"THOUGH AN HOST SHOULD ENCAMP AGAINST ME"
The flap of the gate-leg table creaked under Jan's weight, but she dug
her heels into the rug and balanced, for she felt incapable of moving.
Peter was coming home; if the worst came to the worst he would deal with
Hugo, and a respite would be gained. But Peter would go out to India
again and Hugo would not. The whole miserable business would be
repeated--and how could she continue to worry Peter with her affairs?
What claim had she upon him? As though she were some stranger seeing it
for the first time, Jan looked round the square, comfortable hall. She
saw it with new eyes sharpened by apprehension; yet everything was
solidly the same.
The floor with its draught-board pattern of large, square, black and
white stones; the old dark chairs; the high bookcases at each side of
the hearth; the wide staircase with its spacious, windowed turning and
shallow steps, so easily traversed by little feet; the whole steeped in
that atmosphere of friendly comfort that kind old houses get and keep.
Such a good place to be young in.
Such a happy place, so safe and sheltered and pleasant.
Outside the window a wren was calling to his mate with a note that
sounded just like a faint kiss; such a tender little song.
The swing door was opened noisily and Anne Chitt appeared bearing the
nursery tea-tray, deposited it in the nursery, opened the front door,
thumped on the gong and vanished again. Meg came out from the nursery
with two pairs of small slippers in her hand: "Where are my children? I
left little Fay with Earley while I finished the overalls; he's a most
efficient under-nurse--I suppose you left Tony with him too. Such a lot
of letters for you. Did you get your mail? I heard from both the boys.
Ah, sensible Earley's taking them round to the back door. Where's
William's duster? Hannah does make such a fuss about paw-marks." And
Meg, too, vanished through the swing door.
Slowly Jan dragged herself off the table, gathered up her unread
letters, and went into the nursery. She felt as though she were
dreadfully asleep and couldn't awake to realise the wholesome everyday
world around her.
Vaguely she stared round the room, the most charming room in Wren's End.
Panelled in wood long since painted white, with two delightful rounded
corner cupboards, it gave straight on to the wrens' sunk lawn from a big
French window with steps, an anachronism added by Miss Janet Ross. Five
years ago Anthony had brought a beautiful iron gate from Venice that
fitted into the archway, cut through the yew hedge and leading to the
drive. Jan had given this room to the children because in summer they
could spend the whole day in its green-walled garden, quite safe and
shut in from every possibility of mischief. A sun-dial was in the
centre, and in one corner a fat stone cherub upheld a bath for the
birds. Daffodils were in bloom on the banks, and one small single tulip
of brilliant red. Jan went out and stood on the top step.
Long immunity from menace of any kind had made all sorts of little birds
extraordinarily bold and friendly. Even the usually shy and furtive
golden-crested wrens fussed in and out under the yew hedge quite
regardless of Jan.
Through an open window overhead came the sound of cheerful high voices,
and little Fay started to sing at the top of her strong treble:
Thlee mice went into a hole to spin,
Puss came by, and puss peeped in;
What are you doing, my littoo old men?
We're weaving coats for gentoomen.
"Is that what I've been doing?" thought Jan. "Weaving coats of many
colours out of happy dreams?" Were she and the children the mice, she
wondered.
Marauding cats had been kept away from Wren's End for over a hundred
years. "The little wrens that build" had been safe enough. But what of
these poor human nestlings?
"Shall I come and help loo to wind up loo thleds?" sang little Fay. "Oh,
no, Missis Pussy, you'd bite off our heads!" And Tony joined in with a
shout: "Oh, no, Missis Pussy, you'd bite off our heads."
The voices died away, the children were coming downstairs.
Jan drank three cups of tea and crumbled one piece of bread and butter
on her plate. The rest of the party were hungry and full of adventures.
Before she joined Earley little Fay had been to the village with Meg to
buy tape, and she had a great deal to say about this expedition. Meg saw
that something was troubling Jan, and wondered if Mr. Ledgard had given
her fresh news of Hugo. But Meg never asked questions or worried people.
She chattered to the children, and immediately after tea carried them
off for the usual washing of hands.
Jan went out into the hall; the door was open and the sunny spring
evening called to her. When she was miserable she always wanted to walk,
and she walked now; swiftly down the drive she went and out along the
road till she came to the church, which stood at the end of the village
nearest to Wren's End.
She turned into the churchyard, and up the broad pathway between the
graves to the west door.
