The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

IN THE SEASON OF THE DRESSING OF THE WELLS John Brunner

Ears numb with the thunder of exploding shells, eyes stinging and throat raw from poison gas, Ernest Peake forced himself to grope for the bell-pull alongside his bed. He had woken with his fists clenched and his heart pounding, and he felt so exhausted he might as well not have slept at all.

Better if I hadn’t, perhaps . . .

The door opened. Tinkler, who had been his batman in France and Flanders, entered and drew the curtains. As daylight flooded in he said, “Another bad night, sir. ”

It wasn’t a question. The tangled state of the bedclothes was evidence.

Among pillboxes on the bedside table stood a bottle of tincture of valerian, a glass, and a jug of water. Measuring out the prescribed dose, he diluted, stirred and offered it. Resignedly Ernest gulped it down. It did seem to be helping, and Dr. Castle had shown him an article describing its success in other cases of shellshock . . .

Every one of them alone like me, inside the prison of his skull.

Would you like your tea now, sir?” Tinkler inquired.

“Yes, and run my bath. And I’ll take breakfast up here.”

“Very good, sir. What shall I lay out?”

Rising with difficulty, silently cursing the bullet-shattered kneecap that made his left leg permanently stiff, Ernest gazed at the clear sky and shrugged.

“Looks like a day for blazer and flannels.”

“With respect, sir, it is Sunday, and—”

“To hell with what day it is!” Ernest roared, and was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. My nerves are on edge again. Bad dreams. You can go to church if you want.”

“Yes, sir,” Tinkler murmured. “Thank you, sir.”

Waiting for his tea, Ernest stared glumly at the sunlit view from his window. The grounds of Welstock Hall had—like so many others—been turned over to vegetables during the War, and those parts which even his patriotic uncle Sir Roderick had been unwilling to see dug and trenched had been left to the weeds. But there were signs of a return to normal. Of course, staff was almost impossible to get, but one elderly man and two fifteen-year-old boys were doing their best. The tennis-court was not yet restored, but the lawn was neatly mown and set with croquet hoops, and a good half of the surrounding beds were bright with flowers. The tower of the church was visible from here, though its nave was hidden by dense-leaved trees and shrubs, as was all but a corner of the adjacent vicarage.

Normally it was an idyllic prospect, and one that had often made him wonder what it would have been like to spend his childhood here instead of in India, educated by tutors. Uncle Roderick and Aunt Aglaia, who were childless, had repeatedly suggested he be sent home to school and spend the holidays at Welstock. But his parents had always declined the offer, and at heart he wasn’t sorry. So much more had changed in England than was ever likely to in that far-off, ancient, and slow-moving country a quarter of the world away, so he had far less to regret the passing of.

Today, though, sunk as he was in the recollected misery of nightmare, the very pleasure-dome of Kubla Khan could not have dispersed the clouds that shrouded his mind, wounded as surely by the War as his stiff leg.

Tinkler delivered the tea-tray. Before heading for the bathroom, he inquired, “Have you made any plans for today, sir?”

Ernest turned from the window with a sigh. His eye fell on the folding easel propped against a table that bore a large stiff-covered portfolio of paper, a box of water-colors, and other accoutrements proper to an artist.

Shall I ever become one? Even a bad one? They say I have a certain talent . . . But I can’t seem to see any longer. I can’t see what’s there, only what’s lying in ambush behind it. All the hidden horrors of the world . . .

“I’ll probably go out sketching,” he said at random.

“Should I ask Cook to prepare a lunch-basket?”

“I don’t know!” Ernest barely prevented himself from snapping a second time. “I’ll decide after breakfast.”

“Very good, sir,” Tinkler responded, and was gone.

Bathed, shaved, dressed, but having hardly touched his breakfast, Ernest made his slow way across the entrance hall. Every least action nowadays cost him vast mental effort, and as for making major decisions . . . Preoccupied with his bad manners towards Tinkler, who had stuck by him as loyally as any friend well could, he was within arm’s reach of the door that led to the terrace and garden beyond when a harsh unwelcome voice bade him good morning.

Turning, across the parquet floor he confronted his Aunt Aglaia, clad in the unrelieved black she had adopted on her husband’s death from influenza. That had been three years ago, so the customary time for mourning was long past, but she seemed determined to do as Queen Victoria had done for Albert. There was no resemblance in any other respect; the little monarch would barely have come up to her ample and efficiently-corseted bosom.

Worse still, her attitudes appeared to have become as rigid as her undergarments. On the few occasions he had met her when on leave from the Front, while Uncle Roderick was still alive, Ernest had thought of her as tolerably pleasant, if somewhat over-conscious of her status as wife of the Lord of the Manor. Now, however, she had taken to describing herself as the chatelaine of Welstock, hence the official guardian of not merely her estate but also the lives and behavior of her tenants and dependants. Among whom, very much against his will, was Ernest.

Before he had time to return her greeting, she went on, “That is scarcely suitable attire for Divine Service!”

Morbid religiosity was among her new attributes. She had reinstituted “family” prayers, which Ernest resignedly attended on the grounds that it was “not done” to reveal to servants any disagreement between those who employed them. But he thought it was so much cant.

Now, through the open door of the breakfast-room, he could see a maid clearing the table. Keeping his voice down in case the girl was in earshot, he said as civilly as possible, “I’m not coming to church, Aunt Aglaia.”

She advanced on him. “Young man, I’ve put up with a great deal from you on account of your alleged ill-health! But you are beginning to try my patience. You’ve been here a month now, and Dr. Castle assures me you are making good progress. Perhaps one of these days you will choose to consider the hospitality I am extending you and even, as I sincerely hope, your duty towards your Creator!”

The blood drained from Ernest’s face; he could feel the whiteness of his cheeks. Locking his fingers together for fear that otherwise he might strike this hypocritical old bitch, he grated between his teeth, “I owe nothing to the god that authorized such foulness as the War!”

And, before she could brand him a blasphemer, he tugged the door open and limped into blinding sunshine hatless and without his stick.

A single bell was chiming from the church. To his distorted perception it sounded like the tolling of a knell.

“Mr. Peake? Mr. Peake!”

A soft, inquiring voice. Ernest came to himself with a start. He was leaning on the wall dividing the grounds of the Hall from those of the vicarage. The bell had stopped. Facing him was a slender girl, face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, wearing a plain dress of the same dark gray as her large, concerned eyes.

Even as he wondered frantically whether he had been crying out aloud—he knew he sometimes did—his hand rose automatically to lift a nonexistent hat.

“Good morning, Miss Pollock,” he forced out. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Not at all. I was just taking a turn around the garden while Grandfather puts some final touches to his sermon.”

Feverishly eager to counter any bad impression he might have made: “Well, as you’ve no doubt deduced I shan’t be there to hear it, I’m afraid. You see, as I’ve been trying to explain to my aunt, I lost my faith when I saw what was allowed to happen over there. I couldn’t believe any more in a loving, beneficent, all-wise—” Suddenly aware that he was virtually babbling, he broke off in mid-word.

To his surprise and relief, there was no sign that Miss Pollock had taken offense. Indeed, she was saying, “Yes, I can understand. Gerald—my fiance—he said very similar things the last time he came home on leave.”

Oh, yes. I heard about Gerald, didn’t I? Bought his at—Cambrai, I think it was. Tanks.

While he was still fumbling around for something else to say, from the direction of the house came a grinding of carriage-wheels on gravel, the sign that Lady Peake was about to depart for church. She could have walked this way in half the time it took to go around by the drive, but of course that would never have done.

She could also have well afforded a motor-car, and indeed Uncle Roderick had owned one before the War, but she had never approved, and more than once had mentioned how glad she’d been when their chauffeur joined up and her husband told him to drive to London in it and turn it over to the Army.

Miss Pollock glanced past Ernest’s shoulder. “Ah, there’s your aunt coming out. I’d better go back and rouse Grandfather. He does tend to lose track of time nowadays. Oh, by the way, in fine weather we like to take afternoon tea in the garden. Perhaps you’d care to join us?”

“Why—why, that’s very kind of you,” Ernest stammered.

“There’s no need to fix a date in advance. Any time you’re free, just ask one of the maids to pop over and say you’re coming. Now I really must rush. Good morning!”

And she was gone, leaving Ernest to wonder all over again whether he had been talking aloud to himself when she noticed him, and if so, what he had been saying.

As ever, his charming surroundings, aglow with the onset of summer, seemed permeated with menace, like the germs in fertile soil that could bloat and burst the human frame.

Gas gangrene. But what is gangrened in me is my mind . . .

The Hall, the vicarage and the church stood on the crest of a low hill, with the rest of the village scattered on level ground below and on the flank of another hill opposite. In olden days it had been a weary and toilsome climb to attend Divine Service, especially for children and the old, and many were content to proceed no further than a spring that formerly had gushed out near the bottom of the slope, for its waters were held to possess the power of cleansing and absolution.

Early in the last century, though, the incumbent Lord of the Manor had had the spring covered, and athwart its site had caused to be constructed a slanting paved track, rising from what was still called Old Well Road, that offered greater ease of access. He also had planted, either side of the lych-gate, a pair of magnificent chestnut trees. Beneath their shade, uncomfortable in their dark Sunday clothes on such a warm morning, were foregathered most of the inhabitants of Welstock, among whom, despite the fine weather, there were few smiles to be seen. Tragedy had struck the little community again, during the past week. Young George Gibson, who had been gassed in France and taken prisoner, and come home to cough his life away, had died at last, leaving his wife with three children.

As ever, the villagers had separated into two groups. To the left were the womenfolk and young children, ebbing and flowing around the schoolmistress, Miss Hicks. Apart from regrets at George Gibson s death, their talk was mainly of high prices, illness—every hint of fever might signal another outbreak of the dreaded influenza—cottages out of repair and, with little optimism for the bride and groom, a forthcoming marriage. It was not a good time, they all agreed, to think of bringing more children into the world.

To the right were the fathers and grandfathers, surrounded by single young men—few of those, for more and more of their age-group were drifting away from the countryside in search of the glamour, and the better wages, to be found in cities. Beyond them again hung about a bored fringe of boys old enough to work but not yet concerned with the matters that so preoccupied their elders.

