Soon after that occasion when I had seen the guests riding out from Oakland, I heard that the owner had gone away for a while. Only the servants remained, and there were no longer sounds of revelry across the stream, for visitors never came-only those, of course, connected with servants and they were quite different.
Life went on for a while in the old way-my father solitary with his patience and his walks and the ability to shut himself away from his complaining family; my mother dominating the household, busying herself with Church matters, looking after the poor, of which community she was constantly’re minding us we had become a part.
However, we were at least still sufficiently of the gentry to dispense benefits rather than receive them; Xavier went his quiet way, dreaming no doubt of the unattainable Lady Clara (my sympathy was tinged with impatience because had I been Lady Clara, I should have said it was all nonsense to make a barrier of her money, and if I were Xavier, I should have said the same); and Miriam and her curate too. Of course she might be like Poor Jarman and bring a lot of children into the world.
Curates did seem to breed rather freely and the poorer they were the more fecund they seemed to be.
So as the years began to pass the mystery remained, but my curiosity did not diminish. I became more and more certain that there was a reason why the family gave me the impression that I was an intruder.
Prayers were said each morning at the start of the day and every member of the household had to be present for them -even my father was expected to attend. These were said in the drawing-room, “Since,” my mother often commented coldly, ‘we have no chapel now! ” And she would throw a venomous glance towards my father and then turn to Oakland Hall, where for so many years she had knelt in what was meant to be humility. Poor Jarman, Mrs. Cobb, and Maddy would be present.
“All the staff,” my mother would say bitterly.
“At Oakland there were so many that one did not know all their names, only those of the ones in higher positions.”
It was a solemn ceremony conducted by my mother when she exhorted us all to be humble, grateful, and conduct ourselves with virtue in the station into which God had called us-which always seemed incongruous to me since she was far from contented with hers. She was inclined to be a little hectoring towards God, I thought. It was: “Look down on this” and “Don’t do that…” as though she were talking to one of the superior servants she must have had at Oakland Hall.
I always found morning prayers irksome, but I did enjoy the church services, though perhaps for the wrong reasons. The church was a fine one, and the stained glass windows, with their beautiful colours, a joy to study. Opal colours, I called them with satisfaction. I loved the singing of the choir and most ‘of all I liked to sing myself. I always thought of the times of the year through hymns.
“Christian, dost thou see them,” used to thrill me; and I would look over my shoulder almost expecting to see the troops of Midian prowling around.
Harvest time was lovely.
“We plough the fields and scatter …” and “Hark the Herald Angels’ at Christmas; but best of all I loved Easter:
“Hallelujah. Christ the Lord is risen today.” Easter was a lovely time, when the flowers were all delicate colours whites and yellows, and the spring had come and the summer was on the way. Miriam used to go and decorate the church. I wondered whether the curate helped her and whether they sadly talked of their inability to marry’ because they were so poor, I always wanted to point out that the people in the cottages had far less and yet seemed happy enough. But at least the church was beautiful and particularly at Easter time.
We still had the Clavering pew in the church. This consisted of the two front pews with a little door, which had a lock and key, and when we walked in behind my father and mother, I believe she felt that the good old days were back. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed going to church.
After luncheon on Easter Sunday we always went to the churchyard taking flowers, and these we put on the graves of the more recent family dead. Here again, prestige was restored, for the Clavering section was in the most favourable position and the headstones were the most elaborate in the churchyard. I know my mother was constantly irritated by the fact that when she died her memorial would be far less splendid than it would have been if the money to provide a worthy one had not been gambled away.
I was sixteen years old on that particular Easter Sunday. Growing up, I thought, and I should soon no longer be a child. I wondered what the future held for me. I didn’t fancy growing old in the Dower House like Miriam, who was now thirty-one years of age and as far from marriage with her curate as ever.
The service was beautiful and the theme interesting.
