The church, which was dedicated to Saint Michael and All Angels, was strikingly situated upon a gra.s.sy hillock on the (from Penndean) far side of the river Lip, reached by an ancient stone bridge. Continuing from the bridge a little lane, just viable for cars, led up the hill, ceasing at the church gate. The church was built out of the local grey stone which often gleamed and sparkled. It had a st.u.r.dy square tower, and a statue of the saint, battered it was said by Cromwell's men, over the doorway. The interior was dark, the five windows, mostly decorated, being filled with Victorian stained gla.s.s. The east window presented the soldier saint triumphant, leaning upon his sword, the side windows Christ healing and teaching. The crucifixion was represented only by a wooden gilded image, nineteenth century, hanging in the chancel arch. The elaborately carved pulpit was Jacobean, made to glow by many hands which had stroked the saints who were portrayed upon it, the big solid fourteenth-century font was carved with interlaced arches with stars and crosses, there was a kneeling female figure in an alcove, and an alabaster reclining figure of a knight in armour, open-eyed and praying, with his dog at his feet. Tablets remained on the walls, but not in great numbers since some cleansing Rector at the beginning of the century had stripped away many of these. Two memorials, beautifully lettered in slate, commemorated the village victims of two wars, forty-five in the First World War (including a relative of Edward's) and four in the second. The handsome church had contained in its long past many more embellishments and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, only time, warfare, thieves and loss of congregations had dimmed it.

They parked the car over the bridge, on the church side, deciding to walk the rest. Here Benet felt his guilt at having abandoned the attentions which had bound him to the people of the village. Beyond the church, close to it served by little lanes on the other side, was the small but serviceable eighteenth-century Rectory, opened for Oliver Caxton's regular visits. The sun was shining from an almost cloudless sky. Benet and his party neared the church gate.

A large crowd had now gathered outside the gate. Benet was thinking, why on earth have I brought Rosalind, she just insisted on coming, and now this mob will see her tears. The news has got round already! Oliver must have been busy. They look threatening, we shall have to elbow our way. However, as they approached, there were some friendly and courteous faces, and Benet quickly led his party through. Only a few stared with amus.e.m.e.nt, most lowered their eyes, some bowed their heads, and there were a few incoherent murmurs of sympathy. One youth (on holiday) who said loudly, 'Too bad, chum, she's bolted!' was hushed up by others. Rosalind was not crying. They mounted the little gra.s.sy path, Oliver Caxton, standing at the door of the church, ushered them into the cool dark interior. There was a strong scent of innumerable flowers. Mildred and Rosalind sat down near the front. After a moment or two Mildred pulled out one of the kneelers, finely embroidered long ago by ladies of the parish, and knelt down, gazing up at the gilded figure of Christ which, in the sudden dark, seemed to be poised alone in mid-air above the chancel. Benet stood with Oliver in the aisle. The church was otherwise empty.

'Has anyone arrived yet?'

'Benet, I am so sorry - '

'Has anyone -?'

'No. I've put sentinels out in all the lanes. There'll be some cars I suppose.'

'Yes, we couldn't get hold of all of them by telephone. We - I - have got to collect them and talk with them. We can't just say "go home, the thing is off!" '

'Should we direct them up to Penndean?' 'No, for heaven's sake! I don't want them up there! We can't make it into a kind of muted feast. Have you seen Edward?'

'I was going to ask you that. I've telephoned Hatting-'

'So have I: He has gone to London, I think, only he doesn't answer the phone.'

'Oh dear, what a very tragic business! Look, I've been thinking, let me deal, at least we can give them sandwiches in the Rectory - I've already-'

'Oh h.e.l.l,' said Benet, 'I haven't thought it out-'

'It's remarkable you can think at all. Oh how dreadful for both of them-'

Now Mildred was standing beside them. 'Benet, we must be outside where they'll be parking their cars, we must field them at once - '

'Oliver says sandwiches in the Rectory. I suppose I should have brought the bridal cake down! At least we can give away the flowers!'

'I think they will want to go away at once,' said Mildred. 'They'll respect our misery - they'll realise we don't want to chat - now look here - '

'Oliver says he's posted sentinels, but we must speak-'

'Make a speech?'