At the focus of this group were to be found Hiram Stoddard, smith and farrier— and incidentally wicket-keeper for the village cricket-team—and his brother Jabez who kept the Plough Inn, exchanging news and views with the local farmers. Within this cluster, but not of it, was the most prosperous of the latter, Henry Ames. He had moved here from the next county. Having lived in the area a bare ten years, he was still regarded as a foreigner, and though people were civil to him and his family they kept their distance. He was the only one among them still invariably addressed as Mister.

The men too wore grave countenances as they chatted. At first their talk, like the women’s, was of George Gibson and his bereaved family; soon, though, they moved on to more pressing subjects. They spoke of the shortage of labor—George had been a farmhand, living in a cottage on the Peake estate; they dismissed the theorists who argued that farming would soon become entirely mechanized, for none among them (always excepting Mr. Ames) could afford the expensive new machinery, and so many horses had been killed during the War that it was proving hard to breed up to former levels, while much the same applied to other kinds of livestock, vastly diminished because there had not been enough hands to tend them ... No doubt of it: times were hard, if anything harder than in wartime. Someone mentioned the politicians’ promise of “homes fit for heroes” and the sally was greeted with derisive chuckles, lacking mirth.

Attempting to divert the conversation into a more cheerful path, Hiram broached the early arrival of summer and the promise of a good hay-crop. Mention of grass led by natural stages to mowing, mowing to the need to prepare the cricket-pitch, and that in turn to further depressed bouts of silence, as they remembered the many former players who would not again turn out for the team.

At length Hiram said with feigned heartiness, “Well, ’tes time to wait on her ladyship and ask to borrow the three-gang mower. I’ll go after service. Who’ll come with me?”

There were four or five reluctant offers. In the days of Sir Roderick it would have been a pleasant prospect—he’d have consented at once, and more than likely seen them off with a mug of beer apiece. Dealing with her ladyship, on the other hand . . .

As though sensing their thoughts, Gaffer Tatton said in his creaky voice, “Bad times, bain’t they? Bad times!”

The group parted to let him through to its heart. He was leaning on an oaken stick he had cut before the rheumatism sapped his limbs and bowed his back, and panting from his climb up the slope. In his day he had been a carpenter and wheelwright, and an accomplished carver. But that day was long past, and not again would skills like his be called for. As he was fond of saying, if it could all be done in factories in wartime, they’d stick to the same now there was peace, leaving no space for the craftsman on his own. His dismal predictions had certainly been borne out so far, and though some of the younger sort made mock of him behind his back, others were coming to heed his old man’s wisdom.

Halting, he gazed about him with bleared eyes.

“These times be sent to try us, bain’t they? And small wonder. It’s the year. And last time we neglected un. So it’s for two.”

Understanding, the older men shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking as though they would rather change the subject. When one of the boys from the outer ring, puzzled, asked for enlightenment, and Mr. Ames looked relieved at someone putting the question in his own mind, there was shifting of eyes as well as feet. Gaffer, however, was not to be diverted from his theme.

“Shoulda been in ’15,” he emphasized. “’Course, with the War and all . . . She’ll ’uv forgiven it. But not this time. Bain’t there warnings? Sir Roderick gone! ’Im as should be the rightful heir lying under a curse!”

Some of his listeners winced. Even to them, that was straining the description of Mr. Ernest’s condition which they had teased out of his man Mr. Tinkler. He had taken to dropping in at the Plough on evenings off, and despite being “one o’ they Lunnon folks” by birth had shown himself to be a square fellow with a fund of anecdotes and a remarkable capacity for the local cider.

Nonetheless, so long after the War, and still in such a pitiable state—!

“Fragile,” Mr. Tinkler had once said, and repeated the word with approval. “Yes, fragile! To do with what they call 'the artistic temperament,’ you know. For those who have it, it’s often as much a curse as a blessing. ”

He had at least uttered the word, if not in the sense that Gaffer Tatton meant it . . .

But the old man was still in full spate. Now, charging ahead on the assumption that the person they had been arranging to wait on when he arrived must be the vicar, he was saying, “And rightly too! Bain’t none too long until Ascensiontide! If we don’t make him bless the wells—”

With a cough Hiram interrupted. “We were talking about borrowing the gang-mower from the Hall for the cricket-field. After service we’re going to call on her ladyship and—”

Gaffer’s cheeks purpled. “And I thought you were talking about the dressing! Bain’t she one of our ills, and a warning?”

It was m the minds of not a few of his listeners to admit how completely they agreed with him, but they had no chance, for just at that moment up rolled her carriage. To a chorus of Good morning, m’lady!” she descended, nodding acknowledgement of raised hats and touched caps, and paraded up the path between the gravestones.

Dutifully, they fell in behind.

And paid scant attention to the service.

Bit late mowing the cricket-field, aren’t they?

The thought emerged unexpectedly into Ernest’s mind as he wandered around the grounds of the Hall dogged by phantoms. Giving up all intention of painting, he had let his feet carry him where they would. Fragments of memory from a wartime summer leave fell into place as he gazed at what might have been taken for an ordinary meadow; indeed, a crop of hay had lately been reaped from it, and its grass was barely longer than wheat-stubble. But still too long for a good square-cut to drive the ball to its boundary.

All of a sudden the view was overlain with images from the past. Surely the pavilion must be on his left. . . Yes, there it was, its green planks in need of fresh paint, its tallywag board hanging awry after the winter winds.

A terrible ache arose within him. Short of a batsman because someone had just been called up, they had asked him to play for the village, and he’d agreed, and he’d made forty—off pretty poor bowling, admittedly, but enough to tip the balance so that Welstock won by two wickets.

And it was my last game.

He turned his back and hobbled towards the house, trying not to weep.

On his way he passed the summerhouse where croquet gear was stored in a weatherproof chest. He had a vague recollection of saying, “Croquet’s about the most strenuous game I’ll ever be fit for again!” Alert as ever to an unspoken command, Tinkler had set out the hoops and pegs.

For want of any better way to pass the time until lunch, he opened the chest, picked up a mallet and a ball at random, and set to listlessly driving around the lawn. All the time, though, he was preoccupied by recollected sights and sounds. For once, blessedly, they did not all concern the hell of the trenches. But awareness of the service at the church brought to mind Hindu processions following idols smeared with ghee and hung with garlands, and from there it was a short mental leap to his father’s bearer Gul Khan, who was such a demon bowler and such a patient coach. During the hot season, in Simla . . .

“What the hell, though, is the bloody point?” he whispered, and slammed his mallet down as though it were a golf club. Squarely hit, the ball struck one of the hoops and knocked it clear out of the turf. He threw the mallet after it and turned back towards the house.

And was, on the instant, very calm.

Here, walking up the gravel drive, were six men in black suits and hats. He recognized them, though he could not certify their names save one. At their head, brawny and stolid, that was surely Mr. Stoddard, captain and wicket-keeper of the last side he would ever play for . . .

Once again he must have spoken aloud without intention, for a quiet voice at his back said, “Yes, sir. Mr. Hiram Stoddard, that is. There’s also Mr. Jabez Stoddard, but he keeps the Plough Inn and had to go and open up.”

And, apologetically: “Catching sight of you as we left the church, I excused myself to her ladyship and took the short cut.”

“Thank you, Tinkler.” For the moment Ernest felt quite in control of himself. “Any idea what brings them here?”

“None at all, sir.”

“Is my aunt coming straight back?”

“No, sir. She intends to call on Mr. Gibson’s family.”

“You mean the poor devil who just died? Hmm! One point to my aunt, then. I didn’t think she was so charitably inclined, except insofar as she considers it an obligation . . . Tinkler, is something wrong?”

“It’s not my place, sir, to—”

“Out with it!” Ernest realized he was panting. Why?

“Since you insist, sir,” Tinkler said after a pause, “I’m not entirely convinced about the charitable motive for her visit. I”—a discreet cough—“I detected a certain what you might call gleam in her ladyship’s eye.”

Ernest came to a dead stop and rounded on his manservant. “You’ve noticed it too?” he burst out.

Meeting his gaze dead level, Tinkler said, “Where did you last see it?” There wasn’t even the echo of a “sir” this time.

“In—in the mad eyes of that general who sent us over the top at . . . ”

“Say it!” He was in command. “I don’t want to remember any more than you do. He killed ten thousand of us with that order, didn’t he? And you and me survived by a miracle . . . But say itJ”

“Mai ...” Ernest’s tongue was like a monstrous sponge blocking the name. He gulped and swayed and ultimately forced it out:

“Malenchines!”

“Yes. It was there. And I hoped never to see it again, neither. But I have . . . Now, sir, I’ll go and find out what they want.”

“No, Tinkler, Well go.”

As though uttering the terrible name had lifted a burden from his soul, Ernest was able to greet Mr. Stoddard and his companions and refer to their last encounter with scarcely a qualm. When they explained their errand he said at once he was sure it would be all right, though he was by no means so convinced as he sounded, and went on to inquire about prospects for the coming season.

The villagers exchanged glances. At length Mr. Stoddard shrugged.

“We’ve done poorly since the War. But there are a few good players coming along. Could do with more practice, though, and more coaching. ”

Is that a hint?

Assuming it was, Ernest forced a smile. “Well, I might offer a bit of help there,” he said. Against his will a trace of bitterness crept back into his voice as he added, “My playing days are over, though, I’m afraid. Croquet is about my limit now, and I can’t even find partners for that ...”

Struck by a sudden thought, he glanced around. “Don’t suppose any of you play, do you?”

A worried expression came and went on Tinkler’s face, but Ernest paid no attention.

“It can be quite a good game, you know. Not much exercise, but a lot of skill. If you can spare a few minutes I’ll show you. Tinkler, would you replace that hoop and bring me a mallet and a couple of balls?”

Strangely excited for the first time in years, he proceeded to initiate them into the mysteries of running a hoop, making one’s peg, croquet and roquet and becoming a rover, with such enthusiasm that the visitors’ stiffness melted and the youngest said at length, “Tell ’ee what, Mr. Ernest, I wouldn’t mind ’aving a go some time!”

“Good man!” Ernest exclaimed. “And I tell you what, as well. I just remembered something. I was wandering around while I was on leave here once, and I came across some nets in one of the outbuildings. They may still be there. Have you got enough nets for practice?”

“No, sir!” said Hiram Stoddard promptly.

“Then let’s go and—”

A gentle cough interrupted him. It was Tinkler. Her ladyship’s carriage was rolling towards the house.

“Ah, fine! We can arrange about the mower. Aunt! Aunt Aglaia!”

Descending with the assistance of her groom and coachman Roger, who had been too young for the Army, Lady Peake fixed her nephew with a stony gaze.