“Be content and thankful with what the Lord has given you.” A very good homily for the Claverings, I thought, and I wondered whether the Rev. Jasper Grey had had them in mind when delivering it. Was he reminding them that the Dower House . was a comfortable residence and quite grand by standards other than those of Oakland Hall; Miriam and her curate should be thankful and marry; Xavier and Lady Clara should do the same; my father should be allowed to forget that he had brought us to our present state; and my mother should rejoice in what she had. As for myself, I was happy enough and if only I could find the answers to certain questions which plagued me I should be quite content. Perhaps somewhere inside me I yearned to be loved, for I had never really enjoyed that blessing. I wanted someone’s eyes to light up when I came by. I wanted someone to be a little anxious if I were late coming home-not because unpunctuality was undesirable and ill-mannered but because they were fearful that some ill fortune had come to me.
“Oh God,” I prayed, ‘let someone love me. “Then I laughed at myself, because I was telling Him what to do just as my mother did.
When the time came to visit the graves I took a basket of daffodils and walked with Miriam and Mama from the Dower House to the church.
There was a pump in the Clavering section from which we filled the jars which were kept there, and then put the flowers on the graves.
There was Grandfather, who had begun to fritter away the family fortunes, and there was Grandmother and the Greats, and my father’s brother and sister. We could not, of course, deck out the graves of all the dead. I liked to wander round and look at the shrubs and open books in stone and read the engraved words. There were memorials to John Clavering, who had died at the battle of Preston for his King in 1648. James who had died at Malplaquet. There was another for Harold, who had been killed at Trafalgar. We were a fighting family.
“Do come away, Jessica,” said Mama.
“I do declare you have a morbid streak.”
Called from the guns of Trafalgar I walked solemnly back to the Dower House, and it was later that afternoon when I wandered out through the gardens to the edge of the stream. I was still thinking of long-dead Claverings who had died so valiantly for their country and how John had fought the Roundheads in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his King on the throne, a struggle which had cost the King not only his throne but his head, and James fighting with Marlborough and Harold with Nelson.
We Claverings had taken our part in the making of history, I told myself proudly.
Following the stream I came to the end of the Dower House gardens.
There was a stretch of meadow-about an acre in which the grass grew long and unkempt. By the hedge grew archangel or white dead-nettle with its flowers just coming out. They would be there until December, and later the bees would be so busy on them that it wouldn’t be possible to get near them. Very few people ever came here and it was called the Waste Land.
As I walked across it I noticed a bunch of dog violets tied up with white cotton, which was wound round their stems. I stopped to pick them up and as I divided the grass I saw that the spot on which they had been lying was slightly raised. It was a plot of about six feet long.
Like a grave, I thought. I How could it be a grave? Because I had been to the church yard that afternoon with Easter flowers my mind was on graves. I knelt down and pushed aside the grass. I felt round the earth. Yes, it was a mound. It must be a grave, and today someone had put a bunch of violets on it.
Who could possibly be buried on the Waste Land? I went and sat thoughtfully by the stream and asked myself what it meant.
The first person I encountered when I went back to the house was Maddy, who, now that I no longer needed a nurse, had become maid of all work. She was at the linen cupboard sorting out sheets.
“Maddy,” I said, “I saw a grave today.” It’s Easter Sunday so I reckon you did,” she retorted.
“Oh, not in the churchyard. In the Waste Land. I’m sure it was a grave.”
She turned away, but not before I had seen that her expression was one of shocked horror. She knew there was a grave in the Waste Land.
“Whose was it?” I insisted.
‘now why ask me ? “
“Because you know.”
“Miss Jessica, it’s time you stopped putting people in the witness box. You’re too inquisitive by half.”
“It’s only a natural thirst for knowledge.”
“It’s what I call having your nose into everything. There’s a word for that. Plain nosiness.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know who’s buried in the Waste Land.”
“Buried in the Waste Land,” she mimicked; but she had betrayed herself. She was uneasy.
"The Pride of the Peacock" отзывы
Отзывы читателей о книге "The Pride of the Peacock". Читайте комментарии и мнения людей о произведении.
Понравилась книга? Поделитесь впечатлениями - оставьте Ваш отзыв и расскажите о книге "The Pride of the Peacock" друзьям в соцсетях.