'No, to each of them individually-'

'Perhaps they'll tell each other and go away.'

'No, they'll want to see us, to find out what's happened-'

'But if we don't know -! It's just as well Edward has disappeared, he'll be in London by now!'

In fact the problem did not turn out to be so insoluble. Oliver Caxton's sentinels, standing in the lanes, stopped the guests and informed them that the wedding was cancelled. If the guests desired more information or wished for some reason to stay they were directed to the Rectory, where by now sandwiches, and later drinks, it was said, were available. A few who, since it was such a lovely day, had left their cars earlier at a distance and walked, arriving through the meadows, were also dealt with by sentinels. There were, as Benet had said, not all that many. Some tactfully went away at once, back, usually to London, others it was later known returned as far as the Sea Kings, looking for lunch and rumours. The rest stayed politely at the Rectory for what Benet had called a muted feast.

Rosalind had remained alone in the church. Of course she knew it well, though she had not often been to services there. Of course all churches were magical places. But this one seemed to her, especially in her present state of shock, something more absolutely amazing. She began to walk about in the heavy silence. She felt an impulse to touch things and thereby make them, in her terrible distress, her own. She walked quietly upon the brown encaustic tiles towards the altar, pa.s.sing beneath the gilded Christ, up the steps into the chancel. She looked up at the soldier saint, pale and young, in armour, with golden hair, leaning gracefully, pensively, upon his long sword, gazing over her head into the interior of the church. Rosalind turned round - he was reckoning up his countless angelic host - and in that moment there was a strange pressure of beings surging up out of the dark. She turned back again, touching hastily the small wooden cross upon the altar, it seemed strangely damp as if it were clinging to her hand, like a poor little animal. She let go quickly and walked away backwards, slipping over the step down from the chancel. Looking at the saint from there she noticed between his feet the decapitated head of the immense reptile, opening its mouth piteously, showing its white teeth and terrified anguished eyes. She thought, poor innocent serpent. Of course she had seen it before. She turned now hastily toward the door. Out of the dimness a human form, rec.u.mbent, was taking shape. Of course it was the lonely alabaster knight, also in armour, deep in his alcove, whom someone had shown to her long ago, pointing out the little dog which lay at his feet. Rosalind stroked the dog, feeling his head, his p.r.i.c.ked-up ears, and the tossed locks of his fur. Then, breathing deeply, she gently touched the serene and ancient face of the warrior, worn away by time and the caresses of innumerable pilgrims. Her fingers touched his lips and it was as if his lips moved. She went quickly away and made for the door.

Outside the sun was shining as brightly and hotly as before. Rosalind stood for a moment in the doorway covering her eyes. She gave a sudden cry, like a bird's cry, as she emerged from the dark. She moved forward into the open. From here the Rectory was well visible, and she could see people emerging from it, whom she recognised. Benet was standing there, saying farewell evidently to Charles and Jennie Moxon. Oh how weird it was, and terrible, what an extraordinary scene as if some great ceremony were being performed. She thought, they will never forget it, I shall never forget it. And - they will never forgive it. Afraid that someone, even at this distance, might see her and call to her, Rosalind turned away, pa.s.sing behind the church towards, on a higher level, the churchyard, and, among the grave stones, the immense dark centuries-old yew trees. She thought she would hide among those trees. Then she saw something, somebody, just visible from where she stood now, dark before the sweeping lower boughs of one of the trees, a man, sitting upon the flat top of a tombstone and looking down. Rosalind stopped and once more walked backward, then ran. The man was Edward. He had not seen her. She thought, oh poor poor Edward - he is waiting there in case Marian should come after all!

'I hope that's the lot,' said Benet to Mildred.

'I hope so, I think so.'

'Owen didn't turn up.'

'Oh yes he did! I saw him with one of the sentinels in the meadow and then-'

'Those sentinels deserve some food and drink-'

'They're here in the kitchen, and Owen too!'

'What a weird business. You know, some of them enjoyed it!'

'Of course! The Moxons patently did, and the children-'

'Well, Elizabeth was in tears.'

