The Bell

CHAPTER 3

PAUL and Dora were alone.

“That notebook is irreplaceable,” said Paul. “It represents years of work. I was a fool to ask you to bring it.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Dora. “I’m sure we’ll get it back. I’ll go to the station tomorrow.”

“I ought to have telephoned at once,” said Paul,“only your antics put it out of my head. Why did you want to take your shoes off anyway?”

“My feet hurt,” said Dora. “I told you that.”

They looked at each other in the austere light of a strong unshaded electric light bulb. Paul’s room was on the first floor, with two large windows looking towards the Abbey side. It had been a grand bedroom in its time, with green panelling and a great mirror set in the wall. It was furnished now with two iron beds, two upright chairs, a large trestle table on which Paul had spread his books and papers, and a small pretty mahogany table which looked like a relic of former days. Paul’s suitcase, open and half unpacked, stood in the corner. Two new but cheap mats were on the floor which otherwise was bare. The room echoed as they spoke.

Paul stood with one hand on his hip and stared at Dora. He could scan her in this way for a long time, frowning slightly, and this always frightened her. Yet at the same moment she knew that this was a manifestation of love, of that untiring and relentless love that Paul went on feeling for her, and which held her resentful, fascinated, ultimately grateful. She looked back at him, uneasy, yet admiring the solidity of him, full to the brim with his love and his work and all his certainty about life. She felt flimsy and ephemeral by comparison, as if she were merely a thought in his mind.

To end the stare she went up to him and shook him gently by the shoulders. “Paul, don’t be cross.”

Paul moved away, not responding to her touch. “Only you”, he said, “would be simple-minded enough, after betraying me in the way you have done, to paw me and say ‘Don’t be cross’!” He imitated her, and then went to dig in his suitcase and pull out his neat black-and-white check sponge-bag.

“Well, what can I say?” said Dora. “Here I am, anyway.”

“Nor do I subscribe to the view”, said Paul,“expressed just now by Father Bob, that the lost sheep is more to be rejoiced over. And if you are expecting me to rejoice you will be disappointed. Your escapades have diminished you permanently in my eyes.” He left the room.

Dora dejectedly opened her canvas bag. Her pyjamas were in the lost suitcase, but at least her toothbrush was here. She was deeply wounded by what Paul had said. How could he assess her like this because of something which had happened in the past? The past was never real for Dora. The notion that Paul might keep her past alive to torment her with, now occurred to her for the first time. She stopped thinking so as not to cry and went to open the two tall windows as wide as they would go. There were no curtains. The night was hot and swarming with stars. From this side of the house the lake seemed very near. It was dark yet somehow to be seen in a diffused radiance of starlight and the not yet risen moon. Other shapes lay beyond.

Paul entered the room again.

“I haven’t any pyjamas,” said Dora, “they were in the suitcase.”

“You can have one of my shirts,” said Paul. “Here’s one that’s due to be laundered anyway.”

“Did you tell those nuns all about me?” said Dora.

“I didn’t tell the nuns anything,” said Paul. “I had to say something about you to the other members of the community, and if it was unflattering that is hardly my fault.”

“They’ll think their beastly prayers brought me here,” said Dora.

“I respect this place,” said Paul, “and I advise you to do the same.”

Dora wondered if she would ask Paul now whether he believed in God, but decided not to. Evidently he did. She said instead, “I can’t do anything about the past.”

Paul looked at her hard. “You can refrain from being frivolous about it,” he said. “In your case I won’t speak of repentance, since I don’t think you capable of anything so serious.”

The sharp tinkling of a hand bell, rung on the other side across the water, came in through the window. Dora jumped. That bell again,” she said. “What is it?”

“It’s the Abbey bell for the various offices,” said Paul. “It’s ringing now for Matins. If you’re awake in the very early morning you’ll hear it ringing for Lauds and Prime. They’re getting a big bell soon,” he added.

They both began to undress.

“There’s a legend about the Abbey bell,” said Paul. CI found it in one of the manuscripts. It should appeal to you.”

“What is it?” said Dora.

“This is a very old foundation, you know,” said Paul. “There have been Benedictine nuns here on and off since the twelfth century. The present order is Anglican, of course, but still Benedictine. Anyhow, sometime in the fourteenth century, that was before the dissolution, the story runs that one of the nuns had a lover. Not that that was so very unusual I daresay at that time, but this order had evidently had a high standard. It was not known who the nun was. The young man was seen climbing the wall once or twice and ended up by falling and breaking his neck. The wall, which still exists incidentally, is very high.

