safer place than this, when the prices went up so steeply, though I doubt if anyone else would have realized how very valuable the old church silver was. Did you know that the chalice and paten were Elizabethan, by John Pikenynge, and the alms dish even rarer? 1534, I believe, with the maker's mark of a basket. The ones we use now, though pleasant enough, are not—Ah," as the safe door swung open, "thank God."
He said it as if he meant it. I was looking over his shoulder. It certainly looked as if nothing had been touched. The back of the safe was stacked with registers, and some baize-wrapped shapes stood in line in front of these. "Exactly as I always put them," said the Vicar, counting. "Yes, yes, all present and correct. He didn't try the safe at all, or else he found the lock too much for him. I prefer to think—I do think—that his visit was an innocent one. Yes, indeed, that is almost certainly so. We live in sad times when one can entertain suspicions on such slender grounds." He shut the safe, locked it, and got to his feet. "However, this is a lesson to me. I cannot bring myself to lock the church, but perhaps I will—yes, I think I must-lock the vestry. And I shall do so straight away. There. Perhaps you'll come out this way after all. . . . Dear me, it's really quite dark now, isn't it? Can you see your way to the farm?"
"Yes, thank you. And don't worry about it, Vicar, I'm sure you'll find it was one of the wardens, or someone quite harmless like that. May I come and see you in the morning? If you're in the apple orchard, I'll see you anyway, when I go to the cottage. I'm moving in tomorrow. I'll give Rob your message."
"Thank you, my dear. God bless you. Good night."
Ashley, 1835
Seeming a long way off, the church clock chimed the three-quarters. He glanced at the gilt carriage clock on the bed table. It was fast. Five minutes.
He fidgeted about the room, fretting like a spurred horse. His foot struck one of his father's books, lying with the papers, where it had fallen. He stooped, and began mechanically to collect the scattered things together. The book, lying spine uppermost, showed the name Juliet, glinting in gold.
He slapped it shut, and, straightening, stuffed book and papers together in the table drawer, and shut it.
The sound was sharp, final. The old man was dead. His father was dead. He was Ashley now, Nicholas Ashley, Esquire, of the Court. Now, he thought, it will soon be over and done with. If each of us, in our own ways, can find the courage.
But habit made him twitch the curtains closer over the shuttered windows, to hide even a glimpse of the candlelight.
Five
O Lord! I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. . . .
—Romeo and Juliet, III, iii
The buildings of what had once been a fine home farm lay about a hundred and fifty yards beyond the churchyard. The quickest way to get there from the church was by the lych-gate, and through a corner of the Court gardens. I made my way carefully along the pitch-dark tunnel of the yew walk. I was conscious of my empty hands. The black yews smelled unbearably sad, sharp and smoky; frankincense and myrrh, memory and grief.
I would not think that way. I would not.
The Yew alone burns lamps of peace For them that lie forlorn.
That was the way to think of them. Peace I had had offered to me, and loss was not yet. This was still my home, and it still held what I had come here to find.
I went slowly down the muffled path towards the gate. The shadows of home reached out for me, comforting me, closing me round.
So, at the same moment, in the same shadows, did my lover. He was here. He was here in the cool night, stronger and closer than at any time since I had left Ashley. Every shade of feeling came, direct as if spoken, strong as the scent of the breeze sieving the yew trees. There was welcome, pleasure, and with it all a kind of apprehension. I paused to identify this, and unbelievingly registered it as guilt, or shame.
He said it as if he meant it. I was looking over his shoulder. It certainly looked as if nothing had been touched. The back of the safe was stacked with registers, and some baize-wrapped shapes stood in line in front of these. "Exactly as I always put them," said the Vicar, counting. "Yes, yes, all present and correct. He didn't try the safe at all, or else he found the lock too much for him. I prefer to think—I do think—that his visit was an innocent one. Yes, indeed, that is almost certainly so. We live in sad times when one can entertain suspicions on such slender grounds." He shut the safe, locked it, and got to his feet. "However, this is a lesson to me. I cannot bring myself to lock the church, but perhaps I will—yes, I think I must-lock the vestry. And I shall do so straight away. There. Perhaps you'll come out this way after all. . . . Dear me, it's really quite dark now, isn't it? Can you see your way to the farm?"
"Yes, thank you. And don't worry about it, Vicar, I'm sure you'll find it was one of the wardens, or someone quite harmless like that. May I come and see you in the morning? If you're in the apple orchard, I'll see you anyway, when I go to the cottage. I'm moving in tomorrow. I'll give Rob your message."
"Thank you, my dear. God bless you. Good night."
Ashley, 1835
Seeming a long way off, the church clock chimed the three-quarters. He glanced at the gilt carriage clock on the bed table. It was fast. Five minutes.
He fidgeted about the room, fretting like a spurred horse. His foot struck one of his father's books, lying with the papers, where it had fallen. He stooped, and began mechanically to collect the scattered things together. The book, lying spine uppermost, showed the name Juliet, glinting in gold.
He slapped it shut, and, straightening, stuffed book and papers together in the table drawer, and shut it.
The sound was sharp, final. The old man was dead. His father was dead. He was Ashley now, Nicholas Ashley, Esquire, of the Court. Now, he thought, it will soon be over and done with. If each of us, in our own ways, can find the courage.
But habit made him twitch the curtains closer over the shuttered windows, to hide even a glimpse of the candlelight.
Five
O Lord! I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. . . .
—Romeo and Juliet, III, iii
The buildings of what had once been a fine home farm lay about a hundred and fifty yards beyond the churchyard. The quickest way to get there from the church was by the lych-gate, and through a corner of the Court gardens. I made my way carefully along the pitch-dark tunnel of the yew walk. I was conscious of my empty hands. The black yews smelled unbearably sad, sharp and smoky; frankincense and myrrh, memory and grief.
I would not think that way. I would not.
The Yew alone burns lamps of peace For them that lie forlorn.
That was the way to think of them. Peace I had had offered to me, and loss was not yet. This was still my home, and it still held what I had come here to find.
I went slowly down the muffled path towards the gate. The shadows of home reached out for me, comforting me, closing me round.
So, at the same moment, in the same shadows, did my lover. He was here. He was here in the cool night, stronger and closer than at any time since I had left Ashley. Every shade of feeling came, direct as if spoken, strong as the scent of the breeze sieving the yew trees. There was welcome, pleasure, and with it all a kind of apprehension. I paused to identify this, and unbelievingly registered it as guilt, or shame.
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