'Yes. She loves Marian. I think she's gone back to London now-'

'We should have detained her-'

'Impossible.'

'At any rate we've made contact with Anna. She's gone now too, hasn't she? I hope she won't skip back to France.'

'Oh dear, listen to all those roars of laughter in the kitchen!'

'Surely they wouldn't laugh now and in front of Oliver!'

'He's upstairs, oh here he is, Oliver, thank you so much. Did you ring Alexander?'

'Yes. I'm afraid he found it rather amusing.'

'Oh h.e.l.l. I suppose now everyone knows - what she did - how she ditched him at the last moment-'

'Well, yes, that's what you told me, I thought you wanted it to be public-'

'Don't worry, Oliver, you've been a brick. We've caused you a lot of trouble. We're going back to Penndean. Do come later, well, some of us will be gone-'

Back at Penndean there was no enthusiasm for lunch. Owen arrived on foot rather drunk and fell asleep in the drawing room. Rosalind had gone upstairs to lie down. Mildred was anxious to get back to London and be 'on the track' as she put it. Marian must be found, some of the people whom they had 'caught' this morning might already have found her. There was no point in staying longer at Penn.

After some discussion Benet agreed that Mildred should go at once, with Owen. Rosalind was nowhere to be found. Owen woke up and said of course he would drive Mildred to London, only his car was down at the Sea Kings, since he had walked from there to the church.'Though they had already declared that a walk down to the pub would do them good, Benet pointed out that they would have to carry all Mildred's luggage, and in the end he drove them down himself. When he got back to the house there was still no sign of Rosalind.

Soon after her return to Penndean, Rosalind had left again with one view in her mind. She must see Edward. She had kept secret that glimpse of him sitting upon the tombstone beneath the yew trees. Of course he had not gone to London, he had just stayed hidden at Hatting, like a secretive animal fading into the landscape. He had not been able to resist emerging to see the arrivals, perhaps thinking desperately that Marian would come after all, materialising at the church, surprised to find them all confounded, taken in by the awful evil false message. After changing into her male attire, Rosalind left Penndean, not by the drive, but by a gate in the wall farther down the road, reached by a little path through the trees. The gate, sometimes locked, was now fortunately not locked. She crossed the road and followed through tall gra.s.s a scarcely perceptible right of way running steeply down to the River Lip at a place where there was a shaky little wooden bridge, always said to be likely to fall down. Crossing swiftly, lightly, she glimpsed below her the dark little river enclosed by the many wild flowers, whose names she could not remember. After the river, she had left Benet's territory, and entered Edward's territory. (They still feuded about the bridge.) She climbed over a stile and slowed down in a field which showed evidence of cultivation. Here she paused to greet a dear friend, a horse called Spencer, once a hunter, a very old horse now, Edward had told the girls about him some time ago. Spencer, who knew her well, advanced slowly moving his big gentle brown head to and fro. Rosalind hugged his head, and tears which she had been checking came again, and her wet tears smeared his brown glossy cheek and coat. 'Oh Spencer, dear dear Spencer -' She kissed him near to his soft mouth, then hurried on, down a hill, over a five-barred gate and another meadow, walking breathlessly. Hatting Hall was by now well in sight. Rosalind, now pa.s.sing another gate, which was open, crossed a narrow tarmac road, and, over mown gra.s.s, approached the gates, always open by day, of the handsome building. The drive was short, pa.s.sing between two huge and very old mulberry trees. Steps led up to the large ornate door, beside and above which the tall Elizabethan windows glittered in the sunshine and the turrets rose high above the doorway and above the battlemented roof which supported also the magnificent twirling chimneys, each one different. The sun shone upon the warm soft powdery red-brown brickwork. This external glory of Hatting however was mainly limited to its facade, since Cromwell's troops who had battered Saint Michael had also occupied and devastated the interior and, perhaps accidentally, set fire to it. Marks of the fire could still be found in places upon the frontal bricks. The rather ramshackle and unattractive house which had been hastily put up behind the facade had happily fallen down in the early eighteenth-century, when a large elegant Georgian house was at last firmly fitted behind the Tudor front. Edward's family, who had lived, 'forever' they said, in Cornwall and had come to own valuable lead mines, bought Hatting early in the eighteenth century. The huge beautiful garden, invisible from the front, was said to have been designed by Capability Brown.