Near the door was a square headstone marking the grave of Charles
Considine Smith; and she paused beside it to read once more the somewhat
strange inscription.
Under his name and age, cut deep in the moss-grown stone, were the
words: "_Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not
fear._"
Often before Jan had wondered what could have caused Tranquil, his wife,
to choose so strenuous an epitaph. Tranquil, who had never stirred
twenty miles from the place where she was born; whose very name, so far
as they could gather, exemplified her life.
What secret menace had threatened this "staid person," this prosperous
shipper of sherry who, apparently, had spent the evening of his life in
observing the habits of wrens.
Why should his gentle wife have thus commemorated his fighting spirit?
Be the reason what it might, Jan felt vaguely comforted. There was
triumph as well as trust in the words. Whatever it was that had
threatened him, he had stood up to it. His wife knew this and was proud.
Jan tried the heavy oak door and it yielded, and from the soft mildness
of the spring evening, so full of happy sounds of innocent life, she
passed into the grey and sacred silence of the church.
It was cold in the beautiful old fourteenth-century church, with that
pervading smell of badly-burning wood that is so often found in country
churches till all attempt at heating ceases for the summer. But nothing
could mar the nobility of its austerely lovely architecture; the
indefinable, exquisite grace that soothes and penetrates.
She went and knelt in the Wren's End pew where Charles Considine Smith's
vast prayer-book still stood on the book-board. And even as in the
Bombay Cathedral she had prayed that strength might be given to her to
walk in the Way, so now she prayed for courage and a quiet, steadfast
mind.
Her head was bowed and buried in her hands: "_My heart shall not
fear_," she whispered; but she knew that it did fear, and fear
grievously.
The tense silence was broken by an odd, fitful, pattering sound; but
Jan, absorbed in her petition for the courage she could not feel, heard
nothing.
Something clumsy, warm, and panting pushed against her, and she
uncovered her face and looked down upon William trying to thrust his
head under her arm and join in her devotions.
And William became a misty blur, for her eyes filled with tears; he
looked so anxious and foolish and kind with his tongue hanging out and
his absurd, puzzled expression.
He was puzzled. Part of the usual ritual had been omitted.
She ought, by all known precedents, to have put her arm round his neck
and have admonished him to "pray for his Master." But she did nothing of
the kind, only patted him, with no sort of invitation to join in her
orisons.
William was sure something was wrong somewhere.
Then Jan saw Tony sitting at the far end of the seat, hatless, coatless,
in his indoor strap shoes; and he was regarding her with grave,
understanding eyes.
In a moment she was back in the present and vividly alive to the fact
that here was chilly, delicate Tony out after tea, without a coat and
sitting in an ice-cold church.
She rose from her knees, much to William's satisfaction, who did not
care for religious services in which he might not take an active part.
He trotted out of the pew and Jan followed him, stooping to kiss Tony as
she passed.
"It's too cold for you here, dear," she whispered; "let us come out."
She held out her hand and Tony took it, and together they passed down
the aisle and into the warmer air outside.
"How did you know I was here?" she asked, as they hurried into the road.
"I saw you going down the drive from the bathroom window, and so I
runned after you, and William came too."
"But what made you come after me?"
"Because I thought you looked frightened, and I didn't like it; you
looked like Mummy did sometimes."
No one who has seen fear stamped upon a woman's face ever forgets it.
Tony had watched his aunt all tea-time, and this quite new expression
troubled him. Mummy had always seemed to want him when she looked like
that; perhaps Auntie Jan would want him too. The moment his hands were
dried he had rushed past Meg and down the stairs with William in his
wake. Meg had not tried to stop him, for she, too, realised that
something worried Jan, and she knew that already there had arisen an
almost unconscious _entente_ between these two. But she had no idea that
he had gone out of doors. She dressed little Fay and took her out to the
garden, thinking that Tony and Jan were probably in the nursery, and she
was careful not to disturb them.
"Are you cold, Tony?" Jan asked anxiously, walking so fast that Tony
had almost to run to keep up with her.
"No, not very; it's a nice coldness rather, don't you think?"
"Tony, will you tell me--when Daddie was angry with you, were you never
frightened?"
Tony pulled at her hand to make her go more slowly. "Yes," he said, "I
used to feel frightened inside, but I wouldn't let him know it, and
then--it was funny--but quite sunn'ly I wasn't frightened any more. You
try it."
"You mean," Jan asked earnestly, "that if you don't let anyone else know
you are frightened, you cease to be frightened?"
"Something like that," Tony said; "it just happens."