype Hill for the last fortnight.

  I though you would have seen something about it in the newspapers.'

  'I've hardly looked at a p
aper for ages. Who brought an action for

  libel? Not my father, surely?'

  'Good gracious, no! Clergymen can't bring actions for libel. It

  was the bank manager. Do you remember her favourite story about

  him--how he was keeping a woman on the bank's money, and so forth?'

  'Yes, I think so.'

  'A few months ago she was foolish enough to put some of it in

  writing. Some kind friend--some female friend, I presume--took the

  letter round to the bank manager. He brought an action--Mrs

  Semprill was ordered to pay a hundred and fifty pounds damages.

  I don't suppose she paid a halfpenny, but still, that's the end of

  her career as a scandalmonger. You can go on blackening people's

  reputations for years, and everyone will believe you, more or less,

  even when it's perfectly obvious that you're lying. But once

  you've been proved a liar in open court, you're disqualified, so to

  speak. Mrs Semprill's done for, so far as Knype Hill goes. She

  left the town between days--practically did a moonlight flit, in

  fact. I believe she's inflicting herself on Bury St Edmunds at

  present.'

  'But what has all that got to do with the things she said about you

  and me?'

  'Nothing--nothing whatever. But why worry? The point is that

  you're reinstated; and all the hags who've been smacking their

  chops over you for months past are saying, "Poor, poor Dorothy, how

  SHOCKINGLY that dreadful woman has treated her!"'

  'You mean they think that because Mrs Semprill was telling lies in

  one case she must have been telling lies in another?'

  'No doubt that's what they'd say if they were capable of reasoning

  it out. At any rate, Mrs Semprill's in disgrace, and so all the

  people she's slandered must be martyrs. Even MY reputation is

  practically spotless for the time being.'

  'And do you think that's really the end of it? Do you think they

  honestly believe that it was all an accident--that I only lost my

  memory and didn't elope with anybody?'

  'Oh, well, I wouldn't go as far as that. In these country places

  there's always a certain amount of suspicion knocking about. Not

  suspicion of anything in particular, you know; just generalized

  suspicion. A sort of instinctive rustic dirty-mindedness. I can

  imagine its being vaguely rumoured in the bar parlour of the Dog

  and Bottle in ten years' time that you've got some nasty secret in

  your past, only nobody can remember what. Still, your troubles are

  over. If I were you I wouldn't give any explanations till you're

  asked for them. The official theory is that you had a bad attack

  of flu and went away to recuperate. I should stick to that.

  You'll find they'll accept it all right. Officially, there's

  nothing against you.

  Presently they got to London, and Mr Warburton took Dorothy to

  lunch at a restaurant in Coventry Street, where they had a young

  chicken, roasted, with asparagus and tiny, pearly-white potatoes

  that had been ripped untimely from their mother earth, and also

  treacle tart and a nice warm bottle of Burgundy; but what gave

  Dorothy the most pleasure of all, after Mrs Creevy's lukewarm water

  tea, was the black coffee they had afterwards. After lunch they

  took another taxi to Liverpool Street Station and caught the 2.45.

  It was a four-hour journey to Knype Hill.

  Mr Warburton insisted on travelling first-class, and would not hear

  of Dorothy paying her own fare; he also, when Dorothy was not

  looking, tipped the guard to let them have a carriage to themselves.

  It was one of those bright cold days which are spring or winter

  according as you are indoors or out. From behind the shut windows

  of the carriage the too-blue sky looked warm and kind, and all the

  slummy wilderness through which the train was rattling--the

  labyrinths of little dingy-coloured houses, the great chaotic

  factories, the miry canals, and derelict building lots littered with

  rusty boilers and overgrown by smoke-blackened weeds--all were

  redeemed and gilded by the sun. Dorothy hardly spoke for the first

  half-hour of the journey. For the moment she was too happy to talk.

  She did not even think of anything in particular, but merely sat

  there luxuriating in the glass-filtered sunlight, in the comfort of

  the padded seat and the feeling of having escaped from Mrs Creevy's

  clutches. But she was aware that this mood could not last very much

  longer. Her contentment, like the warmth of the wine that she had

  drunk at lunch, was ebbing away, and thoughts either painful or

  difficult to express were taking shape in her mind. Mr Warburton

  had been watching her face, more observantly than was usual for him,

  as though trying to gauge the changes that the past eight months had

  worked in her.

  'You look older,' he said finally.

  'I am older,' said Dorothy.

  'Yes; but you look--well, more completely grown up. Tougher.

  Something has changed in your face. You look--if you'll forgive

  the expression--as though the Girl Guide had been exorcized from

  you for good and all. I hope seven devils haven't entered into you

  instead?' Dorothy did not answer, and he added: 'I suppose, as a

  matter of fact, you must have had the very devil of a time?'

