‘Oh, sir,’ cried Babbington. ‘She is not a strumpet. She is a clergyman’s daughter.’
‘Then why do you perpetually borrow important sums of money from the only person in the ship weak enough to lend them to you? Two pagodas last week. Four rupees six pice the week before.’
‘Oh, but she only lets her friends - her friend - help her with the rent - it is somewhat in arrears. I put up there, you know, when I can get ashore; which is precious rare. But it is true, you have been very good to me, sir.’
‘You do? You do? Well, let me tell you this, Mr Babbington: such things can lead very far; and clergymen are not all they seem. You will remember what I told you about gummata and the third generation? Many an example may you see in the bazaars. How should you like to see your grandson bald, stunted, and gibbering, toothless and decrepit before the age of twelve? I beg of you to take care. Any woman is a source of great potential danger to a sailorman.’
‘Oh, I will, sir. I will,’ cried Babbington, who had been peering secretly through the slatted blind. ‘But do you know, sir, it is the most ridiculous thing I seem to have left the ship without any money in my pocket.’
Stephen listened to him hurtling down the stairs, sighed, and turned to his letters.
Sir Joseph was concerned almost entirely with beetles of one kind or another; he would be infinitely grateful if his dear Maturin, happening to stumble upon any of the Bupestrids, would remember him. But an enigmatic postscript gave him the key to Mr Waring’s letter, which seemed to be about a stupid, quarrelsome, litigious set of common acquaintances, but which in fact gave him a view of the political situation: in Catalonia British military intelligence was backing the wrong horse, as usual; in Lisbon the embassy was having conversations with still another dubious representative of the resistance; there was danger of a schism in the movement, and they longed for his return.
News from his private agent: Mrs Canning was making preparations ‘for a voyage to India, to confront her husband. The Mocattas had found out that he was obliged to be in Calcutta before the next rains, and she was to travel in the Warren Hastings, bound for that uncomfortable port.
Sophie had omitted to date three of her letters with anything more definite than the day of the week, and he opened them in the wrong order. His first impression was that of time entirely dislocated Cecilia placidly expecting a baby (how I look forward to being an aunt!) without any apparent sacrifice of her maidenhead or adverse comment from her friends; Frances removed to the desolate shores of Lough Erne, and there shivering in the company of somebody called Lady F and longing for the return of one Sir 0. A second reading made the situation clearer:
both Sophie’s younger sisters had married, Cecilia to a young Militia officer, and Frances, emulating her sister’s triumph (how she must have changed, said Stephen) to this soldier’s much older cousin, an Ulster landowner who represented County Antrim at Westminster while Frances lived with his aged mother at Floodesville, drinking confusion to the Pope twice a day in elderberry wine. There was joy, even exultation, at her sisters’ happiness (Cecilia at least adored the marriage state; it was even more fun than she had expected, although they were only in lodgings at Gosport, and would have to stay there until Sir Oliver could be induced to do something for his cousin) and a detailed description of their weddings, conducted with great propriety and in splendid weather, by Mr Hincksey, their own dear vicar being from home; but they were not really happy letters; they were not the letters he would have liked to read.
A third reading convinced him that Cecilia’s marriage had been tolerably hasty; that Mrs Williams had been obliged to yield on all fronts, the brisk young soldier having undermined her citadel; but that she had had her way with Sir Oliver Floode, a wealthy man, and a dreary. And this third reading confirmed his impression of despondency. Mrs Williams’s spirits had revived with the excitement of the marriages and her victory over Sir Oliver’s attorney; but now her health was on the wane again, and she complained much of her loneliness. Now that she and Sophia were alone she had reduced the number of her servants, had shut up the tower wing, and had given up entertaining; almost their only visitor was Mr Hincksey, who dropped in every other day or so, and who dined with them whenever he took Mr Fellows’s duty.
Now that there was nothing else to occupy her mind she renewed her persecution of Sophia, volubly when she was well, in pale gasps when she was confined to her bed. ‘And the strange thing is, that although I hear his name so very often, Mr Hincksey is a real comfort to me; he is a truly friendly man, and a good man, as I was sure he would be from your recommendation of him - he thinks so highly of “dear unworldly Dr Maturin”, and you would blush, I am sure, to hear us speaking about you, as we so often do. He never obtrudes his feelings or distresses me; and he is as kind as can be to my Mama, even when she is not quite discreet. tic preaches exceedingly well - no enthusiasm or hard words and no what I suppose you would call eloquence either - and it is a pleasure to hear him, even when he speaks of duty, which he does pretty often. And I must say he practises what he preaches: he is the most dutiful son. It makes me feel wretched and ashamed. His mother . . . ‘ Stephen did not care about old Mrs Hincksey: she was a beautiful old Lady, so kind and gentle, but perfectly deaf . . . ‘Humbug: the woman can hear quick enough if she chooses,’ said Stephen. ‘All these unscrupulous advantages, and white hair too.’ He skipped to the part that worried him most. Sophia found it very strange that Jack had not written. ‘Why, you fat-? headed girl, cannot you see that a man-?of-?war must outfly the swiftest post?’ She was sure that Jack would never, never do anything unkind on purpose; but the best of men were thoughtless and forgetful at times, particularly when they had a great deal to do, like the captain of a man-?of-?war; and there was the old saying about distance and salt water doing away with other feelings. Nothing was more natural than a man should grow tired of an ignorant country girl like Sophia - that even quite ardent feelings should wear out in a man who had so many other things to think of, and such high responsibilities. Above all she did not wish to be a clog on Jack, either in his career (Lord St Vincent was dead set against marriage) or in anything else; he might have friends in India, and she would be perfectly miserable if, because of her, he felt himself bound or in any way entangled.
‘The catalyst in all this is the General,’ observed Stephen, comparing the letter with earlier examples of Sophie’s hand. ‘It is wrote hasty, and in some agitation of spirit. The spelling is even poorer than usual.’ Sophie passed it off as a trifling incident, but her amusement was forced and unconvincing. General Aubrey, together with Jack’s new stepmother, a jolly, vulgar young woman, until recently a dairy-?maid, and their little boy, had descended upon Mapes, fortunately at a time when Mrs Williams was in Canterbury with Mrs Hincksey. Sophie gave them the best dinner she could, with several bottles of wine, alas. General Aubrey belonged to another civilisation, a civilisation untouched by the age of enlightenment or the spread of the bourgeoisie, one that had passed away in the counties nearer London long before Sophie was born and one to which her essentially urban, respectable, middle-?class family had never belonged at any time. She had been brought up in a quiet, staid, manless house and she did not know what to make of his gallantries, his praise of Jack’s taste (Cecilia would have been more at home with him); nor of his observation that Jack was a sad dog - always had been - but she was not to mind it - Jack’s mother never had. Sophia would not mind half a dozen love-?children, he was sure.
General Aubrey was not a disreputable man; he was kind and well-?bred in his camp and country way; but he was chuckle-?headed and impulsive; and when he was nervous (Sophia had no idea that a man of nearly seventy could be shy) and in wine, he felt he had to be talking: his outr? facetiousness, his broad, earthy pleasantries shocked her extremely, and he seemed to her a coarse, licentious, rakish, unprincipled caricature of his son. Her only consolation was that the General and her mother had not come into contact; and that her mother had not seen the second Mrs Aubrey.
