“Well, you see …” And clumsily he brought it out. By the time he was done the vicar had finished his tea and was sitting back with a reflective expression, polishing his glasses on his napkin.
“Ah yes. They do take the well-dressing very seriously, don’t they? And indeed I myself see little harm in it. Of course one is aware that it began as a pagan custom, but then so did Christmas, being timed to coincide with the Roman Saturnalia.”
“The tradition really is that ancient?”
“Oh, yes. And formerly very widespread, though Welstock is the only place in the West Country where it is, or was, kept up. The most notable survivals are in Derbyshire, where several villages adhere to the custom. Its nature is much altered, naturally. The ‘feast’ you referred to was originally a sacrifice, indeed a human sacrifice, to the patron spirit of water. The Romans knew her as Sabellia, but that was a corruption of an even earlier name. She was also an embodiment of springtime, associated, as one might expect, with the fertility of plants and animals. Including—ah—human animals.”
“Yet you saw no objection to continuing the rite?” Ernest couldn’t keep the puzzlement out of his voice.
“It’s been efficiently disinfected, as it were,” answered the vicar with a thin smile. “Indeed the villagers no longer know that there was a heathen spirit, or goddess, connected with the ceremony. At least I never heard any of them mention her name. They do still refer to ‘she,’ but pronouns in the local dialect tend to be somewhat interchangeable, and at worst they tend to identify her with the Virgin. That smacks of Mariolatry, of course, which I am professionally unable to countenance, but at least it lacks specifically pagan associations.”
“And I think it’s rather fun,” Alice said. “I remember when I was a little girl, following the procession around from well to well. The pictures Mr. Faber used to make were so clever, too! And using such ordinary bits and pieces! Grandfather!” She turned to the vicar. “I think Mr. Peake has had a wonderful idea! Let’s put our feet down, and insist on reviving the well-dressing this year!”
“I’m absolutely on your side,” Ernest said fervently. “If you’ll forgive me saying so, despite her apparent devoutness I cannot regard my aunt as—”
“As a good advertisement for religion?” the vicar interpolated gently. “No more, alas, can I. To my mind, these simple souls who want to celebrate the miracle of water, even more than bread the staff of life, have a deeper faith than she will ever attain—save, of course,” he added, as to reproach himself for lack of charity, “by the grace of God, which I trust will reveal to her the beam in her own eye … Mr. Peake, I believe you have convinced me!”
He gave the table an open-palmed slap that made the teacups rattle, and winced as though regretting the impulse.
“We’ll strike a bargain, shall we? We shall both defy Lady Peake! I shall announce that the well-dressing is to be resumed; you, for your part, will do your best to save the Gibson family from eviction.”
It’s not going to be easy …
But the thought only flashed across Ernest’s mind for a fraction of a second. At once he was extending his hand to the vicar.
“Agreed, padre! It’s a deal!”
When tea was over, Alice offered to accompany him to the gate. He was about to protest that it wasn’t necessary when he realised that she wanted to say something more, out of hearing of her grandfather.
And when she uttered it, he was astounded.
At the very last moment before they separated she caught him by the arm.
“Mr. Peake—or may I call you Ernest? My name is Alice, as you know.”
“Please do,” he stammered.
“Ernest, do your utmost for Mrs. Gibson, won’t you? What happened to her is so—so understandable! It could have happened to anybody during the War. It could …” She withdrew a pace, standing bolt upright, and looked him straight in the eyes.
“It could have happened to me.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. I was Gerald’s mistress. And before you ask, I do not feel in the least like a Fallen Woman! I’m only glad that he had the chance to become a complete man before his life was cut short … Have I shocked you? I apologise if so.”
Ernest looked at her as though for the first time. He read defiance in her face, noted that her small hands were clenched, remembered that her voice had trembled as she made her admission. To his amazement, he heard himself say, “No, Alice. You haven’t shocked me, not at all. My only feeling is that your Gerald was a very lucky man.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and darted forward and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek before hastening away.
“Wait!” Ernest cried.
“I can’t!”
“But I forgot to send a message to Tinkler—my man! Tell him I’m returning to the Hall!”
“Yes! Yes, of course! Goodbye!”
All the way home Ernest’s head was spinning in a maelström of confused impressions. But the strongest was this: that for the first time (and in how unexpected a setting!) he had met a girl with more courage than a man.
By sheer force of will he compelled himself to be polite to his aunt at the dinner-table, chatting—for so long as the maid was in the room—about his visit to the vicarage (which mellowed her a trifle), the beauty of the area, and his vague plans to paint several views of it. He was unable to resist a few indirect comments about the plight of rural communities nowadays, but managed to avoid any overt references to either the Gibson children or her refusal to lend her mower to the cricket-team. Not until coffee was served in the drawing-room, and they were alone, did he steer the talk around to the former of those two subjects.
Then, adopting his most reasonable tone, he observed that the vicar, and particularly Miss Pollock, seemed very worried about the fate hanging over Mrs. Gibson and especially her children.
But at the mere mention of the name Lady Peake’s face froze as hard as marble.
“You will oblige me by making no further mention of the matter. The woman is a sinner, and she must be punished for her sin.”
“But, aunt, it’s not the fault of the children that—”
“Be silent, sir! It is the duty of those in a position of authority to ensure that Christian values are upheld. That is what I am doing.”
Oh, what’s the use? But at least I tried …
“I see,” he said after a pause. “Well, I must ask you to excuse me. I have some work to do.”
“Work?”
“Yes”—setting aside his empty cup. “Among other things, I found out today about the well-dressing ceremony. It’s to be revived this year, and I’ve offered to prepare some designs for it.” He rose with a slight bow.
“You will do nothing of the kind!” his aunt thundered. “It’s naked paganism!”
“You think so?” Ernest was very conscious of the way his heart was pounding, but he kept his voice steady. “The vicar doesn’t. Indeed he said it has been completely Christianised with the passing of the years. And the designs I have in mind have an immaculately biblical basis. Good evening, aunt, and if I don’t see you again before bedtime, good night.”
He closed the door before she could erupt again.
Once in his room, however, staring at the first sheet from his portfolio, he suddenly found his mind as blank as the paper. He kept imagining what Mrs. Gibson’s state of mind must be, alone in her isolated cottage, perhaps with the children crying, not knowing whether they would have a roof over their heads a week from now. He was still sitting, pencil in lax fingers, when Tinkler came in to turn down the bed, lay out his pyjamas, and mix his final draught of tincture of valerian. On his way to draw the curtains, he inquired sympathetically, “Shortage of inspiration, sir?”