Rosalind was running now, the coat-tails of her jacket flying behind her. She could see, as she pa.s.sed between the mulberry trees, the steps, and the front door which was open. She ran up the steps, paused gasping at the top, then cautiously pushed the open door a little farther, and entered the hall. There was silence now, except for her slowly calming breath. Neither the butler, Montague nor his wife Millie, were in evidence. She looked about, blinking her eyes after the bright sun, gazing in, what for a time seemed a twilight, at the big hall and, through open doors, the drawing room and farther off the billiard room where they used to play 'Freda'.

Edward appeared upon the stairs. He stopped. For a second Rosalind thought that he had taken her to be her sister. Then he said, 'Is there any news?'

'No. I'm sorry. I mean not that I know. I - I just thought I'd come to you in case, before you went to London - I could help somehow - I'm so sorry, I'm so terribly sorry - '

Edward, who had been grasping the banisters, came slowly down, then stood near Rosalind looking away as if he had forgotten her. Then he said, 'Could you close the door?'

Rosalind, who was standing nearest to it, closed it. She was thinking about what to say next.

'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'Yes,' she said, 'Oh yes, thanks-I hope I'm not in the way-'

Edward turned, moving promptly upon his heel, and marched fast further down the hall into a dark corridor. Rosalind ran after him, mopping her eyes to remove the sunlight and the sudden tears with the back of her hands, she had no handkerchief. She emerged from the corridor into a large airy sunny kitchen.

Edward had put the kettle on. Frowning, he was spooning coffee powder into mugs. His hand was trembling. Rosalind came nearer to the big well-scrubbed wooden table. She looked at his long hands and pale slim fingers. 'Can I help?'

'No.' He put down the mugs and gazed at the kettle.

Rosalind, suddenly feeling rather faint, said 'Oh dear-' and sat down on a chair.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, yes. Oh Edward - I'm so - terribly sorry -' She put a hand up to her throat.

With a kind of military precision Edward was pouring the boiling water into the mugs. He said, 'Milk and sugar?' Rosalind nodded. He said, 'Let's go upstairs. Would you like to look at the pictures?' He gave her a mug and left the kitchen carrying his own.

Rosalind, holding her mug carefully, followed him up the stairs. She did not want to look at the pictures. She wanted to sit quietly beside Edward and talk to him. Pausing to sip the coffee she found it burning hot, and without milk and sugar.

The gallery, established in the late eighteenth century, was a very long room with a shining parquet floor overlooking the garden. It contained a medley of pictures collected by various owners with various tastes. Edward had only lately, since the death of his father, been able to indulge his own taste. Rosalind put down her mug carefully on a window ledge behind a bowl of flowers. Flowers, which had been picked yesterday for the bride! She looked out at the sunlit garden, so immobile, so still, near to the house the big clipped box, a line of sentinels, the laburnum walk, then the great trees, receding into the distance, very old trees, oak and beech and chestnut and deodar, some of them four hundred years old or more. The absolute silence in the sunshine. Rosalind, her eyes dazzled, turned back to the room, picking up her mug and spilling some coffee on the glowing parquet. Hastily, looking about her, she mopped it up with her sleeve. Edward had gone, no he was a little way away down the room. Once again she felt faint. What was it now, that sudden startling pain: Marian could have owned all this, all of it, this garden, this house, these pictures, Edward.

Edward, who had put his coffee down somewhere, was now returning towards her. She saw his face clearly, it was pale, almost white, gathered into a steel mask, his grim mouth, his lips pale, his eyelids, his hawkish nose. She tried to think quickly of something to say to him, and sudden words were put into her mouth.

'I met Spencer in the meadow on the way.'

Edward's face changed. He said, 'Yes, Spencer, that dear old chap.' Then he said, 'I bought a picture lately, a modern one, it's down there.'