“You are profaning the Sabbath!” she barked.

“What? Oh, you mean this?” Ernest waved the croquet mallet. “Not at all. I was just showing these people the rudiments in the hope they might give me a game some day.”

He might as well have been addressing the air. She went on as though he had not spoken.

“And what are these—persons—doing here?”

“Oh, they came to borrow the three-gang mower. For the cricket-field. Uncle Roderick always used to—”

“Your uncle is no longer among us! And when, pray, was this implement to be put to use?”

Hiram had removed his hat and not replaced it. Turning it around between his large callused hands, he muttered, “We thought we might make a start this afternoon, m’lady.”

An expression of triumph crossed Lady Peake’s face.

“So, like my nephew, you are a breaker of commandments. The seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord Thy God. In it thou shalt do no manner of work!’ You may not borrow my mower, today or any other day. Return to the bosom of your families and pray to be forgiven.”

She waddled away towards the house.

“Sorry, Mr. Stoddard,” said young Roger. “But you know what she’s like. ’Course, it don’t apply to people working for ’er, do it? Like to see the look on ’er face if I answered back the same way: 'No, m’lady, can’t drive you to church, can I? It’d be working on the Lord’s Day!’ ”

For a second it looked as though Hiram was about to tell him off for being overforward, but he changed his mind.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Ernest muttered. “Never expected her to react like that. . . What will you do now?”

“Go back to the old way, I suppose, sir. Turn out men with scythes. Aren’t that many left, though, that can mow a good tidy outfield, let alone a proper pitch. One of them dying skills Gaffer Tatton always talks about. If you’ll excuse us, sir, we’d best make for the Plough before the rest of ’em head home for dinner, see who we can round up for the job.”

“Hang on! I’ll come with you! Just let me get my hat and stick! Roger, warn Cook I’ll be late for lunch!”

As he hobbled towards the house, they looked questions at Tinkler. He hesitated. At length he said, “It’s not exactly comeelfoh, is it? But his heart’s in the right place. Only his wits are astray. And a chance to stand up to her ladyship may be just what he needs. I’ll be there to keep an eye on him.”

At which they relaxed. But only a little.

Startled silence fell beneath the low timbered ceiling of the Plough’s single bar as they recognized who had come to join the company, and conversation was slow to resume. Only Gaffer Tatton, in his usual seat in the chimney-corner, went on talking as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

Or, at least, nothing so trivial as the presence of gentry.

He had finally stopped grousing about the lack of a fire to warm his aching bones, and had drifted on to the other subject preoccupying his mind—and, if truth be told, not his alone: the neglect of an ancient ceremony, to which he attributed their continuing misfortune. Making a valiant attempt to distract the visitor’s attention, Hiram led the way to the bar, re-introduced his brother Jabez the landlord and presented several of the others, even going so far as to include Mr. Ames.

Aware of the problem, Jabez said heartily,“Well, sir, since it’s the first time you’ve honored my premises, let me offer you a glass! What’ll it be?”

Ernest looked about him uncertainly. For the past few minutes he had been out of touch with himself, anger at his aunt having taken control. Now, in this unfamiliar setting, among people who clearly were uneasy at his presence, he was at a loss. He glanced at Tinkler, who said suavely, “I can recommend Mr. Stoddard’s cider, sir. He makes it himself.”

“By all means,” Ernest agreed.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Tinkler,” the landlord said, reaching for mugs. “Allow me to offer you the same.”

And, as he turned the tap on the barrel, everyone tried to pick up the talk where it had left off. Instead the bad news about the mower circulated, trailing gloom around the room, and renewed silence.

Hiram invited his companions to take seats at the one partly-vacant table. Belatedly noticing them, and plainly still under the impression that it was the vicar they had been to see, Gaffer demanded their news.

“She won’t let us ’ave the mower,” Hiram said loudly and clearly. “Got to use scythes!”

Confused, Gaffer countered, “Don’t use scythes in well-dressing! Bain’t nothing used bar what’s natural!”

“I don’t quite get the drift of this,” Ernest ventured.

“Oh, don’t concern yourself with it, sir,” Hiram said. “Got a bit of a bee in ’is bonnet, Gaffer do. ”

“He seems very upset,” Ernest persisted.

And indeed he was, even though someone had made haste to refill his mug. His voice rose to the pitch of a revival preacher, despite attempts to hush him, and at last there was nothing for it but to explain.

“The way of it, sir, you see,” Hiram sighed, “is this. Back before the War, come Ascensiontide, we had a local—ah—”

“Custom?” supplied a voice from the background.

“Custom, yes, a very good term. Thank you—” He glanced around and finished in a tone of surprise, “Mr. Ames! Used to make up sort of decorations, pictures out of flowers and leaves and alder-cones and such, and put them to the wells.”

“And the wall below the church,” someone inserted.

“Yes, in Old Well Road too. Three places.” Hiram ran a finger around his collar as though it were suddenly too tight. “Then we'd get vicar to come and speak a blessing on ’em.”

Gaffer’s attention was completely engaged now. Leaning forward, mug in both hands, he nodded vigorously. “Ah, an’ every seventh year—”

“Every seventh year, yes,” Hiram interrupted loudly, “we had a sort of feast, as well. We’d roast a sheep, or a pig, and share it out among everybody, making sure bits got taken to the old folk or those sick abed.”

“It sounds like a fascinating tradition,” Ernest said, staring. “Has it fallen into disuse?”

“Ha’n’t been kept up since the War.”

“But why?”

There was an awkward pause. Eventually Hiram found no one else was willing to answer, so it was up to him again.

“Vicar used to say it were truly a heathen custom made over. I wouldn’t know about that. But I daresay he’s not un’appy.”

“An’ what would ’er ladyship say?” called Jabez from behind the bar, forgetting himself for a moment.

His brother glowered at him, but by now the cider was having an effect on Ernest. Since falling ill he had seldom touched alcohol; besides, he had had almost no breakfast.

Draining his mug, he said, “You’re right, Tinkler. It is good, this stuff. Here, bring me another. And for Mr. Stoddard too, and Mr.—Oh, drinks all round, why not? Here!” He pulled banknotes from his wallet.

Somewhat reluctantly Tinkler complied. Meantime Ernest turned to Hiram and continued.

“Well, I don’t see what my aunt has to do with it, you know. How did Sir Roderick feel?”

“ ’E were in favor,” Hiram grunted.

“That’s the truth!” chimed in someone from the background. “Remember ’ow, if there were visitors, ’e’d bring ’em round along of us? Or come by later in the day with ’em, with their Kodaks and all?”

The older men uttered a chorus of confirmation.

Returning with the full mugs, Tinkler murmured, “Here you are, sir.”

Ernest gulped a mouthful and set his aside. By now his attention was fully engaged.

“Well, if your major problem is with the vicar, I can put in a word, at least. Miss Pollock has invited me to tea at the vicarage, and I can bring up the matter then. Would you mind?”

It was clear from their faces that they wouldn’t, and Hiram said, “That’s very generous, sir. Here!”—loudly—“I think we should drink Mr. Ernest’s health!” “Hear hear!”

Absent-mindedly drinking along with them, Ernest wiped his lip and took up another point that particularly interested him.

“What kind of—of decorations, or pictures?”

“Always Bible stories,” Hiram said.

“To do with water? Walking on the waves, Jonah and the whale, that kind of thing?”

Headshakes. By now everyone in the bar was crowding around the table, so that Gaffer complained about not being able to see. They ignored him.

“No, just any that came to mind. ’Course ...”

“Yes?”

“They was mostly the work of one that’s gone.”

“You mean one particular person used to work out the designs for you?”

“That’s right, sir. Mr. Faber it were. Taken off in the same way as your poor uncle, but the year before.”

“Bain’t no one left got ’is skill an’ touch,” came a doleful voice.

Ernest hesitated. He glanced at Tinkler for advice, as had become his habit. Surprisingly, this time he wore a completely blank expression—indeed, was elaborately pretending not to notice. Abruptly annoyed, Ernest drank half of what was left in his mug and reached a decision.

“If you don’t think it’s out of place,” he said, “you may know . . . Tinkler!” “Yes, sir?”

“Talked about me in here at all, have you?”

“Well, sir”—looking pained—“no more than is called for by ordinary politeness, I assure you.”

“Don’t worry, man! I only wanted to find out if they know that I do a bit of drawing and painting.”

“That, sir, of course.”

“Well, then ...” Ernest took a deep breath. “Would you mind if I proposed a few ideas?”

Mingled doubt and excitement showed on all faces. Gaffer complained again about not knowing what was going on, and someone bent to explain. Before the murmured debate reached a conclusion he cut it short, rising effortfully to his feet.

“Don’t turn it down! Remember it’s the seventh year, and if we don't do it right then she—”

A dozen voices drowned out the rest.

“That’s very handsome of you, sir,” Hiram declared, and it was settled.

Feeling a renewal of that particular excitement which had possessed him earlier, Ernest said, “Well, now! You mentioned people sometimes took photographs of the—do you say well-dressings?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“So if I could look at a few of those, get the general idea . . . Tinkler, is something wrong?”

“Sir, I’ve noticed people are starting to look at the clock. Perhaps we should ask if they’re expected home for dinner.”

There was a rustle of relief, and Ernest rose in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the time!” ’

Not at all, sir, not at all, Hiram countered. “But—well, there are some whose wives do be expecting ’em. As to the photographs, though . . . Jabez!”

The landlord looked round.

“Weren’t there an album some place, with pictures in?”

“Why, indeed there were. I’ll hunt around for un!”

“Excellent!” Ernest cried. “And I’ll talk to the vicar as I promised. Tinkler, where did I put my hat . . .? Ah, thanks. Well, good afternoon, gentlemen!”

There was a long pause after the door swung shut. At last Jabez voiced the feelings of them all.

“Proper gentleman, ’e be. Calling us gentlemen! That’d’ve been Sir Roderick’s way. ”

“But not,” said his brother, “ ’er ladyship’s!”

At which, amid cynical laughter, the company made to disperse, only to be checked by an exclamation from Mr. Ames: “Just a moment!”

All heads turned.

Lapels aside, thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, wearing an expression that bordered on defiance, he said, “If you’ll accept the support of Mr. Ernest, I dare to hope you’ll accept the like from me. I have a porker I’ve been fattening for Mankley show. After living in the district for so long, and knowing”—a glance at Gaffer—“what store you set by the well-dressing feast, I hope you’ll let me donate it for Ascensiontide instead.”

