Dido sat for several minutes considering what had passed, before turning, rather apprehensively, to the paper in her hand.
To her relief, it contained only four verses. Clearly ‘It is finished!’ had not alluded to the whole ballad, but only to that part of it which she was to show to Penelope. For all the influence of the narcotic, the lines were written in a firm, slanting hand and the title ‘The Nun’s Farewell to her Lover’ was underscored by a thick black stroke which only faltered slightly.
She spread the page on the table and read:The moonlight floats upon the pool And gleams on grass and sedge. The dew lies thick. The woman’s skirts Are darkened at the edge. Upon the mere’s dark, reedy verge The lovers take their leave. She bends and presses close her love And begs he must not grieve. ‘From this day forth a stranger I, Must ever be to thee. But know, beloved, no other can Match me for constancy. Another’s lips may speak fair words While I’m by cold vows bound. Yet falsehoods oft in speech are hid, And love in silence found.’
Dido read the poem through several times and sat for some time staring at the page. It disturbed her – though she could not think why …
Nor could she quite determine whether there was anything to be gained from showing the work to Penelope. The veiled declaration of devotion might be very much to the purpose, but she rather doubted the poetry had the power of recommending its author … Though Penelope was not likely to be discriminating … Its brevity might count for more with her than anything else – for the idea of a poem would certainly appeal more than the prolonged study of one …
She looked again at the paper with its four neat black verses. And again there was a kind of a jolt: a shock almost of recognition … familiarity …
Why did the poem disturb her so much?
Still pondering she rose from the table with a heavy sigh and stepped closer to the window to gaze out upon the darkening town. The first lamps were already lit; over in Cheap Street carriages continued to rumble by, but the Pump Yard was very much quieter now as people hurried away to dress in preparation for the dinner hour. A few ladies were still gazing into the windows of shops; a chairman rested on the pole of his vehicle, smoking a short stub of a pipe; and, in the gathering shadows of the colonnade, two lovers lingered, too wrapped up in one another to heed the approaching dusk.
It was the sight of the couple which at last brought inspiration to Dido. It led her wandering mind through a very natural series of connections, from the tangled affections of her young friends to a consideration of the very great dangers of a passionate nature – and so to that other passionate and dangerous attachment of Miss Fenn to her mysterious correspondent …
She turned hurriedly from the window and seized Silas’s poem. Holding it up eagerly in the fading light of the window, she studied it closely.
Yes, that was what had disturbed her! Not the verse – but the hand in which it was written! The letters were small and black with a marked forward slant. It was not exactly the hand of Miss Fenn’s ‘Beloved’ – but it was very much like it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘Harriet,’ said Dido next day as they were walking together in the Pump Room, ‘how was your brother educated? Was he sent away to school or was he placed with a private tutor?’
‘Why ever do you ask?’ cried Harriet in surprise. ‘Upon my word, Dido, I never knew a woman like you for asking odd questions!’
‘I am only a little curious.’
‘Oh, you are always a little curious, and I tell you honestly, that it will not do. Curiosity, you know, is something that old spinsters are always laughed at about.’
‘Yes,’ said Dido, taking her arm. ‘But I am sure you will not laugh at me. For we are two old spinsters together are we not? We may defy the world.’ Harriet gave her most weary smile. ‘But I do not see why you should care about Silas’s education.’
‘Oh, it is just that he writes such a very … interesting hand and I rather wondered from whom he had learnt it. For, you know, we all write a little in the style of the master who taught us.’
Harriet frowned and studied her companion rather suspiciously for a moment before shrugging up her shoulders. ‘Unfortunately,’ she said, ‘Silas’s poor state of health prevented his ever going away to school. He was educated chiefly at home; his only tutors were friends of the family.’ She considered a moment. ‘Mr Portinscale taught him for a little while,’ she said.
‘I see.’
Dido fell into a reverie at that and they walked on in silence. This information did not lie at all easily with everything else that had come to light. How could Mr Portinscale be the illicit lover of Elinor Fenn? How could he have written that cold letter ordering her to forget him? He was the man who had made love to her openly – and offered her marriage, was he not?
‘Shall we join the others,’ said Harriet, gesturing towards Captain Laurence and Penelope who were standing beside the well-head, very deep in conversation.
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Dido a little absently, and they began to make their way up the long room – their progress much impeded by the crowd.
In point of fact, the company in the Pump Room this morning was ‘thin’. Everybody had said that it was so and it had been generally agreed among them that it was too early in the season for truly fashionable people to be in Bath. Dido believed it all, and, aloud, she lamented it with as much energy as her companions; but privately she hoped that she might never have to form part of the company when it was ‘thick’.
There was quite enough crowding for her taste. There was a perpetual movement of people through the doors, and such a noise of restless feet and chattering voices as echoed about the elegant Greek pillars and high ceiling, almost overpowering the efforts of the musicians in the gallery who seemed, sometimes, to be fingering and sawing at their instruments in vain. Outside, the sun was just breaking through after a heavy shower, and, within, the smell of wet umbrellas was mixing with that of greenhouse plants and the warm, sulphurous breath of the spring. The very floor was shaking beneath its weight of fashion and it was not until they were within an arm’s length that she was able to distinguish anything that was passing between the captain and Penelope – although, alerted by the earnestness of their manner, she was struggling hard for their words all the way along the room …
‘… And so you see, I have my orders. Tomorrow I must go up to town to make my preparations,’ the captain was saying as they drew close. ‘And within five days after that I must be aboard my ship.’ He took both Penelope’s hands. ‘At such a time,’ he continued in a low, urgent voice, ‘at such a time, Miss Lambe, a man becomes bold. It is not to be wondered at, you know, for he has need of all the courage he can command – knowing what hardships and dangers lie ahead of him.’
‘Oh yes!’ cried Penelope fervently, ‘You are all so very, very brave. I am sure the navy is such a body of men as … Well, I am quite sure there is no one else like them in all the world! Except perhaps,’ she added anxiously, ‘for soldiers – for I would not wish to be unfair upon them, you know. But then, though they are called upon to fight, they may stay upon the land and do not have to go to sea – which I am sure is a great deal more comfortable. So sailors you see,’ she finished with conviction, ‘are the bravest after all.’ She smiled serenely and, catching sight of Dido and Harriet, turned eagerly to them for confirmation. ‘Sailors are the best and bravest men in the whole world, are they not?’