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Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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to Rye, to Dorchester, to Haworth and Chawton. August was out, and leaves beginning to fall. There was now a more interesting light for photography. A fine blue mist hung over Haworth, and Rye was bathed in gentle sunlight.
Midge tried to pass the time. There was no cooking to do, no meals to plan. She lunched on bread and cheese and gin-and-French, and supped off shop cakes and sherry. She cut off the dead roses, and hoped for a last crop later on, she made new curtains for David’s bedroom, and went to Londonseveral times about her winter clothes. It was all work for the future.
The evenings were terrible to her, for it grew dark earlier each day. She paced the sitting-room, found that she talked to herself, switched all the upstairs lights on at dusk, in readiness for going to bed, and all night long imagined burglars breaking in. David, enjoying himself, sent postcards. She wished that there were a literary shrine near by, but there was only the village lady-novelist, and she was of no account.
Mrs Brindle alone brightened Midge’s days. They worked together, for company, turning out rooms, and talking about Quayne. Midge had an almost childish interest in the long serial story Mrs Brindle so willingly unfolded. She even called at the antique shop, on the pretext of a hunt for opaque glass. She introduced herself to Cressy, had a chat with Toby and Alexia, lingered, admired the Wedgwood wedding group, and left empty-handed.
She often saw Harry Bretton about the village, in his long smock and the chef’s cotton over-trousers he always wore. His carved shepherd’s-crook had been brought by a disciple from Delphi, and from the same place he had a shepherd’s hooded cloak for winter. It was snug, but smelly, and people coming up in the train with him from London would sometimes move from his compartment into another at the first opportunity – especially in wet weather. Midge saw him one morning, as she came out of the Walnut Tree café. It was soon after her meeting with Cressy. She knew who he was, but she and her box of cakes meant nothing to him.
‘I’m leaving Quayne. I came to say good-bye,’ Cressy told her grandfather.
He had been warned by Rose, and was ready for this interview, and Cressy did not take him by surprise, as she had hoped.Apart from the thought of the outside world and its comments, he was greatly relieved. The girl spread confusion, like a poltergeist.
‘It will always be waiting for you, when you want to come back – if the outside world, as I believe you call it, doesn’t come up to expectations – which it may not,’ he added gently, sorrowfully.
He was in his workshop. On an easel was a half-done painting of ‘The Marriage at Cana’.
He had been sitting humbly before it, perched on a stool, looking at it through narrowed eyes, when Cressy entered. She, standing beside him, looked at it with wide-opened eyes, and thought that Christ had a distinct look of Harry about Him. She also thought that the bride and bridegroom, in stylised modern dress, resembled the figures in the Wedgwood wedding group in the antique shop – the one which both Nell and Midge had admired so much, and which she herself thought crude and pawky, like some fair-stall ornament.
‘Well, you won’t be very far from home,’ Harry said, still deliberately staring at his painting, and speaking as if he had more important matters on his mind. ‘And’ – he turned then, and smiled – ‘it will save your poor little legs all that going up and down the hill. I know how you young people like to save your legs.’
He was in an exceptionally good mood, because the next day he was off on one of his walking-tours in the New Forest with Leofric Welland, his most willing listener. Fifteen or twenty miles a day, he thought complacently. At my age.
‘God will be with you, little Cressida,’ he said, dismissing her. He stood up, put his hands on her shoulders and his beard against her forehead. ‘You won’t
Midge tried to pass the time. There was no cooking to do, no meals to plan. She lunched on bread and cheese and gin-and-French, and supped off shop cakes and sherry. She cut off the dead roses, and hoped for a last crop later on, she made new curtains for David’s bedroom, and went to Londonseveral times about her winter clothes. It was all work for the future.
The evenings were terrible to her, for it grew dark earlier each day. She paced the sitting-room, found that she talked to herself, switched all the upstairs lights on at dusk, in readiness for going to bed, and all night long imagined burglars breaking in. David, enjoying himself, sent postcards. She wished that there were a literary shrine near by, but there was only the village lady-novelist, and she was of no account.
Mrs Brindle alone brightened Midge’s days. They worked together, for company, turning out rooms, and talking about Quayne. Midge had an almost childish interest in the long serial story Mrs Brindle so willingly unfolded. She even called at the antique shop, on the pretext of a hunt for opaque glass. She introduced herself to Cressy, had a chat with Toby and Alexia, lingered, admired the Wedgwood wedding group, and left empty-handed.
She often saw Harry Bretton about the village, in his long smock and the chef’s cotton over-trousers he always wore. His carved shepherd’s-crook had been brought by a disciple from Delphi, and from the same place he had a shepherd’s hooded cloak for winter. It was snug, but smelly, and people coming up in the train with him from London would sometimes move from his compartment into another at the first opportunity – especially in wet weather. Midge saw him one morning, as she came out of the Walnut Tree café. It was soon after her meeting with Cressy. She knew who he was, but she and her box of cakes meant nothing to him.
‘I’m leaving Quayne. I came to say good-bye,’ Cressy told her grandfather.
He had been warned by Rose, and was ready for this interview, and Cressy did not take him by surprise, as she had hoped.Apart from the thought of the outside world and its comments, he was greatly relieved. The girl spread confusion, like a poltergeist.
‘It will always be waiting for you, when you want to come back – if the outside world, as I believe you call it, doesn’t come up to expectations – which it may not,’ he added gently, sorrowfully.
He was in his workshop. On an easel was a half-done painting of ‘The Marriage at Cana’.
He had been sitting humbly before it, perched on a stool, looking at it through narrowed eyes, when Cressy entered. She, standing beside him, looked at it with wide-opened eyes, and thought that Christ had a distinct look of Harry about Him. She also thought that the bride and bridegroom, in stylised modern dress, resembled the figures in the Wedgwood wedding group in the antique shop – the one which both Nell and Midge had admired so much, and which she herself thought crude and pawky, like some fair-stall ornament.
‘Well, you won’t be very far from home,’ Harry said, still deliberately staring at his painting, and speaking as if he had more important matters on his mind. ‘And’ – he turned then, and smiled – ‘it will save your poor little legs all that going up and down the hill. I know how you young people like to save your legs.’
He was in an exceptionally good mood, because the next day he was off on one of his walking-tours in the New Forest with Leofric Welland, his most willing listener. Fifteen or twenty miles a day, he thought complacently. At my age.
‘God will be with you, little Cressida,’ he said, dismissing her. He stood up, put his hands on her shoulders and his beard against her forehead. ‘You won’t
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