For a long moment there was a sense of uncertainty. Hiram resolved the matter. Advancing on Ames, he offered his hand.

“Spoken as handsomely as Mr. Ernest!” he exclaimed. “Jabez! Before we go, draw one more mug—for Henryl”

“What be they going on about?” Gaffer demanded crossly.

The offer was explained to him, and also that in accepting it Hiram had addressed Mr. Ames by his Christian name.

Gaffer beamed.

“’Tes like I always say,” he declared. “Do right by ’er and she’ll do right by us. Bain’t it already begun?”

On returning to the Hall Tinkler insisted that his master eat something, and brought him cold meat, bread and pickles in the summerhouse. Lady Peake was taking her customary afternoon nap, so they were spared recriminations about her nephew’s absence from the lunch-table.

Talking feverishly with his mouth full, Ernest at first exclaimed over and over about the excitement of finding a pre-Christian ceremony in a modern English village, and gave Tinkler positive orders to call at the vicarage and tell Miss Pollock he proposed to take up her invitation this very afternoon. Little by little the food and cider combined to make him drowsy, and in the end he muttered something about taking forty winks. Satisfied he was indeed asleep, Tinkler returned the tray to the kitchen and undertook his errand.

When he came back less than half an hour later, however, he found his master awake again and plagued by his old uncertainties. On being told that he was engaged for tea at four o’clock, he lapsed into his usual despondency.

“It’s no use, Tinkler,” he muttered. “I’m not up to it. You’ll have to go back and apologize. How can I face the vicar? I don’t believe in his religion! I’m likely to insult him in an unguarded moment, aren’t I?”

“No, sir.” _;

“What?” Ernest glanced up, blinking. “But you know damn’ well I don’t give a farthing for his mumbo-jumbo!”

“Yes, sir. But as a result of what has transpired today I am also aware that you take great interest in the survival of old customs. So does Mr. Pollock.”

“But Mr. Stoddard said—”

“He seems to be mistaken. While I was at the vicarage I took the liberty of mentioning the subject to Mrs. Kail the housekeeper. She’s local. And a very affable person, I may say. It is her opinion that were it up entirely to the vicar there would be no objection to resuming the ceremony. ”

Slowly—sluggishly—Ernest worked it out. He said at last, “You mean my aunt is once again the fly in the ointment?”

“It would appear so, sir.”

“Hmm . . ."He glanced towards the house, towards the drawn curtains of his aunt’s room. “In that case ... All right, Tinkler. I’ll put a bold face on it. But you come too. Go and pump Mrs.—did you say Kail? Yes?—and if I make a mess of it maybe you can think of a better approach next time.”

He turned his gaze in the direction of the few cottages visible from here.

“They seem like decent people,” he muttered, half inaudibly. “I don’t want to let them down ...”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Peake,” said the vicar. His bespectacled face was deeply lined and his movements were stiff from arthritis, but his voice remained firm and resonant. “So glad you could join us. Do sit down.”

Awkwardly, Ernest took his place at the table that had been set out in a shady arbor. Miss Pollock smiled at him and inquired whether he preferred Indian or China tea, then proffered plates of cakes and dainty fish-paste sandwiches.

But her smile struck Ernest as forced, and once again he wondered whether he was doing the right thing. His nerve had almost failed him again at the last moment, and he had been half minded to turn back, but Tinkler had kept on going and at last he had stumbled to catch up.

“I’m especially pleased you’ve come,” the vicar continued, wiping a trace of tea from his upper lip with a wide white napkin. “I—ah—I have been hoping for a little chat with you.”

About what? Instantly Ernest was on edge. Was there, after all, to be an argument about his non-attendance at church? In that case, the best form of defense was certainly attack. He countered, “As a matter of fact, padre”—the colloquial military term for a chaplain sprang automatically to his lips—“there’s something I’d like to discuss with you as well. Apparently the people in the village ...”

But the words trailed away. Miss Pollock had leaned forward, her expression troubled.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Peake, Grandfather did broach his subject first. And it concerns your aunt.”

“It would,” Ernest muttered.

“Excuse me?” the vicar said, cupping a hand to his ear. “I’m becoming a little hard of hearing, I’m afraid.”

Disregarding him, his granddaughter said fiercely, “Have you heard what she’s decided to do now?”

This sounded alarming. Ernest shook his head. “I’m afraid not. To be candid, I’m rather avoiding her at the moment. ”

“It’s a scandal and a shame!” Under the table she stamped her small foot on the grass. Her grandfather laid a restraining touch on her arm, but she shook it off.

“I’m sorry, Grandfather, but I will not be silenced! What she intends to do is— is downright un-Christian!”

The old man sighed.

“Uncharitable at least, I must concede . . . But Mr. Peake doesn’t yet know what we are talking about, does he?”

The girl swung to face the visitor.

“You heard about poor George Gibson’s death?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You know he was a laborer on your aunt’s estate—not that he could do much work after being gassed?”

This time, a nod.

“And that he left a wife and three children?”

Another nod.

“Well, Sir Roderick said in his will he could stay in his cottage for life because he’d been wounded in the War. Now he’s gone, your aunt intends to throw the family out. She told Mrs. Gibson today. They have one week.”

“But that’s disgraceful!” Ernest exclaimed. “Why?”

The vicar gave a gentle cough. She ignored it.

“Mrs. Gibson’s youngest was born in March 1919.”

For a moment Ernest failed to make the connection. Then he realized what the date implied. Slowly he said, “I take it you mean the youngest child is not her husband’s?”

“How could it be? He’d been a prisoner of war since ’17!” She leaned forward, her eyes beseeching. “But he’d forgiven her! He treated the child as he did his own—I saw. Why can’t your aunt do the same? What gives her the right to pass this kind of ‘moral’ judgment? One week for the poor wretch to find a new home, or else it’ll be the bailiffs and eviction!”

She was almost panting with the force of her tirade. In passing Ernest marvelled at how lovely it made her look. Previously he had thought of her as a rather pallid girl, meekly content to exist in her grandfather’s shadow, but now there was color flaming in her cheeks and righteous anger in her voice.

At length he said, “Whoso shall offend one of these little ones ...”

In a tone of unexpected cordiality the vicar said, “I gather from Alice that you are one of the unfortunates who lost his faith owing to the War, but I must say that is precisely the text that has been running through my own mind. An attitude such as your aunt’s belongs to the old covenant which Our Lord came to replace with the gospel of love. We no longer think it proper that the sins of the ancestors should be visited on the children, and it is they who will suffer the worst.”

Wasn’t the War the visiting of our forebears sins upon us, the young cannon-fodder?

But Ernest bit back the bitter comment. He said after a pause, “I have scant influence with my aunt, I'm afraid. What I can do, though, I certainly will.” “Thank you,” Alice said, leaning forward and laying her slim hand on his. “Thank you very much. More tea? And now: what was it that you wanted to discuss with us?” “Well, you see ...” And clumsily he brought it out. By the time he was done the vicar had finished his tea and was sitting back with a reflective expression, polishing his glasses on his napkin.

“Ah yes. They do take the well-dressing very seriously, don't they? And indeed I myself see little harm in it. Of course one is aware that it began as a pagan custom, but then so did Christmas, being timed to coincide with the Roman Saturnalia.” “The tradition really is that ancient?”

“Oh, yes. And formerly very widespread, though Welstock is the only place in the West Country where it is, or was, kept up. The most notable survivals are in Derbyshire, where several villages adhere to the custom. Its nature is much altered, naturally. The ‘feast' you referred to was originally a sacrifice, indeed a human sacrifice, to the patron spirit of water. The Romans knew her as Sabellia, but that was a corruption of an even earlier name. She was also an embodiment of springtime, associated, as one might expect, with the fertility of plants and animals. Including— ah—human animals.”

“Yet you saw no objection to continuing the rite?” Ernest couldn’t keep the puzzlement out of his voice.

“It’s been efficiently disinfected, as it were,” answered the vicar with a thin smile. “Indeed the villagers no longer know that there was a heathen spirit, or goddess, connected with the ceremony. At least I never heard any of them mention her name. They do still refer to ‘she,’ but pronouns in the local dialect tend to be somewhat interchangeable, and at worst they tend to identify her with the Virgin. That smacks of Mariolatry, of course, which I am professionally unable to countenance, but at least it lacks specifically pagan associations.”

“And I think it’s rather fun,” Alice said. “I remember when I was a little girl, following the procession around from well to well. The pictures Mr. Faber used to make were so clever, too! And using such ordinary bits and pieces! Grandfather!” She turned to the vicar. “I think Mr. Peake has had a wonderful idea! Let’s put our feet down, and insist on reviving the well-dressing this year!”

“I’m absolutely on your side,” Ernest said fervently. “If you’ll forgive me saying so, despite her apparent devoutness I cannot regard my aunt as—”

“As a good advertisement for religion?” the vicar interpolated gently. “No more, alas, can I. To my mind, these simple souls who want to celebrate the miracle of water, even more than bread the staff of life, have a deeper faith than she will ever attain—save, of course, ” he added, as to reproach himself for lack of charity, “by the grace of God, which I trust will reveal to her the beam in her own eye . . . Mr. Peake, I believe you have convinced me!”

He gave the table an open-palmed slap that made the teacups rattle, and winced as though regretting the impulse.

“We’ll strike a bargain, shall we? We shall both defy Lady Peake! I shall announce that the well-dressing is to be resumed; you, for your part, will do your best to save the Gibson family from eviction.”

It’s not going to be easy . . .

But the thought only flashed across Ernest’s mind for a fraction of a second. At once he was extending his hand to the vicar.

“Agreed, padre! It’s a deal!”

When tea was over, Alice offered to accompany him to the gate. He was about to protest that it wasn’t necessary when he realized that she wanted to say something more, out of hearing of her grandfather.

And when she uttered it, he was astounded.

At the very last moment before they separated she caught him by the arm.

“Mr. Peake—or may I call you Ernest? My name is Alice, as you know.”

“Please do,” he stammered.

“Ernest, do your utmost for Mrs. Gibson, won’t you? What happened to her is so—so understandable! It could have happened to anybody during the War. It could ...” She withdrew a pace, standing bolt upright, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“It could have happened to me.”

“You mean—”

“Yes. I was Gerald’s mistress. And before you ask, I do not feel in the least like a Fallen Woman! I’m only glad that he had the chance to become a complete man before his life was cut short . . . Have I shocked you? I apologize if so.”