She followed him, pa.s.sing a brilliant Goya on the way. She only once had been in this gallery. Why? Perhaps because Marian was not interested in paintings.

There was a sound. Someone had entered at the far end. It was Benet.

Edward turned to go towards him. Rosalind paused then followed. She could see at once that Benet was displeased with her. The impression was momentary, but connected in some way with the pain she had felt by the window. Benet reached out his hand towards Edward. Edward with a slight hesitation took Benet's hand. Benet with his other hand gripped Edward's shoulder for a moment. Then they both drew apart.

Benet said, 'There's no one downstairs. I thought you might be here. I didn't like to come earlier. At least I thought at first you must have gone to London. Then I -'

'I'm glad to see you.'

Rosalind moved past them. She said, 'Goodbye, Edward - I' m so glad Benet has come - I -' She felt at once this was the wrong thing to say. She hesitated. She thought, I should say something about Marian - Edward said, 'Thank you for coming, Rosalind.' He made a vague gesture. She turned and went away.

Benet said, 'Oh dear boy-' He had not said this to Edward before. He found himself thinking of Uncle Tim. He said, 'Let's sit down somewhere.'

'Let's go downstairs,' said Edward.

Benet followed him down the stairs and into the drawing room. It was dark, the blinds had been drawn against the sun. Edward put up one of the blinds. He sat down upon the big settee which faced the huge fireplace and Benet sat beside him. Edward moved away, leaning upon the arm of the settee. He uttered a deep sigh. Benet thought, how pale he is, well he has always been pale and thin, now suddenly he looks gaunt like his father, and has he, since yesterday, cut off some of his hair?

Edward, now wrinkling up his face and half closing his light-brown eyes said, looking down at his feet, 'You must blame me.'

'My dear, blame you, of course not!'

'I think many people will blame me. After all, she may have decided, and had her reasons, and at the last moment-it was a great act of courage -'

'You have a n.o.ble heart,' said Benet.

'She must have had reasons, I must have heard, seen - I should have checked it at the last moment - perhaps she wanted me to - I should have done it, only I was so anxious-'

Benet, not sure what Edward was saying, and feeling his own anguish said, 'You are both young and you just don't want to be hasty. Later you may both see - other things will come - and anyway nothing that has happened means that you cannot put things together again later on-'

'No, no, it's just another thing, another wound in my life, or not a wound, wounds can heal, damage, my fault - anyway I mustn't detain you.'

He stood up. Benet stood up too, trying desperately to think of some right thing to say. Awkwardly he said, 'You know how much I have wanted you to be - that you should marry - and happiness - you know how much I care and will care. Are you staying here tonight or going to London?'

'I don't know.'

'I shall stay at Penn-would you like to come over for lunch, or well now, for dinner?'

'No, no. I may go to London. Thank you for your visit.'

Benet drove his car, a rather elderly Rover, back to Penndean. The sunshine, the quietness of the countryside, the beauty of trees and flowers made him ready to weep. He had done nothing for Edward, he had come to him simply to pour out his own anguish. He had so pa.s.sionately wanted Edward to be, as it were, his son-in-law, as Marian was, as it were, his daughter. Now, it came to him more and more clearly, he had lost both of them, and for ever. And nothing at Penn would ever be the same again.

When he reached the house he found a car before the front door, Owen's glossy blue Volvo. As he opened the door he heard voices in the drawing room.

'Oh here he is! Benet, I'm carrying off Mildred - we were waiting for you - where have you been?'

Owen and Rosalind had emerged into the hall.

'Won't you stay for lunch,' said Benet, 'won't you stay the night -?'

'Well, no, sorry - we thought you would be going to London, back to -'

Mildred was coming down the stairs carrying a suitcase.

'Benet dear, will you be all right? Shall we stay? The house is-'

'I'll be all right,' said Benet. 'I'll probably come back to town tomorrow. Let me help you with the luggage.'

'It's all packed now I think,' said Owen, taking the case from Mildred. They were anxious to go. Benet followed them out into the sunshine.

'Where's Tuan?' said Benet. He had forgotten the young fellow's existence.

'He ordered a taxi to take him to the station-'