  'Oh, beastly! Sometimes too beastly for words. Do you know that

  sometimes--'

  She paused. She had been about to tell him how she had had to beg

  for her food; how she had slept in the streets; how she had been

  arrested for begging and spent a night in the police cells; how Mrs

  Creevy had nagged at her and starved her. But she stopped, because

  she had suddenly realized that these were not the things that she

  wanted to talk about. Such things as these, she perceived, are of

  no real importance; they are mere irrelevant accidents, not

  essentially different from catching a cold in the head or having to

  wait two hours at a railway junction. They are disagreeable, but

  they do not matter. The truism that all real happenings are in the

  mind struck her more forcibly than ever before, and she said:

  'Those things don't really matter. I mean, things like having no

  money and not having enough to eat. Even when you're practically

  starving--it doesn't CHANGE anything inside you.'

  'Doesn't it? I'll take your word for it. I should be very sorry

  to try.'

  'Oh, well, it's beastly while it's happening, of course; but it

  doesn't make any real difference; it's the things that happen

  inside you that matter.'

  'Meaning?' said Mr Warburton.

  'Oh--things change in your mind. And then the whole world changes,

  because you look at it differently.'

  She was still looking out of the window. The train had drawn clear

  of the eastern slums and was running at gathering speed past

  willow-bordered streams and low-lying meadows upon whose hedges the

  first buds made a faint soft greenness, like a cloud. In a field

  near the line a month-old calf, flat as a Noah's Ark animal, was

  bounding stiff-legged after its mother, and in a cottage garden anr />
  old labourer, with slow, rheumatic movements, was turning over the

  soil beneath a pear tree covered with ghostly bloom. His spade

  flashed in the sun as the train passed. The depressing hymn-line

  'Change and decay in all around I see' moved through Dorothy's

  mind. It was true what she had said just now. Something had

  happened in her heart, and the world was a little emptier, a little

  poorer from that minute. On such a day as this, last spring or any

  earlier spring, how joyfully, and how unthinkingly, she would have

  thanked God for the first blue skies and the first flowers of the

  reviving year! And now, seemingly, there was no God to thank, and

  nothing--not a flower or a stone or a blade of grass--nothing in

  the universe would ever be the same again.

  'Things change in your mind,' she repeated. 'I've lost my faith,'

  she added, somewhat abruptly, because she found herself half

  ashamed to utter the words.

  'You've lost your WHAT?' said Mr Warburton, less accustomed than

  she to this kind of phraseology.

  'My faith. Oh, you know what I mean! A few months ago, all of a

  sudden, it seemed as if my whole mind had changed. Everything that

  I'd believed in till then--everything--seemed suddenly meaningless

  and almost silly. God--what I'd meant by God--immortal life,

  Heaven and Hell--everything. It had all gone. And it wasn't that

  I'd reasoned it out; it just happened to me. It was like when

  you're a child, and one day, for no particular reason, you stop

  believing in fairies. I just couldn't go on believing in it any

  longer.'

  'You never did believe in it,' said Mr Warburton unconcernedly.

  'But I did, really I did! I know you always thought I didn't--you

  thought I was just pretending because I was ashamed to own up. But

  it wasn't that at all. I believed it just as I believe that I'm

  sitting in this carriage.'

  'Of course you didn't, my poor child! How could you, at your age?

  You were far too intelligent for that. But you'd been brought up

  in these absurd beliefs, and you'd allowed yourself to go on

  thinking, in a sort of way, that you could still swallow them.

  You'd built yourself a life-pattern--if you'll excuse a bit of

  psychological jargon--that was only possible for a believer, and

  naturally it was beginning to be a strain on you. In fact, it was

  obvious all the time what was the matter with you. I should say

  that in all probability that was why you lost your memory.'

  'What do you mean?' she said, rather puzzled by this remark.

  He saw that she did not understand, and explained to her that loss

  of memory is only a device, unconsciously used, to escape from an

  impossible situation. The mind, he said, will play curious tricks

  when it is in a tight corner. Dorothy had never heard of anything

  of this kind before, and she could not at first accept his

  explanation. Nevertheless she considered it for a moment, and

  perceived that, even if it were true, it did not alter the

  fundamental fact.

  'I don't see that it makes any difference,' she said finally.

  'Doesn't it? I should have said it made a considerable

  difference.'

  'But don't you see, if my faith is gone, what does it matter

  whether I've only lost it now or whether I'd really lost it years

  ago? All that matters is that it's gone, and I've got to begin my

  life all over again.'

  'Surely I don't take you to mean,' said Mr Warburton, 'that you

  actually REGRET losing your faith, as you call it? One might as

  well regret losing a goitre. Mind you, I'm speaking, as it were,

  without the book--as a man who never had very much faith to lose.

  The little I had passed away quite painlessly at the age of nine.

  But it's hardly the kind of thing I should have thought anyone

  would REGRET losing. Used you not, if I remember rightly, to do