Ernest looked at her as though for the first time. He read defiance in her face, noted that her small hands were clenched, remembered that her voice had trembled as she made her admission. To his amazement, he heard himself say, “No, Alice. You haven’t shocked me, not at all. My only feeling is that your Gerald was a very lucky man.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and darted forward and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek before hastening away.

“Wait!” Ernest cried.

“I can’t!”

“But I forgot to send a message to Tinkler—my man! Tell him I’m returning to the Hall!”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Goodbye!”

All the way home Ernest’s head was spinning in a maelstrom of confused impressions. But the strongest was this: that for the first time (and in how unexpected a setting!) he had met a girl with more courage than a man.

By sheer force of will he compelled himself to be polite to his aunt at the dinner-table, chatting—for so long as the maid was in the room—about his visit to the vicarage (which mellowed her a trifle), the beauty of the area, and his vague plans to paint several views of it. He was unable to resist a few indirect comments about the plight of rural communities nowadays, but managed to avoid any overt references to either the Gibson children or her refusal to lend her mower to the cricket-team. Not until coffee was served in the drawing-room, and they were alone, did he steer the talk around to the former of those two subjects.

Then, adopting his most reasonable tone, he observed that the vicar, and particularly Miss Pollock, seemed very worried about the fate hanging over Mrs. Gibson and especially her children.

But at the mere mention of the name Lady Peake’s face froze as hard as marble.

“You will oblige me by making no further mention of the matter. The woman is a sinner, and she must be punished for her sin.”

“But, aunt, it’s not the fault of the children that—”

“Be silent, sir! It is the duty of those in a position of authority to ensure that Christian values are upheld. That is what I am doing.”

Oh, what’s the use? But at least I tried . . .

“I see,” he said after a pause. “Well, I must ask you to excuse me. I have some work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes”—setting aside his empty cup. “Amongst other things, I found out today about the well-dressing ceremony. It’s to be revived this year, and I’ve offered to prepare some designs for it. ” He rose with a slight bow.

“You will do nothing of the kind!” his aunt thundered. “It’s naked paganism!”

“You think so?” Ernest was very conscious of the way his heart was pounding, but he kept his voice steady. “The vicar doesn’t. Indeed he said it has been completely Christianized with the passing of the years. And the designs I have in mind have an immaculately biblical basis. Good evening, aunt, and if I don’t see you again before bedtime, good night.”

He closed the door before she could erupt again.

Once in his room, however, staring at the first sheet from his portfolio, he suddenly found his mind as blank as the paper. He kept imagining what Mrs. Gibson’s state of mind must be, alone in her isolated cottage, perhaps with the children crying, not knowing whether they would have a roof over their heads a week from now. He was still sitting, pencil in lax fingers, when Tinkler came in to turn down the bed, lay out his pajamas, and mix his final draught of tincture of valerian. On his way to draw the curtains, he inquired sympathetically, “Shortage of inspiration, sir?”

Tossing the pencil angrily aside, Ernest rose and began to pace the room. “Yes,” he muttered. “I thought I had a lot of ideas. I thought for instance I might base something on the story of the three wise men, and show scenes from various parts of the Empire where one might imagine them to have hailed from. My people once took me to a church in Goa, in India, where they claim to have originally been converted by the Apostle Thomas. And I’ve seen services in Singapore, too, and Hong Kong. I was very young at the time, but I still remember a lot of details. But it seems—well—somehow wrong!” Slumping back into his chair, he concluded, “You’ve talked to the local folk much more than I have. Any suggestions?”

Tinkler hesitated for a moment. At length he said, “If I’m not presuming, sir—”

“Out with it!”

“Well, sir, are there not stories from the New Testament that would be more relevant to the present situation? For example, how about the woman taken in adultery?”

For an instant Ernest sat as though thunderstruck. Then he snapped his fingers.

“Of course! And Mary Magdalene—and the woman who met Jesus at the well! That’s apt, if you like! There’s a Bible under the night-table, isn’t there? Pass it to me, there’s a good chap.”

Complying, Tinkler said, “Will there be anything else?”

“Hm? Oh—no, not tonight. You can turn in.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night. ”

And he was gone, having uncharacteristically forgotten to draw the curtains.

By the time the church clock struck eleven-thirty Ernest was surrounded by a dozen rough sketches. Without seeing the promised photographs of Mr. Faber’s creations he had no idea whether they would prove acceptable, but he had a subconscious conviction that they would, for into the background of each he had contrived to incorporate a haughty, self-righteous figure modelled on his aunt. At first he had considered portraying her full-face, but then bethought himself of the difficulty of showing fine detail using a mosaic of natural objects bedded in clay, and concluded it would be best to depict her turning her back on those in need of help. Was that not most appropriate?

Yawning, stretching, he set aside the drawings and rose. Turning to the window, meaning to close the curtains, he checked in mid-movement.

Beyond the trees that fringed the left side of the garden, there was a fitful red glow.

For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks. Then he whistled under his breath.

“That’s a house on fire, or I’m a Dutchman . . . Tinkler! Tinkler/” And, seizing the blazer he had hung on the back of his chair with one hand, with the other he tugged frantically on the bell-pull.

He met his valet in a nightshirt on the landing, looking sleepily puzzled, and explained in a rush.

“Get some clothes on! Rouse the coachman and tell him to wake everyone he can! There isn’t a fire-engine in Welstock, is there?”

“I believe it has to come from the next village, sir.”

“Then tell them to bring buckets and ladders. Dr. Castle had better be woken up, too; someone might be hurt.”

“Where is the fire, sir? ” Tinkler demanded.

“Over that way, but you can’t miss it. I’ll go via the vicarage and have the bells rung . . . What’s wrong?”

“There’s only one cottage near the house on that side of the estate, sir. And that’s Mrs. Gibson’s.”

“What is this infernal row?” a stern voice demanded. Through her partly-opened bedroom door his aunt was peering.

“There’s a house on fire, and Tinkler says it must be the Gibsons’!”

He couldn’t see his aunt’s expression, but he could picture it. Because he heard her say, “It’s a visitation, then.”

“What?” Beside himself with rage, Ernest took a pace toward her. But Tinkler caught his arm.

“The alarm, sir—the church bells! That’s the important thing.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. The rest can wait. But not for long ...”

And he was hobbling down the stairs, outside into the clear spring night, across the garden towards the vicarage. From here the smoke was already pungent, and he could hear faint cries.

By shouting and hammering on the oaken door, he managed to rouse a middle-aged woman armed with a poker whom he took for Mrs. Kail. He uttered instructions as though he were again briefing his men against an enemy attack: do this now, then do that, then come and help. And was off again, struggling through thorns and underbrush on the straightest line to the burning cottage. Before he reached it a ragged clang was sounding from the tower.

The fire had obviously begun in an ill-repaired chimney, for it was still uttering most of the smoke. But by now the adjacent thatch was well alight. Outside, weeping and terrified, were three scantily-clad children. Where was their mother—? He glimpsed her through the open door, striving to rescue her pitiful possessions. At that moment she turned back with her arms full of oddments, coughing and choking and with tears streaming from her reddened eyes. She had on nothing but a soiled linen shift.

Limping forward, he shouted that she mustn’t go inside again, but she seemed not to hear, and he had to hurry after and drag her away by force. She fought to break his grip, whimpering.

“I’ve raised the alarm! Help will be here soon! Look to your children!”

There was a sudden crackling of trodden sticks behind him, and he turned gratefully to the first of the promised helpers, whom he took for a young man in the dimness.

“See if you can find a ladder! We’ll need a bucket-chain until the engine comes! Where can we get water—? Alice!”

To his amazement, it was indeed. She had donned, practically enough, boots and trousers and an old jersey. Women in trousers or breeches had been a common enough sight during the War, but he hadn’t seen one since and certainly had not expected to in Welstock. He was still at a loss when more half-glimpsed figures arrived at the double, laden with buckets and an invaluable ladder.

“I’ll take care of her and the children,” Alice said. “Take them to the vicarage and calm them down. You get things organized. There’s a pump round the back.”

Her coolness steadied his own racing thoughts. He issued brisk orders. By the time the fire-engine negotiated the rutted lane that was the only access to the cottage the unburnt portion of the thatch had been saturated and despite the mingled smoke and steam coachman Roger, who had been first to the top of the ladder, had begun to douse the glowing rafters.

Realizing that hoses were playing on the roof, Ernest discovered his eyes were full of tears. Some were due to smoke, no doubt, but he felt that more stemmed from the sight of this small tragedy, one more burden inflicted on an innocent victim.

“You can come away now,” a soft voice said at his side. “You’ve done wonders. Without you, the whole place would have been in ruins.”

Blearily He looked at Alice. He wasn t the only one. Now they had been relieved the volunteers were staring at her too, and one or two of their expressions were disapproving, as to say, “Her, in trousers? Shocking!”

He heard the imagined words in the voice of his aunt, and remembered what Tinkler had said about the glint in her eyes . . . Where was he, anyhow? Oh, over there, talking to the Stoddards.

“I don’t want to go back under that woman’s roof,” he said without intention.

Know what she said when I told her Mrs. Gibson’s house was burning down? She said it was a visitation on her!”

“You don’t have to,” Alice answered. “Not tonight. I can make up a bed at the vicarage. And I’ll run you a bath, too. You need one.”

For the first time Ernest realized he was grimy from head to toe with smoke.

And utterly exhausted.

“All right,” he muttered. “Thanks. Let Tinkler know.”

Oddly, during what was left of the night, for the first time in years his sleep was free from fearful dreams.

It was broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he discovered himself in a narrow bed, in a small room under the eaves, wearing—good heavens—his skin. Memory surged back. Alice had apologized for the fact that her grandfather had retired again and she didn’t want to disturb him by creeping into his room in search of nightwear he could borrow, but produced a large towel that she said would do to cover him returning from his bath.

Someone, though, had stolen into this room while he was asleep. Neatly arranged on a chair were clean clothes, his own, and underneath a pair of shoes awaited him.

Bless you, Tinkler!

Abruptly he discovered he was ravenous. Rising, dressing hastily, he went downstairs, finding his way by guesswork. This was an old and rambling house, with many misleading passages and stairways, but eventually he located the entrance hall—and Mr. Pollock.

“Good morning, young fellow! I understand from Alice that you did sterling work last night!”

