Stanley Gunther had raised his eyes to the Chancel window. The sun was pouring through the stained glass, falling in an iridescent rainbow on the steps rising to the altar.
“It that what is wrong with us?” he asked, speaking more to himself than to Mona. “That we do not live fully, that we do not appreciate that life is ... God?”
Mona did not answer. She knew that no words of hers could help him further. She had started a train of thought. He must find the answer for himself – even as eventually she must find the answer to her own problems, must discover the cure for the misery within her own heart. How easy it was to know the right answers, she thought, and how impossible to apply them!
She moved away from the Vicar who was still gazing abstractedly at the window. Slipping into the high-backed oak pew, which had belonged to the Vale family since the church was built, she knelt down. It was a long time since she had formulated any direct prayer to God – a sense of shame had held her back all these years from approaching Him. She had known that she was sinning and yet was determined to keep to the path she had chosen wherever it led, her love at once an excuse and a vindication.
But all the time, in the background of her mind, there had stood accusingly the Faith in which she had been brought up.
‘Is it too late now,’ she wondered, ‘to go back? to ask forgiveness?’
Surely, despite all the Bible teaching, God must require a very great sense of humour to put up with such twistings and foibles of the human mind?
Here was she, who had flouted Him and all His teaching, while Lionel was alive, wanting to be taken back now that the temptation was no longer there to entice her away. It was funny really. Poor God! What a lot he had to stand from these hopeless, incredulous men and women he had created! She knelt, she folded her hands and closed her eyes, but instead of praying she merely asked a favour.
‘I don’t suppose you will grant it, God, but let me forget Lionel. Let me stop missing him so terribly.’
She felt rather mean, rather greedy, to ask even that from the God she had neglected, but perhaps He would understand, she thought, and count it a virtue, if only an infinitesimal one, that she was humble and prepared to admit her own shortcomings even while she did not regret them. She walked out into the porch and the Vicar followed her. As they reached the sunshine he said,
“I am so glad you are back.”
She felt warmed, for she knew he meant it and that she had at least one friend in the village.
“Where are you going now?” he asked.
“I’m going home. And, by the way, I forgot to tell you, it’s no use your going up to the Park to see Michael – he’s gone into Bedford.”
“I will tackle him this afternoon then,” Mr. Gunther said, “and don’t forget you’ve promised to come to the party.”
“I won’t forget. Goodbye, and remember me to your wife.”
“I will,” he promised.
She fancied that a shadow passed over his face.
“Poor devil!” she thought. “What a price to pay for purity and respectability! having to live with a woman like that!”
Mona turned towards the Priory, and by walking swiftly arrived home only ten minutes late for lunch.
“It doesn’t matter, I’m afraid it’s only a cold meal today,” her mother said as she apologised. “Nanny will have such a lot of cooking to do tonight. I’ve got Ellen coming back to help, of course – she always does when we have a dinner party – but she’s not much of a cook, while Nanny is really good.”
“What a lot of trouble you are giving yourself,” Mona said. “I should feel guilty if I didn’t know that no one enjoyed entertaining more than you, darling.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Vale said. “I wish I could do more of it. I often think of the lovely parties your father and I gave here when we were first married. We always complained they that the house was too small and there wasn’t enough room to accommodate all our guests. Now I should be grateful if it was half the size.”
“You’d hate it altered,” Mona replied. “Besides when you do give a party think how you appreciate being able to use the big dining room, with all our ancestors smiling down at you from the walls! By the way, who’s coming tonight?”
“Michael, for one.”
“Of course, that’s obvious. I saw him when I was out. I told him you still hoped that we’d get married.”
“My dear child, I hope you said nothing of the sort!” Mrs. Vale exclaimed.
“Oh yes, I did. He looked rather startled. I don’t think the idea had ever occurred to him.”
“Really, darling, how ridiculous you are,” her mother expostulated. “I do wish you’d be sensible for once. I want you to like Michael and I am sure Michael likes you – but, of course, if you’re going to frighten him.”
“Frighten him!” Mona exclaimed. “He wasn’t frightened of me this morning I can assure you. I think, Mummy, that Michael can well look after himself. He always was disgustingly self-sufficient, which I have never been. But never mind, don’t let’s talk about him. Who else is coming?”
“Dr. and Mrs. Howlett.”
“Oh, good. I like both of them, they are quite the nicest people in the village.”
“And General Featherstone,” Mrs. Vale finished.
“Your young man, in fact. Oh, darling, how high-spirited we’re being. You talk about me looking nice, I hope you are going to look your best?”
“What nonsense you talk!” her mother exclaimed, but all the same she was pleased.
It was an understood thing that General Featherstone had loved Mary Vale ever since she was first widowed. He was a courtly, handsome old man of over seventy and his courtship, if it was one – for Mrs. Vale made no confidantes – had the old-world charm and the gentle, lingering fragrance of lavender.
“Well, we do see life in Little Cobble,” Mona said that evening as she was changing for dinner. “Fancy Mummy giving a dinner party the night after I arrive home!”
“Your mother’s been thinking about it ever since she heard you were returning,” Nanny, who had come up to help her dress replied. “Now look your best, dearie, and be a credit to her. Don’t go saying those things that upset her. You know the sort, nasty, unkind things about yourself. I’ve often said to your mother ‘The child’s her own worst enemy. If she had been born dumb there’d never have been a word spoken against her.’”
“Nanny, darling, you’re as full of theories as there are plums in a plum pudding,” Mona said. “Here, do me up at the back and then I mustn’t keep you or your precious chicken will be burnt to a cinder.”
“Not it,” Nanny said stoutly. “I do know my oven if I know nothing else.”
