Five

I
I see that there has been one omission in my story. So far I have madelittle or no mention of Mrs. Dane Calthrop, or indeed of the Rev. CalebDane Calthrop.

And yet both the vicar and his wife were distinct personalities. DaneCalthrop himself was perhaps a being more remote from everyday lifethan anyone I have ever met. His existence was in his books and in hisstudy, and in his intimate knowledge of early Church history. Mrs. DaneCalthrop, on the other hand, was quite terrifyingly on the spot. I have per-haps purposely put off mentioning her, because I was from the first a littleafraid of her. She was a woman of character and of almost Olympianknowledge. She was not in the least the typical vicar’s wife—but that, as Iset it down, makes me ask myself, what do I know of vicars’ wives?

The only one I remember well was a quiet nondescript creature, de-voted to a big strong husband with a magnetic way of preaching. She hadso little general conversation that it was a puzzle to know how to sustain aconversation with her.

Otherwise I was depending on the fictional presentment of vicars’

wives, caricatures of females poking their noses everywhere, and utteringplatitudes. Probably no such type exists.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop never poked her nose in anywhere, yet she had anuncanny power of knowing things and I soon discovered that almosteveryone in the village was slightly afraid of her. She gave no advice andnever interfered, yet she represented, to any uneasy conscience, the Deitypersonified.

I have never seen a woman more indifferent to her material surround-ings. On hot days she would stride about clad in Harris tweed, and in rainor even sleet, I have seen her absentmindedly race down the village streetin a cotton dress of printed poppies. She had a long thin well-bred face likea greyhound, and a most devastating sincerity of speech.

She stopped me in the High Street the day after Megan had come tolunch. I had the usual feeling of surprise, because Mrs. Dane Calthrop’sprogress resembled coursing more than walking, and her eyes were al-ways fixed on the distant horizon so that you felt sure her real objectivewas about a mile and a half away.

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Burton!”

She said it rather triumphantly, as someone might who had solved aparticularly clever puzzle.

I admitted that I was Mr. Burton and Mrs. Dane Calthrop stopped focus-ing on the horizon and seemed to be trying to focus on me instead.

“Now what,” she said, “did I want to see you about?”

I could not help her there. She stood frowning, deeply perplexed.

“Something rather nasty,” she said.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, startled.

“Ah,” cried Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “I hate my love with an A. That’s it. An-onymous letters! What’s this story you’ve brought down here about an-onymous letters?”

“I didn’t bring it,” I said. “It was here already.”

“Nobody got any until you came, though,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop ac-cusingly.

“But they did, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. The trouble had already started.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “I don’t like that.”

She stood there, her eyes absent and faraway again. She said:

“I can’t help feeling it’s all wrong. We’re not like that here. Envy, ofcourse, and malice, and all the mean spiteful little sins—but I didn’t thinkthere was anyone who would do that—No, I really didn’t. And it distressesme, you see, because I ought to know.”

Her fine eyes came back from the horizon and met mine. They wereworried, and seemed to hold the honest bewilderment of a child.

“How should you know?” I said.

“I usually do. I’ve always felt that’s my function. Caleb preaches goodsound doctrine and administers the sacraments. That’s a priest’s duty, butif you admit marriage at all for a priest, then I think his wife’s duty is toknow what people are feeling and thinking, even if she can’t do anythingabout it. And I haven’t the least idea whose mind is—”

She broke off, adding absently.

“They are such silly letters, too.”

“Have you—er—had any yourself?”

I was a little diffident of asking, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop replied perfectlynaturally, her eyes opening a little wider:

“Oh yes, two—no, three. I forget exactly what they said. Something verysilly about Caleb and the schoolmistress, I think. Quite absurd, becauseCaleb has absolutely no taste for fornication. He never has had. So lucky,being a clergyman.”

“Quite,” I said. “Oh quite.”

“Caleb would have been a saint,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, “if he hadn’tbeen just a little too intellectual.”

I did not feel qualified to answer this criticism, and anyway Mrs. DaneCalthrop went on, leaping back from her husband to the letters in rather apuzzling way.

“There are so many things the letters might say, but don’t. That’s what isso curious.”

“I should hardly have thought they erred on the side of restraint,” I saidbitterly.

“But they don’t seem to know anything. None of the real things.”

“You mean?”

Those fine vague eyes met mine.

“Well, of course. There’s plenty of adultery here—and everything else.

Any amount of shameful secrets. Why doesn’t the writer use those?” Shepaused and then asked abruptly, “What did they say in your letter?”

“They suggested that my sister wasn’t my sister.”

“And she is?”

Mrs. Dane Calthrop asked the question with unembarrassed friendly in-terest.

“Certainly Joanna is my sister.”

Mrs. Dane Calthrop nodded her head.

“That just shows you what I mean. I dare say there are other things—”

Her clear uninterested eyes looked at me thoughtfully, and I suddenlyunderstood why Lymstock was afraid of Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

In everybody’s life there are hidden chapters which they hope maynever be known. I felt that Mrs. Dane Calthrop knew them.

For once in my life, I was positively delighted when Aimée Griffith’shearty voice boomed out:

“Hallo, Maud. Glad I’ve just caught you. I want to suggest an alterationof date for the Sale of Work. Morning, Mr. Burton.”

She went on:

“I must just pop into the grocer’s and leave my order, then I’ll comealong to the Institute if that suits you?”

“Yes, yes, that will do quite well,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

Aimée Griffith went into the International Stores.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said: “Poor thing.”

I was puzzled. Surely she could not be pitying Aimée?

She went on, however:

“You know, Mr. Burton, I’m rather afraid—”

“About this letter business?”

“Yes, you see it means—it must mean—” She paused lost in thought, hereyes screwed up. Then she said slowly, as one who solves a problem,“Blind hatred…yes, blind hatred. But even a blind man might stab to theheart by pure chance… And what would happen then, Mr. Burton?”

We were to know that before another day had passed.