Embarrassed, Ernest shrugged. “I just happened to be the only person awake, I suppose. I spotted the fire by sheer chance.”

“Professionally,” the vicar murmured, “I tend not to think in terms of ‘sheer chance’ . . . The Gibsons, you'll be glad to know, are in reasonable spirits this morning; Mrs. Kail is looking after them. But we’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, how about breakfast?”

“I’ll get it for him,” Alice said, appearing in one of the hall’s many doorways. She looked amazingly fresh, considering the experiences of the night. Looking at her—she had put on a brown dress this morning, as plain as her usual gray—Ernest wondered how, even for a moment and in trousers, he could have mistaken her for a boy.

“There’s no need,” he protested. “Tinkler can—”

“Tinkler has gone to fetch the rest of your belongings.”

He stared blankly. The vicar explained.

“I hope you won’t be upset, Mr. Peake, but—well, you did say, I believe, that you couldn’t face another night under your aunt’s roof?”

“I . . . Well, yes, actually I did.”

“It would appear that the feeling is mutual. First thing this morning, I received a note from her ladyship to the effect that if I proceed with plans to revive the well-dressing she will report me to my bishop and invoke ecclesiastical discipline. Apparently I am embroiling you, who are already a soul in danger of damnation, in pagan rites that will doom you past redemption. Fortunately”—his usual thin smile—“I happen to know that my bishop is, like myself, something of an antiquary, and had taken the precaution of notifying him of my intentions. I confidently predict that he will cast his vote in my favor.”

“You must forgive us, Ernest,” Alice said. “But we have taken the liberty of temporarily re-planning your life. We consulted Mr. Tinkler, and it was his view as well as ours that you might be better able to concentrate on your designs for the well-dressings here rather than at the Hall. Do you mind very much?”

“Do I mind?” Ernest blurted. “I’d give anything to be out of that—that Gorgon’s lair! I can’t say how grateful I am!”

There are, the vicar said sententiously, “many in Welstock this morning who are equally grateful to yourself. . . Alice, my dear: you promised Mr. Peake some breakfast?”

“Of course. Right away. Come along!”

Ernest could scarcely believe the transformation in his life. About noon a delegation from the village waited on him—he had to use the archaic term, for they were so determined to make it a formal occasion—led by Hiram Stoddard, who presented his publican brother s apologies, as well as Henry Ames, who practically overnight seemed to have been accepted as a full member of the community, and into the bargain Gaffer Tatton, who declared more than once that it would have taken far worse than rheumatism to keep him at home today. Apparently he was some sort of distant cousin of the Gibsons; probably, Ernest thought wryly, they all were.

They moved a vote of thanks to him in the drawing-room and uttered three solemn cheers, which struck him as rather silly since there were only eight of them, but kindly intended. Trying not to seem unappreciative, he contrived at last to drag the conversation around to something that interested him far more, and sent Tinkler for his sketches.

“Of course, I still haven’t seen your brother’s photographs, Mr. Stoddard,” he said as he diffidently removed them from the portfolio. “But would something on these lines serve? You’ll notice”—he recalled and consciously echoed Tinkler’s remark they are in a sense relevant to certain recent events around here. ”

For a moment they seemed not to catch the reference. Then, unexpectedly, Gaffer Tatton banged the floor with his stick. “’Tes the very thing!” he exclaimed' “Bain’t it to do her honor as we dress the wells? She’m bound to be pleased. Don’t all on ’em show ladies?”

Ernest was about to comment light-heartedly—light-headedly?—that “lady” was perhaps a misnomer for somebody like Mary Magdalene, when he realized it would have struck a false note. Grave, they were all nodding their agreement.

“Well, sir, we’ll get the boards cut by the weekend,” Hiram said. “And puddle the clay ready. Can you tell us what colors you have in mind, so we can set the young ’uns to gathering the right bits and pieces?”

“I haven’t finished working that out,” Ernest admitted. “But I can give you a rough idea. For instance ...”

And spent a happy quarter of an hour explaining.

It was not until they had left that an odd, disturbing point occurred to him. The central female figure in each of his three designs bore a remarkable likeness— in his imagination, at least—to Alice Pollock.

What had Gaffer Tatton said? That “she” would certainly be pleased! But he, equally certainly, must have been thinking of a different “she” . . .

Customary doubt assailed him yet again. This time, though, he drove it back, secure in the conviction he had found a worthwhile task at last.

“You may be pleased to hear,” the vicar said at lunch a few days later, “that the eviction of the Gibsons from their cottage may not prove as simple as Lady Peake might hope.”

Ernest, who had been thinking as little as possible about his aunt and as much as possible about the wells, came to himself with a start.

“How is that?” he inquired.

“The chief fire-officer who attended the conflagration has submitted a report, a copy of which I saw this morning. He says the chimney of the cottage had been long neglected, and its upkeep is not the responsibility of the tenant, but of the landlord. A high proportion of the Gibsons’ belongings were inevitably damaged, many beyond recall. One of my nephews is a solicitor, and he informs me that the possibility arises of a claim for financial recompense.”

“You mean the Gibsons might get some money out of my aunt?” The family were lodging as best they could in one of the vicarage stables, but while this was tolerable in warm weather their stay could not be indefinitely prolonged.

“Blood from a stone,” Alice sighed. “But it’s worth a try.”

“I meant to ask!” Ernest exclaimed. “Sorry to change the subject, but what did the bishop say?”

A twinkle came and went in Mr. Pollock’s eyes. “At the risk of sounding vain, I think I may claim that my knowledge of my superiors is as much—ah—superior to her ladyship’s as is my acquaintance with the principles of doctrine. He went so far as to ask why I had let such an interesting old custom lapse for so long.”

“She will be pleased,” Ernest murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing—nothing. Just quoting someone from the village, one of the people who’ve been advising me about the well-dressings. By the way, I’m not quite as sure as you about their having completely forgotten the patron spirit of water. But we can discuss that some other time. For now, just remind me of the date of Ascension Day. Since moving here I’ve lost track of time.”

“It’s next Thursday,” Alice supplied.

“Really! Then I’d better tell them to get a move on!”

“Don’t.”

“Excuse me . . . ?”

“I said don't!”—with a smile. “They set too much store by this to brook delay. Everything you need will be ready, that I promise.”

That evening, strolling in the garden after dinner, he dared to kiss her for the first time. And on Sunday he attended church and sat beside her, _;and took much pleasure in ignoring his aunt’s glares.

The glint was in her eye again, though, and thinking of it made shivers tremble down his spine.

The wells that had drawn the first settlers to the site of this village would, Ernest felt, more properly have been called springs. The first he visited was the closest to his own vision of a well, being surrounded by a stone coping and covered with a makeshift roof, but that was of corrugated iron, and there was neither windlass nor bucket and chain. The second was even more disappointing, for its water had been diverted to first a pump in the main square, then public taps at various points nearby, and eventually individual homes. Now only isolated cottages—like the Gibsons’—lacked at least cold water in the scullery. As to the third, which supplied the part of the village nearest the Hall, there was no sign of it at all below the stone facing that supported the track up to the church. (There were two others, in the grounds of the Hall and the vicarage, but they had of course never been available for general use . . . or dressing at Ascensiontide.)

Leaning on his stick in unconscious imitation of his guide Gaffer Tatton, whom he sometimes found hard to understand, he ventured, “One would scarcely imagine there was a well below here, would one?”

“Ah, but there be!” was the prompt response. “Don’t go too close, will ’ee, sir?

I recall last time the cover on it were made good—see, ’tes under mould now, and that there grass. ” He pointed at the base of the wall with his stick. “Deepest on ’em all, it were. Time and past time we dug un out and mended tiles.”

“Tiles?”

“Can’t see en, but they’re there. I recall helping to mend un. I were a boy then. Saw the way on un. Jes’ a few tiles. Ah, but good mortar! Best kind! Mr. Howard the builder, ’twere as done it. Still, 'tes in the nature o’ things. Don’t last for ever, do un? And ’tes time and past time we mended un again. She don’t care for being overlooked, she don’t.”

Greatly daring, Ernest countered, “She . . . ?”

“Ah, ’tes all old stories, sir. We tell un round the chimney-corner come winter, that we do. Fine day like this bain’t no time for such chitter-chatter. . . Well, sir, what do you think o’ the way they changed your drawings for to fit the boards?”

“I think there’s more talent in the village than people admit,” Ernest answered honestly. “They could have worked something out by themselves. I don’t think you needed me.”

“Ah, sir!” Gaffer Tatton leaned firmly on his stick again, staring his companion directly in the eyes. “That’s where you be wrong. If you’ll excuse me. It’s you exactly that we do be needing. ”

And, before Ernest could inquire what he meant, he was consulting an old pocket-watch.

“Time be a-wasting, sir. Waits for no man, as they say.”

"Just a moment!” Ernest exclaimed. “When you said ‘she,’ were you referring to—?”

“I bain’t saying more, sir,” the old man grunted. “There be some as believes and some as don t. Though when you’ve lived in Welstock long as me—”

“I haven’t had to,” Ernest said.

It was the other s turn to be puzzled. He said, “Do I understand ’ee right, sir?” “I hope so.” Ernest drew back a pace or two and gazed up at the Hall, silhouetted against the bright sky. “She can be kind, but she can also be cruel. Isn’t that so?” Gaffer Tatton was totally at a loss. Eventually, however, he found words.

I knew it! he burst out. “Couldn’t a-drawn them pictures ’less ...”

“Well? Go on!”—impatiently.

The rest bain t for me to say, sir, but for you to find out. Same as we all do. Same as we all must. But I’ll tell ’ee this: you’m on the right track. Good day!”

“What do you think he meant?” Ernest fretted to Alice after dinner that night. “Could he have been talking about nature?” she suggested.

“I suppose so, but—”

“Nature personified? You hinted that you don’t believe grandfather when he claims they ve all forgotten the origin of well-dressing. ”

“It fits,” he admitted. “People always say ‘Mother’ Nature, don’t they? Even though—”

“What?”

He drew a deep breath. “Living here instead of at the Hall, even though I recall what my aunt has said and done, I find it incredibly hard to believe the cruel side of her. ”

You aren t talking about your aunt,” Alice said perceptively.

“No, I’m not.”

“But she’s an aspect of the female principle, too.”

“I can’t think of her that way!”

“Then what about Kali—Kali Durga?”

Taken aback, he demanded, “How do you know about her?”

