On the Night of the Seventh Moon

“Albert has a lot of sense, more than some I could name.”

And so it went on.

Aunt Matilda, who had become “Matty’, named thus by her devoted Albert, was excited about her wedding-dress.

“Nigger brown velvet,” she said.

“Jenny Withers will make it. Albert will come with me to choose the material. And a nigger brown hat with pink roses.”

“Pink roses at your time of life!” snapped Aunt Caroline.

“If you marry that man you’ll sup sorrow with a long spoon.”

But in spite of her we grew quite gay over the wedding.

Amelia would come in and we would huddle together looking at patterns for the wedding-dress and for Amelia’s grey silk which was being made for the occasion. Amelia was to be maid of honour.

We would all be laughing together when we would hear Aunt Caroline’s stick outside the door (she had walked with a stick since her stroke, for one leg was useless). Then she would come in and say nothing but sit regarding us all with contempt.

But she could not spoil Matilda’s happiness, although on the wedding-day she refused to attend the ceremony.

“You can all go and make fools of yourselves if you want to,” she said.

“I shan’t.”

So Aunt Matilda was married and the wedding-breakfast was held in the rooms over the shop with just a few guests. Aunt Caroline stayed at home muttering and grumbling about mutton dressed up as lamb and people in their second childhood.

Two days after the wedding she had another stroke which rendered her almost incapable of moving at all. She did, however, retain her speech which was more venomous than ever.

There followed a very melancholy period which seemed to be devoted to the nursing of Aunt Caroline. Aunt Matilda helped; but her first duty was to Albert now and she was a happy wife determined to do her duty.

Often, when I was preparing a meal for Aunt Caroline, I would dream of a life I had once visualized during three blissful days. I thought of living in a schloss perched high on a hill, as so many of them I had seen had been; I thought of a gracious life with a husband whom I adored and who adored me; I thought too of children-my little daughter and a son. There would be a son. And often this seemed more real to me than the kitchen with its rows of bottles neatly labelled by Aunt Caroline and now often put back in the wrong place, until milk boiled over or something caught in the oven to bring me back to reality.

During this period there was great rejoicing in the Greville family becaue Anthony became vicar not of our church but of another on the outskirts of the town. Mrs. Greville was delighted with her clever son.

I knew that she had already seen him in his gaiters presiding over his bishopric.

I had taken to going to church every Sunday with the Grevilles to hear Anthony take the service; and I felt more contented than I had believed possible. The fact that I did not hear from Ilse added to the sense of unreality and I began to feel that I had strayed into a strange world where events which would seem inconceivable in a logical world had happened. But at night I dreamed my dreams.

On Sundays after evensong I would go to the GreviUes’ home for Sunday supper while Aunt Matilda or Amelia kept an eye on Aunt Caroline, who was more and more needing constant attention; and it was on one of the summer Sundays when supper had been cleared away that Anthony asked me to go for a walk with him. It was a lovely evening and we strolled out to the fields beyond the city and Anthony talked, as he loved to do, about the glories of Oxford. He loved to discover the history of the place and, like my father, he knew how all the colleges had been founded; on this particular Sunday he was telling me about the legend of St. Frideswyde, which he said was something more than a legend.

Frideswyde had actually lived and in the year 727 founded a nunnery.

When the King of Leicester fell madly in love with her and tried to abduct her, he was struck blind. She lived so piously that when she died a shrine was dedicated to her. About this shrine a hamlet grew up, then a village and so began the ancient town of Oxford. There the owners of cattle drove them across the ford where the Thames and Cherwell met and thus the spot derived its name of Oxford.

He was so enthusiastic when he talked that he grew quite animated, which he was not in the normal way, and I was taken by surprise when he said suddenly:

“Helena, will you marry me?”

I was shocked into silence. If I had ever doubted it, I knew in that moment that I considered myself to be a married woman. It was so long since I had seen Use’s kind face. It was so long since I had heard from her, that her image had faded and with it my fears that she, Ernst and Dr. Carlsberg must have been right. The farther I grew away from that time the more vivid seemed my adventure in the forest and the less plausible their account of my lost days.

But marry! I was already married.

“Helena, is the idea so repulsive to you?”

“Oh no,” I said.

“No, no. It was just that I hadn’`t thought.”

I stopped. How foolish this must seem. Of course it had been obvious for some time what Anthony’s intentions were. The attitude of Mr. and Mrs. Greville had made it clear. I realized with dismay that they were expecting us to come back from our walk engaged.

I said quickly: “Of course, Anthony. I’m fond of you.” Yes, I was fond of him. I liked Anthony Greville as much as any one in Oxford. I found his conversation interesting; I enjoyed his company. I should be very lonely if he went out of my life. But I wanted to go on as we were. It was his friendship I wanted. There was only one man whom I could consider as my husband and I believed he was that in spite of efforts to convince me that I loved a phantom.

“It’s just that I hadn’`t thought of marriage,” I finished lamely.

“I should have led up to this, I suppose,” he said ruefully.

“I know my parents expected. They are so fond of you and so am I.”

I said: “It would be very suitable of course, but...

“Oh, Helena,” he said, ‘get used to the idea. Think about it. “

“There is Aunt Caroline,” I said.

“I couldn’'t leave her. She needs someone to look after her all the time.”

“We could bring her to the vicarage. My mother would help to look after her.”

“I couldn’'t impose Aunt Caroline on you. She would disrupt the household.”

I was talking round the matter, anything but to tell the truth. I was really agitated because talking of marriage had brought back So vividly that room in the hunting lodge, the priest with the book and the ring, and Maximilian standing beside me impatiently waiting for the time when we would be alone.

I forced myself to think of Anthony. He would be kind to me; we could have a pleasant life together. I could be of use to him in his work; perhaps we should have children. I felt the pain surging within me as I thought of that little face framed in the white bonnet. How could I possibly marry without telling what had happened to me now six years ago.

I said quickly: “I should have to have time to think.

He took my hand and pressed it firmly.

“But of course,” he said.

We were thoughtful as we went back to the house. I could not tear my mind away from the past. I kept seeing Maximilian with the eager passion in his eyes. I had had no doubts then; I would have made no excuses; I would have swept them all away. And my child . I could not bear it. I must control my feelings.

When we arrived back at the house I noticed at once the expectancy in Mrs. Greville’s face. She was disappointed.

Anthony had now moved into the new vicarage, a charming Queen Anne residence with spacious, gracious lawns at both front and back. There was a south wall at the back-older than the house. It had been there since Tudor days. Peaches could be grown on it. There were apple and pear trees in the garden and a sundial inscribed with an old adage: “I count only the sunny hours. They,” said Anthony, were the only ones which should be counted. ” His parents had moved in with him.