“The Abbess called on the guilty nun to confess, but no one came forward. Then the Bishop was called in. The Bishop, who was an especially holy and spiritual man, also demanded that the guilty one should confess. When there was still no response he put a curse on the Abbey, and as the chronicler puts it, the great bell‘flew like a bird out of the tower and fell into the lake’.”

“Good heavens!” said Dora.

“That wasn’t the end,” said Paul. The guilty nun was so overwhelmed by this demonstration that she forthwith ran out of the Abbey gates and drowned herself in the lake.”

“Oh, poor thing!” said Dora.

“You, of course, identify yourself with the faithless one,” said Paul.

“She was probably forced into the order,” said Dora.“People were in those days.”

“She broke her vows,” said Paul.

“Is that a true story?” said Dora.

“These legends usually have some truth behind them,”said Paul. “There are records of a famous bell here, but no one knows what happened to it. It was cast by a great craftsman at Gloucester, Hugh Belleyetere, or Bellfounder, and it had a considerable reputation because of its fine tone and because it was very good at keeping away plagues and evil spirits. It had some carvings on it too, scenes of the life of Christ, which is a very unusual feature. It would be an object of great interest if it ever did turn up. It’s possible that it was in fact thrown into the lake at the time of the dissolution, either by people plundering the Abbey or else, more likely, by the nuns themselves, so as to keep it safe. Bell metal was very valuable. I believe someone once had the lake dragged looking for it, but nothing was found. The bell’s name was Gabriel.”

“It had a name!” said Dora. “How beautiful! But I feel so sorry for the nun. Is her ghost ever seen?”

“That’s not recorded,” said Paul, “but there is a story about the bell ringing sometimes in the bottom of the lake, and how if you hear it it portends a death.”

Dora shivered. She was undressed now and had pulled Paul’s shirt over her head. “Have you told the others this story?”she asked.

“No, I haven’t told them,” said Paul. “Oh yes, I think I told it to Catherine.” He got into bed.

Dora felt a twinge of displeasure. She went over to the window and looked out. The moon had risen now and the lake was fully visible, silvering in ripples caused perhaps by the breeze, perhaps by some night creatures. An air heavy with perfume drifted into the room. Dora saw more clearly now the expanse before her, the gaunt façade of the Abbey wall, wrinkled with light and dark, the trees beyond with their rounded tops catching the pale illumination, and long strange shadows of trees and bushes cast upon the open space of grass underneath the window. Looking a little to her left she made out what seemed to be a low causeway raised upon a series of arches which ran across the nearer reach of the lake towards the wall. Then, with a shock of alarm, she saw that there was a dark figure standing quite near on the edge of the water, very still.

Dora’s heart began to beat violently as she stared down and she checked an exclamation. Then the figure moved, and a moment later she recognized it. It was the boy Toby Gashe who was wandering along on the shore of the lake. He walked there by himself, kicking his feet through the long grass. Dora could just hear the swish of it as he moved. She drew back a little from the window, still keeping him in sight. So that Paul should not think she was watching anything she said, “They’re getting a new bell?”

“Yes,” said Paul. “A tenor bell is being cast for them, to hang in the tower. It may arrive before we go. My work should take another fortnight.”

Dora saw the boy turning to look back along the lake. Then suddenly he stretched out both his hands and raised them above his head. He looked to Dora at that moment the very image of freedom. She could not bear to look at him any longer and turned away from the window.

Paul was staring at her. He was sitting up in bed with a book in his hand.

Dora looked at him with hostility. That was a horrible story,” she said. “You like telling me unpleasant stories. Like that beastly one by De Maupassant about the dogs that you once made me read aloud.”

Paul continued to stare. Dora realized obscurely that in telling her the story he had released in himself the desire for her which had been quiescent before. The violence of the tale was in him now and he wanted her love. She looked at him with a mixture of excitement and disgust.

“Come, Dora,” said Paul.

“In a minute,” said Dora. Turning from him she caught sight of herself in the long mirror. She was barefoot and wearing only Paul’s shirt, with sleeves rolled up and well open at the neck. The shirt just reached to her thigh, revealing the whole length of her long solid legs. Dora looked with astonishment at the person that confronted her. She admired the vitality of the sunburnt throat and the way the flat tongues of hair licked down on to the neck. She threw her head back and looked into the bold eyes. There was a steady and encouraging rejoinder. She continued to look at the person who was there, unknown to Paul. How very much, after all, she existed; she, Dora, and no one should destroy her.

“Come, Dora,” said Paul again.

“Yes,” said Dora. She switched the light out and marched towards his bed.