From Grandfather’s library, of course. You were brought up in India, a place I’ve never been and very likely never shall, and it’s no secret that I want to know more about you, is it? So I’ve made a start. Grandfather has a lot of old books about missionary work abroad . . . Did you ever witness one of her ceremonies?”

“No, and I’m rather glad!”

I think I d be interested—provided, of course, I could just watch from a distance ... But do you accept my point? There are all those millions of people, much closer to the primitive state than we are, or at any rate believe we are, and they know nature can be cruel as well as kind.”

“Yes, of course. But if you’re thinking of the well-dressing—”

“Every seventh year there used to be a human sacrifice. Grandfather said so. This year Mr. Ames is offering a pig. Did you ever hear a pig squeal when they slaughter it—? Oh, that was a rotten thing to say. I keep forgetting, because you’re such a nice person. You’ve heard men scream while they were dying, haven’t you?”

“Did”—his mouth was suddenly dry as though he had found himself confronting an unexpected rival—“did Gerald tell you about that?”

“He had to tell someone.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Ernest licked his lips.

“Have you ever told anyone? Tinkler?”

“I don’t have to tell him. We went through it together.”

The glint in my aunt’s eyes, the same as that general’s—and he recognized it too .. .

“Then a doctor?”

“The doctors I’ve talked to weren’t there. Maybe they can imagine it, but they never saw it.”

“Surely, though, doctors too see people die. Horribly, sometimes. In railway accidents, for instance—or burning houses. Worse yet, after operations that went wrong. ”

“An accident can’t be helped. War is deliberate.”

“Yes, of course ... So you haven’t ever found anyone to tell?”

He shook his head.

“Then what about me?” She reached for his hand and drew him unresisting to a seat. “I know you think of India as an old unchanging land, but there are more things in England that haven’t changed than most people are prepared to admit. Under the veneer of'tradition’ and 'ancient custom’ there remain the superstitions that were once a religious faith. Isn’t the central mystery of Christianity a human sacrifice? And, come to that, communion involves symbolic cannibalism!”

“What would your grandfather say if—?”

“If he heard me talking like this? He’d accuse me of plagiarism.”

“You mean it was he who—?”

“He’s a very broad-minded person. Hadn’t you noticed? Why do you think I can spend so much time unchaperoned?”

Ernest looked a desperate question that he did not dare to formulate in words. “I can read your thoughts from your face,” Alice murmured. “Did he know about me and Gerald? I don’t know. I never asked. I never shall. He very likely guessed, but he never behaved any differently towards me, and when the bad news came”— a quiver in her voice—“he was wonderful . . . Are you jealous of Gerald?”

“No. Sometimes I wonder why not. But I can’t be. I find myself wishing that I’d met him. I think we’d have been friends.”

“I think so, too.” She squeezed his hand. “Now tell me what you couldn’t say to anyone before.”

“I’ll try,” he whispered. “I will try ...”

And out it came, like pus from a boil: the remembered and the imaginary horrors, the images from a borderland between nightmare come alive and reality become nightmare; what it was like to realize you were obeying the orders of a crazy man, and had no escape from them; how it felt to choke one’s guts up in a gale of poison gas, to watch one’s comrades’ very bodies rotting in the putrefaction of the sodden trenches, to shake a man’s hand knowing it must be for the last time, for impersonal odds decreed that one or the other of you would be dead by sundown; taking aim at an enemy sniper spotted in a treetop or a belfry, as coolly as at a sitting rabbit, and not remembering until the flailing arms had vanished that the target was a human being like oneself . . .

And endlessly the howling-crashing of the shells, the chatter of machine guns, the racket, the hell-spawned racket that had silenced the very songbirds in the manmade desolation all around.

She sat very still, face pale in the dim light, without expression, never letting go his hand no matter how he cramped her fingers. When he finished he was crying, tears creeping down his cheeks like insects.

But he felt purged. And what she said, as she drew him close and kissed his tears away, was this:

“I met a woman from London who visited the Hall during the war. She called on us and boasted about her war work.’ It consisted in handing out white feathers to men who weren’t in uniform. I remember how I wished I could have kidnapped her and sent her to the Front with the VAD’s.”

He said, completely unexpectedly, “I love you.”

“Yes. I know,” was her reply. “I’m glad.”

“You—knew?”

“Oh, my dear!” She let go his hand at last and leaned back, laughing aloud. “That’ s something that you’ve never learned to hide! The talk in the servants’ hall has been of nothing else all week, and all around the village, I imagine. Your aunt, I hear, is absolutely scandalized, but since her setback vis-a-vis the bishop—”

“Stop, for pity’s sake! You’re making my head spin!”

At once she was contrite.

“Yes, of course. It was a dreadful thing to pour your heart out as you did, and I should have left you in peace immediately. But”—she was rising and withdrawing— “if anyone has bad dreams tonight, let it be me who wasn’t there and wished she could have been, to help.”

And she was gone, as instantly as the embodiment of . . .

Suddenly I know who She is, that Gaffer Tatton spoke of The thought came unbidden. It seemed to echo from the waters that underlay the hill, and phrases from childhood crowded his mind: the waters beneath the earth. . .

Also he remembered Kali, garlanded with human skulls, and could not stop himself from shuddering.

“Well, Mr. Ernest!” Hiram Stoddard said. “What do you think of what we’ve made out of your sketches? Have we done them justice?”

Ernest stared at the three great boards on which his designs had been interpreted by pressing odds and ends, all natural, into white soft clay. Half his mind wanted to say that this wasn’t what he had envisaged, this transformation into bones and leaves and cones and feathers—yet the other, perhaps the older and the wiser half, approved at once. How ingeniously, for example, in every case, they had caught the implication of another, older woman’s half-turned back as she spurned the central figure, calling her a sinner justifiably due for punishment! Indeed, they had added something by taking something away. His detestation of his aunt had led him, as he abruptly recognized, to give too much emphasis to her effigy. Now, as he studied the pictures ranked before him, he noticed that the villagers had left her prominent in the first that would be blessed tomorrow, reduced her in the second, left her isolated in a corner of the third which would be set in Old Well Road . . .

Primitive it may be, he thought. But many of the major French artists, and not a few of our own, have turned to the art not just of primitives but of savages in recent years. Maybe it’s because of the savagery we so-called civilized nations have proved capable of.. . Yes, they’re right. Their changes are correct.

He said as much aloud, and those who had been anxiously standing by relaxed and set off to install the boards at their appointed places, ready for tomorrow morning’s ceremony. Only at the last moment did it occur to him that he must take one final glance.

Checking in dismay as he called them back, they waited for his ultimate verdict.

But it was all right after all. He already knew that the resemblance between the main female figures and Alice had been efficiently disguised by its interpretation into whatever could be pressed into the clay, with pebbles for eyes and twigs and leaves for hair. For a moment, though, he had been afraid that he might have put too much of himself into the other major figure, who was Jesus . . .

“Don’t you fret, sir,” muttered Gaffer Tatton at his side, arriving heralded by the stump-stump of his stick. “You do understand. Didn’t need me to tell ’ee.”

And he was gone again before Ernest could reply, and the board-carriers, escorted by a gang of cheering children and Miss Hicks the teacher, seizing the chance for an open-air history lecture, were on their way to the wells.

He lay long awake that night, as though on the eve of his first one-man show, the kind of thing he had dreamed of when as a boy in India he had marvelled at the images contrived from ghee and leaves and petals to celebrate a Hindu festival. Why had he not noticed the connection sooner? Perhaps the iron curtain of the War had shut it out. But tonight he could sense a pulsing in the very landscape, as though an aboriginal power were heaving underground.

The waters beneath the earth. . .

Waking afraid in darkness, feeling as though the old and solid house were rocking back and forth like Noah’s Ark, he groped for matches on the bedside table. There was an electric generator at the Hall, but the vicarage was still lit by lamps and candles. When he could see, he forced out faintly, “Alice!”

She was closing the door behind her. In a flimsy nightgown and barefoot, she stole across the floor as if she knew which boards might creak and could avoid them.

“I didn’t mean to come,” she said in a musing voice, as though puzzled at herself. “Not yet, at any rate. Not until tomorrow when it’s over. But I couldn’t stop myself. Do you feel something changing, Ernest?”

The match burned his fingers. By touch she prevented him from lighting another, and guided the box back to the table. He heard it rattle as it fell. Something else fell too, with a faint swishing sound, and she was beside him, arms and legs entwined with his.

“Do you feel something changing?” she insisted.

“I feel as though the whole world is changing!”

“Perhaps it is. But not for the worse. Not now, at any rate . . . Oh, my beloved! Welcome back from helll”

Her hands were tugging at his pajamas, and in a moment there was nothing but the taste and scent of love, and its pressure, and delight.

“If . . ."he said later, into darkness.

Understanding him at once, she interrupted. “So what? You’re going to marry me, I hope. ”

“Of course. Even so—”

She closed his lips with a finger. “Remember this is a part of the world where the old ways endure. Did anyone you met here condemn Mrs. Gibson, for example?” “Just my aunt.”

Did anybody tell you how soon after the wedding Mrs. Gibson bore her first?” “Ah—no!”

“It must have been conceived last time the seventh year came round. They didn’t marry until he got his call-up papers, though they were long engaged. The second followed one of his leaves, and you know about the third. They take it as natural. Some may think ill of us. I won’t. Nor they. ”

I won t think ill of you! Ever!” He sealed the promise with a frantic kiss.

“Even if I steal away now?”

“Alice darling—”

“I cannot be found here in the morning, can I? No matter how tolerant Grandfather is! No, you must let me go. ” She was suiting action to word, sliding out of bed, donning her nightgown again. “We have a lifetime before us. Let’s not squander it in advance.”

You re right, he sighed. “I wish I had half your sense.”

“And I wish I had half the presence of mind you showed when Mrs. Gibson’s fire broke out. Between us”—she bent to bestow a final kiss on his forehead—“we should make quite a team . . . What was that?”

The air had been rent by a scream: faint, distant, but unbelievably shrill, like the cry of a damned soul. ’

Sitting up, Ernest snatched at a possibility.

It sounded like a stuck pig! Mr. Ames has offered a pig for tomorrow—does the tradition include sacrificing it at midnight?”

Not that I know of! But it’ll have woken half the neighborhood, whatever it is! I must fly!”

And she was gone.

