Stephen said, ‘Candida,’ and she turned her head and looked at him. The people in front of them were standing up. There was, for the moment, a small private place where they were alone. He touched her hand and said,
‘You’ve finished being angry?’
‘Yes.’
His voice came low and abrupt.
‘You mustn’t do it again. It does things to me.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Damnable.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘How can I – if you don’t tell me?’
‘I have told you. It does things. Candida, you know – don’t you – don’t you?’
She looked away. Her lips trembled into a smile.
‘You’ll have to say it, Stephen.’
The people in front of them were moving – their moment was almost gone. He said in an angry whisper,
‘I can’t – not here. Candida, you know I love you horribly!’
‘How can I know – when you don’t tell me?’
He could hardly catch the words. The hand he was touching shook.
‘Did you want me to tell you?’
‘Of course.’
Their privacy was gone. There would be a quarter of an hour’s interval. People were walking about, talking to their friends. He pulled her to her feet and held aside the curtain from the recess behind them.
‘Come and look at the Cathedral by moonlight. It ought to be worth seeing.’
And all in a moment they were there alone together, the curtain dropped and all the world shut out. Neither the moon nor the Cathedral received any attention. Both had been deemed worthy of a good deal of it in the past, but this was not their hour. The moon shone coldly down upon the stone, and the cold stone took the light in all the beauty that men’s hands had given it, but Stephen and Candida had no eyes for them.
Miss Louisa Arnold and Miss Silver had kept their seats, and so had the Miss Benevents. Louisa desired nothing better than an opportunity of conversing with her old friends. As soon as it was politely possible she stopped trying to applaud and leaned forward to touch Miss Cara’s arm.
‘My dear Cara! How long is it since I have seen you? Have you been ill?’
Cara Benevent turned round with a rather too hurried, ‘Oh, no, Louisa – I am very well.’
‘You don’t look it,’ said Miss Arnold without any tact.
She was, in fact, a good deal startled. No one would have taken Miss Cara for the younger sister now. She had always been small and slight, but she looked as if she had shrunk. The bones of the face showed through the sallow skin. And all that unrelieved black! Neither black velvet nor black lace had been considered mourning in the days when such observances were more strictly regulated, but the plain, solemn folds of the gown and all that heavy Spanish lace presented quite a funerary appearance.
She began to talk about Candida.
‘How pretty she is – really quite charming! And how nice for you and Olivia! Young people do make such a difference in the house, do they not?’
It was not possible for Miss Cara to lose colour. A tremor went over her. Louisa Arnold became aware that she had said the wrong thing. She had for the moment forgotten about Alan Thompson. She hurried on, her voice a little higher and more flute-like than usual.
‘It has been such a pleasure for me to have the opportunity of seeing something of my young cousin, Stephen Eversley. I believe you have met him.’
Miss Cara became noticeably embarrassed.
‘Oh, yes – yes – ’
‘His mother was the daughter of Papa’s first cousin, the Bishop of Branchester. Such an eloquent preacher, and an authority on the Early Fathers. I believe he was considered for the Archbishopric. Papa used often to talk about it. He married a daughter of Lord Danesborough, a very quiet, religious kind of person and extremely dowdy in her dress. But the daughter who was Stephen’s mother was by way of being a beauty. Of course the Bishop was a very good-looking man – really quite a commanding presence.’
Miss Silver pursued an equable conversation with Miss Olivia Benevent. She was aware that she was being condescended to as an unknown and probably distant relative of Louisa’s. She was, however, perfectly able to sustain her part in a tactful and dignified manner, choosing such subjects as the beauty of the Cathedral and the remarkable number of old and historic buildings in Retley and the neighbourhood.
‘Louisa tells me that you yourself own a very interesting old house.’
Miss Olivia did not disclaim the ownership.
‘It has been a long time in the family.’
‘That, of course, adds very much to the interest. There must be so many associations.’
Miss Olivia was not displeased at being offered an opportunity of talking about the Benevents. Miss Silver listened with the attention which family history does not always command.
‘Then it was your ancestor who actually built the house? Louisa tells me that it really does stand, as the name would suggest, under the hill. Was the site chosen, do you know, in order to provide shelter from a prevailing wind?’
Her interest was so unaffected that Miss Olivia found herself imparting the fact that the site had actually been determined by the presence of the small Tudor house in which Ugo di Benevento had resided prior to his marriage with the daughter of a neighbouring landowner.
‘She was a considerable heiress, and it was of course desirable that a more suitable residence should be provided. We have no means of knowing what decided them to build on to the existing house, but that is what they did. A good deal of it was not touched, and remains very much as it was in the sixteenth century.’
It was at this point that the name of Stephen Eversley reached her. It was pronounced by Louisa Arnold in a tone which Miss Olivia mentally stigmatised as shrill, and it was followed by what she considered to be an unwarrantable assumption.
‘You are giving him a commission to restore Underhill, are you not?’
Miss Olivia entered the conversation with an air of authority.
‘My dear Louisa, Underhill is not in need of being restored. If Mr. Eversley gave you that impression he must have been under a grave misapprehension. It is not, I believe, for a professional man to discuss an employer’s business, and I am surprised that Mr. Eversley should have done so. It was his uncle to whom we applied for an opinion as to whether some structural repairs were necessary, but instead of coming himself he sent his nephew, a young and inexperienced person in whose judgment we cannot feel the same confidence. We have therefore informed Mr. Stephen Eversley that we shall not require his services.’
There is no knowing what Louisa Arnold might have said in reply. Her colour rose sharply. It was perhaps fortunate that Mrs. Warburton should at that moment have evinced the intention of returning to her seat. Since she was an extremely large person, this necessitated everyone else in the row getting up and making room for her to pass. Louisa had therefore to refrain from the no doubt well chosen words in which she might have reminded Olivia of Stephen’s unexceptionable connections and deprecated her use of the word employer.
All the places were filling up again. Stephen and Candida emerged from the curtained recess and resumed their seats. To an attentive eye it would have been obvious that they were not really there at all. They walked in some Cloud-Cuckoo-land and listened to an older song than that which a Minor Canon’s niece now warbled. There was a piano accompaniment by a stout lady in puce and a violin obligato by the Minor Canon – altogether a charming performance, and a voice as clear as running water. But the other song was the sweeter.
Chapter Seventeen