“There are physicians in Bath who charge higher fees, Mrs Prince, but none I can honestly recommend. In London you might find one who would prescribe opening him surgically —” (the boy whimpered; they glanced at him) “— I do not advize it. If he were female and older his pains might be due to hysteria, which is incurable. As things are I advize you to let nature take its course.”
The doctor left. Without turning the boy said in a small voice, “Mamma, let me go to Miss Freeman.”
“You spent most of yesterday with her, Henry.”
“She helps me. She’s nice to me.”
“I would be nice to you too if I had nothing else to do all day, but we will go to her since you insist. And remember, she is a papist. You must pay no attention if she talks to you about the Pope, or confessors, or transmutation, or other foreign things.”
They went upstairs and on the first floor landing tapped a door; it was opened by a plump, hectically flushed young woman wearing a black dress and thin gold necklace with small pendant cross.
“I dislike troubling you again Miss Freeman, but the doctor is helpless and Henry loves being with you — ”
“ — I love to have him — ”
“But you too are an invalid Miss Freeman!”
“Which is why Henry and I understand each other. Come here Henry James.”
She held out her arms. The boy ran into them and pressed his face to her stomach. She caressed the back of his neck, smiling fondly and saying, “Leave us Mrs Prince, we will refer our troubles to Jesus.”
As the door closed she drew him to a chaise longue beside a small table on which lay an open box of chocolates, a Bible and a standing ebony crucifix. Fixed to the crucifix with gold-headed pins was a white ivory figure crowned with gold thorns. She sat down asking, “Where does it hurt Henry James?”
“Here,” he said, kneeling at her feet, pressing his side with one hand and clasping her knee with the other.
“Yes! That is where the cruel Romans thrust their spear into the flesh of Lord Jesus on the cross — ” (Her fingertip touched the side of the ivory figure.) “ — do you see the wound? He must have felt as you do.”
“Did he?” said the boy staring.
“Worse! See those nails through his hands and feet and the crown of cruel thorns. And Jesus was God’s beloved son.”
“But I’m not, why should I be hurt?”
“Because,” Miss Freeman gently whispered, “you are an evil little sinner, Henry. But another sinner much worse than you, a wicked robber was crucified beside Jesus, and loved Him, and that night the robber sat in Heaven at God’s right hand.”
“I’m afraid of going to Hell, Miss Freeman.”
“Where you will go Henry, if you don’t love Jesus.”
“How can I love anybody when I’m hurt?”
“That is how God tests our love, Henry. You must forget your wicked fleshly body Henry. You must think only of Christ, and how he desires you. Listen! This is what Christ is saying to you. . and sit beside me, Henry.”
He sat on the sofa, leaning against her side, staring at the chocolates.
“You may take one,” she said, lifting and opening the Bible at a page marked by an embroidered ribbon, “Listen Henry, listen. Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.”
“I’m not a sister Miss Freeman, I’m a brother,” said the boy indistinctly, for he was chewing.
“I know that, Henry, but when God — who is also Jesus — loves somebody he talks to them as if they are women, even when they aren’t.”
“Why?”
Miss Freeman, slightly puzzled, said, “Perhaps because women are. . usually. . more lovely than men. I’m not sure. So just listen Henry, and remember, Christ is really speaking to you in the words of Solomon, that great wise king. How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honey comb: honey and milk are under thy tongue. . Is that not lovely Henry? — ” (she stroked his hair) “— and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. Leb. . a. . non. What a delicious word!”
She sighed happily. The boy said drowsily, “I’m feeling a lot better, Miss Freeman.” She said, “So am I. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.”
Nearly twenty years later the wallpaper in that room had been changed twice and Miss Freeman was white-haired and stouter. She lay on the chaise longue with closed eyes still smiling fondly, her head resting on a flowery big cushion, her feet on a smaller one. Henry James Prince, a pale young man with a careworn, patient face, sat on an easy chair nearby, one leg flung over the other to support the Bible. He was soberly dressed and reading out a favourite passage in a low, sweet but unemphatic voice that allowed full value to the beauty of each word.
“Thy navel is like a round goblet that wanteth not liquor,” he said. “Thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. Thy two breasts are like two roes that are twins. Thy neck is like a tower of ivory, thine eyes are like the fish-pools of Heshbon; the hair of thine head like purple; the King is held in the galleries. How fair and pleasant art thou O love for delights!”
Miss Freeman sighed, opened her eyes, clipped to the bridge of her nose the pince nez she now needed to see things near her and said, “O Henry James, I’m glad your mother is letting you train for the church at last.”
He closed the Bible and placed it on the table by the crucifix saying gravely, “She would not have done so were you not paying the fees. She thought that having one son a clergyman was sufficient.”
“But everything about you speaks of God! Your voice, your manners, your. . hands.”
He smiled, clasping the hand she stretched out to him and saying, “You’ve forgotten my soul, Martha.”
“No I haven’t,” she said tenderly, “and your new clothes suit you wonderfully.”
21: LAMPETER
Said the principal, “Welcome, gentlemen, to St David’s College, Lampeter. We don’t know each other yet, but when we separate four years from now I hope we shall be firm friends.”
He was middle aged, robust, bland, ruddy and stood, teacup in hand, his back to a sideboard supporting an arrangement of silver plate. On the wall behind hung framed engravings of the Holy Family by Raphael and Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam; before him was a room of new students. Some wore dark clothes and seemed uneasy with the teacups and saucers they held; a few wore more fashionably-cut clothes with notes of colour in the waistcoats, and these students held their tea things more nonchalantly. Henry James Prince, though most soberly dressed, handled cup and saucer with the ease of the more obviously fashionable.
“Ours is not a venerable institution, gentlemen,” said the Principal, “and maybe some of you regret that your parents or guardians could not afford the fees demanded by Oxford. Speakin’ as a former senior wrangler I can honestly say that you are better off here. Oxford is now infested by sophistical vipers who have turned against the mother who bore them — the Church of England — and degraded themselves to the worship of saints, angels, fumigations and all kinds of unmanly rot. You’re well out of it.
“A dangerous age, gentlemen! Mad messiahs are springin’ up like mushrooms. Meanwhile the leaders of the rabble are barkin’ ‘Reform! Reform!’ like a lot of rabid dogs, as if unemployment, high prices and occasional starvation among the masses are things a government can cure. But I mustn’t bore you with politics. You don’t want that, hey?”