For a moment Ernest was determined to ignore the noise. He wanted to lie back and recall the delicious proof of love that she had given him. It was no use, though. Within moments he heard noises from below. The rest of the household was awake. After what he had done on the night of the fire, it behooved him to rouse himself. He was already struggling back into his clothes when Tinkler tapped on the door' “Coming!” he said resignedly.

And, when he descended to the hallway, found Alice there—attired again in jersey and trousers, and looking indescribably beautiful.

Not just looking. Being. Something has entered into that girl . . . Wrong. She was a girl. Now she’s a woman.

And an extraordinary corollary followed.

I wonder whether anybody else will notice.

They did.

This time it wasn’t he who wore the mantle of authority. She did. She quieted Mrs. Kail, sent her to tell her grandfather he could go back to sleep, and found a lantern and set forth with him down towards Old Well Road and the site of the third of the well-dressings.

Where others had already begun to gather, also bearing lanterns. Among them was Gaffer Tatton, fully dressed. Sensing Ernest’s surprise, Alice murmured, “He lives in that cottage opposite. And alone. I don’t suppose he takes his clothes off very often.”

Ernest couldn’t help smiling. That explained a lot!

But why was he so happy? Why was he blatantly holding his companion’s hand as they joined the others? He couldn’t work it out. He felt as though he were in the grip of a power beyond himself, and kept looking to Alice for guidance.

But she offered none, and none came from anyone else, until they had reached the bottom of the slope and were able to see what the rest of the people were staring at.

The well-dressing was unharmed. But, immediately before it, at the spot where Gaffer Tatton had told him grass was growing on leaf-mould that had accumulated over nothing stronger than tiles and mortar, there was a gaping hole.

And, lying on the ground nearby, there was a mallet.

Realization slowly dawned. Ernest said faintly, “Is it . . . ?”

“We think so, sir.” Hiram Stoddard emerged into the circle of light cast by the lanterns. “It were young Roger as tipped us off. Here, young feller, you’re old enough to speak for yourself. ”

And Roger the coachman was thrust forward from the crowd.

“Well, sir,” he began awkwardly, “since you left the Hall her ladyship has been acting stranger and stranger. In the middle of the night we heard her getting up. I was roused by May—that’s her maid, sir, as sleeps in the room next to hers. She said the mistress had gone out, muttering to herself like. ” An enormous gulp. “She said she thought—excuse me, sir—she must have taken leave of her senses!”

“So?”

Ernest would have liked to be the one to say that. In fact it was Alice. Very calm, totally heedless of what the men around might think of her masculine attire.

“Well, sir ...” Roger shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “As you know, sir, there’s a mallet kept next to the dinner gong at the Hall. I saw it were gone. I couldn’t think on anyone else as mighta taken it.”

Ernest bent to pick up the mallet. He said, turning it over, “Yes, I recognize it. You think she set out to smash the well-dressings?”

Everyone relaxed, most noticeably Gaffer Tatton, who nudged those nearest to him in the ribs.

“It would fit,” Alice said in a strained voice. “Only she didn’t know how weak the cover was. Being so fat ...”

“Ah!”—from Gaffer Tatton. “She’ll do for two, she will.”

The others pretended not to understand, but even Ernest got the point. At length: “Weren’t nothing anybody could do,” Hiram declared, and there was a murmur of agreement.

Ernest glanced from face to face. He knew, in that moment, that this was what they’d hoped might happen. It would be no use arguing that if they had turned out sooner in response to the scream they might have saved his aunt’s life. Anyway, why should they? He would not have wanted to . . .

Again he sensed the presence of a power beneath the ground. Here, in the lonely small hours of the night, he could clearly hear for the first time the rushing of the water far below.

No longer pure, of course.

“Bring hooks and ropes,” he ordered gruffly. “We’ll pull her up. And people who use the water from this well had best avoid it for the time being. ”

“We thought of that, sir,” Hiram said. “Those who draw on it will let their taps run the rest of the night.”

“Wash her away,” said Gaffer Tatton with a gap-toothed smile, and plodded back across the road to home.

“Will you carry on with the well-dressing?” Ernest said, red-eyed at an early breakfast-table.

“Yes, of course.”

“You don’t think it’s inappropriate in the circumstances?”

“My dear Mr. Peake—or may I now address you as Ernest, given the degree of affection that you display towards my granddaughter?”

He is a wise old owl, isn’t he? And doesn’t he look pleased?

“Of course,” he said mechanically.

“Well, then, my dear Ernest: you don’t think it inappropriate, do you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Then we shall go ahead. In fact”—he produced a watch that reminded Ernest of Gaffer Tatton’s—“it’s time to leave.”

Virtually the entire village had turned out for the procession, despite this being officially a working day. The vicar went at its head, attended by Roger the coachman bearing a stoup of holy water and a bundle of herbs bound to make a kind of brush, with which he asperged the decorations at each well before pronouncing a benediction. The church choir came next, singing a traditional hymn, and after there followed the villagers roughly in order of age, while the rear was brought up by the children from the school under Miss Hicks’s stern direction, except for one boy and one girl who had been allotted the coveted duty of leading the way with branches of greenery.

Listening to the singing—quiet at first, then lusty—it occurred to Ernest that since his arrival he had never seen so many smiles at once.

During the blessing of the second well, he felt a shy tug at the hand with which he wasn’t clasping Alice’s. He glanced down to see a woman’s face, drawn and lined under prematurely gray hair. It was Mrs. Gibson.

“Me and my littluns got a lot to thank ’ee for already,” she whispered. “Now all on us folk got ’ee to thank for bringing back the well-dressing . . . God bless ’ee, Mr. Ernest!”

And she had withdrawn into the throng.

But across the group he caught the eye of Gaffer Tatton, and he was beaming as to say, “What did I tell ’ee?”

Then at last it was time to make for their final destination, the one in Old Well Road. The air was tense with expectation. The ceremony here proceeded exactly as before, with the same prayers and the same quotations about the Water of Life. But more was clearly expected, and of a sudden it came.

Abandoning any prepared text, the vicar surveyed his congregation and said abruptly, “Friends! For I trust after so many years of tribulation I may call you so!” The smiles came back, in even greater number.

“There are some who have called it wrong, indeed evil, to keep up the tradition we have today renewed. I am not one of them.”

Nor are we, was the silent response.

“We all know that our very lives are a miracle—that we are born, that we can think and reason, and that we can learn to praise our Creator: yes, that’s a miracle!” Almost, there was an outburst of applause. The Stoddard brothers frowned it down.

“For the food we eat, and the water we drink: should we not give thanks? And that the land yields bountifully, and our cattle and our other livestock? And, indeed, that we can leave children to follow in our footsteps when we, as must inevitably ensue, are called to join the company of the righteous . . . Met here today, we have acknowledged our indebtedness to the Maker of all things. Today in particular we have celebrated the gift of water. It behooves us all, and always, to remember it is one of many gifts, and the greatest of these is love. God bless you all!”

And he turned back to the well-dressing on which Ernest and all its makers had lavished so much care, and recited the Doxology at the top of his voice. Many of the listeners joined in.

Gaffer Tatton, though, was not among them. He had made for home, bent perhaps on the kind of errand that an old man’s weak bladder might make urgent. Just as the vicar finished, however, he burst out once more from his cottage door. “It’s sweet!”

Every head turned.

“The water’s sweet! Bain’t no more taint to un! I drunk this water all me life, and ’spite o’ her as went she’s made it clean again!”

“He means,” Alice began, whispering close to Ernest’s ear, and he cut her short. “I know. What he means is that no matter how awful she was, and how long she lay in the well, she didn’t foul the water. . . When we get married, my love, would you mind if we did it twice?”

“How can that be?” She drew back to arm’s length, studying him with her wide gray eyes.

“We’ll do it once for me, the man, in the name of the Father and the Son. And we’ll do it once for you, in the name of—her. How about it?”

“But no one knows her name!”

“Does it matter? We know she’s there, don’t we?”

She thought awhile, and eventually nodded.

“Yes, I’ve known for years, like Gaffer Tatton. I’m surprised you found out so quickly, but I’m terribly glad . . . Shall we live at the Hall?”

“Most of the time, I suppose. After all, I’m the heir. But I want to take you on honeymoon to India. Even if I can’t promise a private view of Kali-worship.” Smiling, she pressed his hand. “I think I’ve seen enough of the wicked side of the female principle for the time being—” She broke off, aghast. “Ernest, this is terrible! She s scarcely cold, and here we are talking about a honeymoon! We ought to be planning her funeral!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Ernest.”

They turned to find the Stoddard brothers at their side.

“Before we go, we’d just like to offer our congratulations and say we hope you’ll both be very happy.”

How in the world—?

Then he recalled what Alice had said about the talk in the servants’ hall, and all around the village. He let his face relax into a grin.

“Thanks awfully! What time’s the feast tonight? We’ll see you there!”

Afterwards, when Mr. Ames’s pig had been distributed in slices, special care being taken to deliver enough to Mrs. Gibson and her children, he said to Alice in the darkness of her room, “I don’t think we need the second wedding after all.” Hmm? —nuzzling his neck with soft warm lips.

“As far as she’s concerned we’re married, aren’t we?”

“Mm-hm. That’s what surprised me when you mentioned it. . . Can we again?” “I think so—Yes! Oh, yes!”

Later, though, just before, for the first time, they went to sleep in one another’s arms, having agreed to stop worrying about scandal or offending old Mr. Pollock— or even Tinkler—he said musingly, “It’s funny, though.”

“What is?”

How close a connection there is between what you see in India and what you find at home.”

But why? She raised herself on one elbow, her breasts enchantingly visible in the faint light from the window. “Isn't it the same with science?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t expect science to stop working because it’s a different country, would you?”

“No, of course not!”

“Well, then!” She lay down again. “Why not the same with religion? After all, we’re all human.” ’

“You mean—”

What I mean, she said firmly, “is that whoever she is who guards the wells of Welstock, and brought you and me so splendidly together, she can’t be anything else except another aspect of what you are, and I am, and everybody else. That goes for India too, and every countless world we find our way to in our dreams. Which is where, with my lord’s permission, I propose to adjourn to. Good night. ”

He lay awake a while longer, pondering what she had said, and at last inquired, How do you think the villagers will take to having people here with views like ours?”

“So long as we honor the mistress of the water,” came the sleepy answer, “why in the world should they worry?”

Yes indeed. Why should they?

His doubts resolved, the new lord of the manor of Welstock dozed off contentedly beside his lady.