incomprehensible as the first movement in the womb, as alien as that first announcement of a separate life. And as though it were her own mysterious pain she rocked and comforted, Sophia rocked and comforted her child. Her mind, despairingly detached from her emotions, surveyed the lawn before her, noticed that a bough had withered on the copper beech and must be lopped off, wondered when Damian and Caspar would come in sight again, beheld Caspar’s little trunk being lifted from the carriage, recollected the list of clothes that were considered necessary by the Trebennick Academy, revised her own supplementary list, and wondered again if it would be right to send the boy there. But if one cannot understand even one’s own children, how hope to judge best for the bastard of one’s half-uncle and some unknown quadroon, passionate and servile, her gold ear-rings swinging proudly, and the marks of the lash maybe on her back?
And how hope, her thought went on, to trace or elicit the connection in Augusta’s mind between Caspar being a heathen and the visit to the lime-kiln? No, no, distraction was the only hope: to be busy, to do the next thing, and the next thing. And already Damian and the half-caste were in sight, and the child in her arms wept no longer.
During the week that Caspar stayed at Blandamer the household disapprobation hardened, and behind it, rearing up like a range of further mountains, ice-summits of the neighbourhood’s disapproval disclosed themselves. That the child should be viewed askance because he was coloured and a stranger was no more than natural; but he had more than that to call down wrath. He was not more black than vivid, not more of a stranger than of a phoenix.
Every one who came in contact with him — and no one could keep away — must need call out some achievement, as people prod monkeys at a fair; and then, angered by the brilliant response, sulk, grumble, and belittle it. The boy could ride. The groom took him from Damian’s pony, mounted him on the bay mare and set him at a jump. Over and over the boy went, and cantering back, slid off the excited beast like a silk shawl dropping to the ground. Roger went off snarling and talking of circus-riders. Mr. Foscot, the curate of the next parish, who came once a week when the weather was fine to give Damian swimming lessons, challenged the visitor to dive. From the first plunge Caspar came up discoloured and quivering, his body aghast at the chilly lake-water; but for all that, being anxious to please, and vain, he dived repeatedly, and in swimming outstripped the curate, looking back from the end of the course, his chattering teeth displayed in a smile of pleasure at having done well. Mr. Foscot praised him duly; but also admonished him against staying in the water too long, since to do so would be bad for Damian and inconsiderate.
Mr. Harwood, the rector, also noticed the boy, enquiring if he knew his catechism. Caspar had never heard of the catechism. “I don’t know what Church he belongs to,” Sophia had interposed, coldly. Mr. Harwood was well enough in his proper place, in his restored Gothic, cushioned by her supplies of red felt and green velvet; and admirable in the parish; but this interview took place in her dining-room.
“I am a Protestant, please.”
“Then you should know your catechism, my boy.”
Damian only was privy to what followed. Not till later in Caspar’s visit did Sophia hear how, having borrowed Damian’s Prayer Book and learned the catechism by heart, adding several collects as a gratuity, Caspar, accompanied by Damian, called upon Mr. Harwood and insisted upon a hearing.
“Very glib, remarkable quickness,” the rector had added, telling this story. “But such facility — I expect, Mrs. Willoughby, that you share my opinion — is not altogether desirable. Light come, light go, you know.”
Seeing her frown he added that he preferred Damian’s type of mind. But even this sop did not appease
And how hope, her thought went on, to trace or elicit the connection in Augusta’s mind between Caspar being a heathen and the visit to the lime-kiln? No, no, distraction was the only hope: to be busy, to do the next thing, and the next thing. And already Damian and the half-caste were in sight, and the child in her arms wept no longer.
During the week that Caspar stayed at Blandamer the household disapprobation hardened, and behind it, rearing up like a range of further mountains, ice-summits of the neighbourhood’s disapproval disclosed themselves. That the child should be viewed askance because he was coloured and a stranger was no more than natural; but he had more than that to call down wrath. He was not more black than vivid, not more of a stranger than of a phoenix.
Every one who came in contact with him — and no one could keep away — must need call out some achievement, as people prod monkeys at a fair; and then, angered by the brilliant response, sulk, grumble, and belittle it. The boy could ride. The groom took him from Damian’s pony, mounted him on the bay mare and set him at a jump. Over and over the boy went, and cantering back, slid off the excited beast like a silk shawl dropping to the ground. Roger went off snarling and talking of circus-riders. Mr. Foscot, the curate of the next parish, who came once a week when the weather was fine to give Damian swimming lessons, challenged the visitor to dive. From the first plunge Caspar came up discoloured and quivering, his body aghast at the chilly lake-water; but for all that, being anxious to please, and vain, he dived repeatedly, and in swimming outstripped the curate, looking back from the end of the course, his chattering teeth displayed in a smile of pleasure at having done well. Mr. Foscot praised him duly; but also admonished him against staying in the water too long, since to do so would be bad for Damian and inconsiderate.
Mr. Harwood, the rector, also noticed the boy, enquiring if he knew his catechism. Caspar had never heard of the catechism. “I don’t know what Church he belongs to,” Sophia had interposed, coldly. Mr. Harwood was well enough in his proper place, in his restored Gothic, cushioned by her supplies of red felt and green velvet; and admirable in the parish; but this interview took place in her dining-room.
“I am a Protestant, please.”
“Then you should know your catechism, my boy.”
Damian only was privy to what followed. Not till later in Caspar’s visit did Sophia hear how, having borrowed Damian’s Prayer Book and learned the catechism by heart, adding several collects as a gratuity, Caspar, accompanied by Damian, called upon Mr. Harwood and insisted upon a hearing.
“Very glib, remarkable quickness,” the rector had added, telling this story. “But such facility — I expect, Mrs. Willoughby, that you share my opinion — is not altogether desirable. Light come, light go, you know.”
Seeing her frown he added that he preferred Damian’s type of mind. But even this sop did not appease
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