A Close Run Thing

Elizabeth spent much time contemplating her journal the following morning. She had much to write that was merely narrative — though dinner at Longleat was never occasion for a commonplace entry. She had first to describe the evening — the food, the music, the cards (there was no dancing), and such conversation as was of a routine nature. This much was straightforward, although she spent longer than she anticipated recalling the details of the elegant table laid before them: the Moroccan quails fattened in Normandy, ortolans from the Loire, truffles and champagne — all to be had easily, if at prodigious expense, now that the Royal Navy’s blockade was lifted. And she had to record, too, how they had dined a la Russe (no doubt at Henrietta’s insistence), with each course served by footmen in white gloves, to the ladies first, rather than the older fashion of laying all the dishes before them on the table.

Her principal difficulty, however, lay in first comprehending, and then finding the appropriate words to describe, the sentiments and purposes of the three (as she put it) dramatis personae. Henrietta gave her most cause for perplexity, for her demeanour throughout the evening suggested some ‘understanding’ with Styles, although she had never confided anything of the sort. And Elizabeth began to doubt whether, indeed, she might claim any particular fellowship with her in light of this. Styles himself, she observed, had carried about him a sort of proprietorial air which at times verged on the possessive. It was evident, too, that this was exacerbated — perhaps deliberately encouraged even — by the attention that Henrietta showed to Matthew. Though, curiously, it seemed to her that Styles was more discomfited by adulation of Hervey as a soldier than by what Henrietta’s notice might truly portend.

Of her brother, Elizabeth was in a state of mild despair. She had hoped that his service might have wrought something more masterful in him, yet last night he had been as ever. During dinner itself he had seemed at ease enough: there were occasions when he might even have been said to be expressive. Yet when coffee was served, and with it a renewal of Henrietta’s childhood teasing, he had relapsed into silence, whence nothing could tempt him for the remainder of the evening.

At length she sighed, aloud and deep. She picked up her pen and wrote with a noticeably firmer hand than the plainer narrative had demanded: ‘I have ever held to Dryden’s avowal that none but the brave deserves the fair. And I cannot doubt that Matthew is brave, for he was ever so. Yet deserts are never wholly just, and I pray that his heart will not be faint.’

CHAPTER SEVEN. WHEN PRIDE COMETH

Horningsham, The Feast Day of St Mary Magdalen, 22 July

‘O come, let us sing unto the Lord: let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation,’ began the vicar of Horningsham.

‘Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving: and show ourselves glad in him with Psalms,’ came Hervey’s strong, clear response, in contrast to the frailer versicle. And so throughout the Venite.

The Reverend Thomas Hervey opened the smaller bible used for the daily offices and announced the first lesson while, opposite, Matthew and Elizabeth Hervey sat alone in the choir stall. ‘Here beginneth the eleventh chapter of the Book of Proverbs: “A false balance is abomination to the Lord: but a just weight is his delight. When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom. The integrity of the upright shall guide them: but the perverseness of transgressors shall destroy them …”’

As a boy Hervey had regularly attended the daily offices with his father, for whom it was the command of the Book of Common Prayer that they be said publicly: ‘And the Curate that ministereth in every Parish-Church or Chapel, being at home, and not being otherwise reasonably hindered, shall say the same in the Parish-Church or Chapel where he ministereth, and shall cause a Bell to be tolled thereunto a convenient time before he begin, that the people may come to hear God’s Word, and to pray with him.’ Since John’s going away to Oxford, and Matthew’s to the war, Elizabeth had filled the antiphonal void (for the vicar of Horningsham could afford neither curate nor clerk), though Thomas Hervey had never been entirely at ease with a woman in his chancel. There was little doubting the old man’s pleasure in having once again a son at Morning Prayer.

Afterwards, however, as they walked to the vicarage, the sun warm on their backs even at that early hour, he seemed to be at some pains to show his esteem for Elizabeth’s succour during those long years: ‘I think it a pity that, when the prayer book supplanted the breviary, St Mary Magdalen’s became no longer a holy day,’ he began, ‘for it was she to whom the risen Lord first appeared and gave a message for the brethren.’

Elizabeth saw at once his meaning: ‘And it was she who remained at the cross.’

The vicar of Horningsham nodded.

‘Could it be that her former sins stood against her still?’ wondered Hervey, somehow of the mind that Cranmer had been, perhaps, less forgiving than some.

‘Oh, I think not. She was a true penitent. Yet there are those in the Eastern churches, as I believe, who hold that it was not the Magdalen who was the sinner but a third woman.’

‘How so, Father? I have not heard this,’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Oh, my poor scholarship is insufficient, I am afraid. That must be a question for Mr Keble,’ he replied.

‘Dear Mr Keble,’ sighed Elizabeth. ‘I hope he will stay with us again, do not you, Matthew?’

Hervey agreed, for there was in John Keble’s certain faith much that gave comfort — as there had been with Sister Maria.

The thought of Sister Maria was especially apt that day, for it was the convent’s patronal festival. He felt uneasy still about his promise to her, though he was at a loss to know what more he could do as things stood: while he had been in London he had taken a letter to the French consul-general for the comte de Chantonnay; but there had been no word from France, and it looked as though the ring he carried constantly would go with him to Ireland when the time came.

* * *

When breakfast was ended Elizabeth took her journal to the garden. Hervey went with her, taking the April- quarterly edition of the Edinburgh Review which d’Arcey Jessope had sent him that very week, with the first article marked for his attention, a lengthy piece on ‘The State and Prospects of Europe’. ‘Do you hear this?’ he began after some moments perusing it. ‘“The first and predominant feeling which rises on contemplating the scenes that have just burst on our view, is that of deep-felt gratitude, and unbounded delight, — for the liberation of so many oppressed nations, — for the cessation of bloodshed and fear and misery over the fairest portions of the civilized world, — and for the enchanting prospect of long peace and measureless improvement, which seems at last to be opening on the suffering kingdoms of Europe.”’ He sighed. ‘A long peace and measureless improvement — that is a happy prospect is it not?’

‘A truly happy prospect,’ she replied. ‘But though improvement is contingent upon peace, certainly, it does not of itself follow. Do you suppose that our parliament shall embrace improvement as vigorously as they did war?’

‘Not for one moment,’ he smiled, ‘but they will pursue the dividends of peace, and some of these might as a consequence promote improvement.’

‘So you are not for Reform, Matthew? The marquess is, I believe, though Sir George Styles is not.’

‘Am I not so obvious a radical, then?’ he laughed. ‘I care not one jot how Styles — father or son — stand on Reform?

‘When pride cometh, then cometh shame!’ she chided.

‘You were attentive during the lesson, sister.’

‘I am ever thus, I assure you! But the marquess — he has a right judgement in such things, think you not?’