The Story of Lucy Gault

Ralph smiled again, not knowing what was meant by that. Canon Crosbie said:

‘I’m told you’ve been to Lahardane.’

‘I drove up by chance. Mr Ryall very kindly lets me drive his car.’

‘The kindest of men. And married to the kindest wife there ever was.’ Canon Crosbie paused. ‘You met Lucy Gault, so I’ve heard.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Now that’s an excellent thing, Ralph. Nothing pleased me more than to hear you had called in. Nothing pleased Mrs Crosbie more. We equally rejoiced.’

Canon Crosbie’s twinkling manner, the hand placed friendlily on Ralph’s shoulder, the enthusiastic nodding of his head, caused Ralph to blush, and once the blush had begun it spread and deepened. There was an implication in what was being said, in the tone of voice, in an assumption that Ralph would have wished to be true but which assuredly was not.

‘A summer companion for Lucy Gault is a marvel to be thankful for.’

‘I’ve been there only once.’

‘And how it would delight us all to hear that you had been again! And how delighted – oh yes, I know it – Lucy would be too.’

‘I haven’t actually been invited to return.’

‘Hereabouts, Ralph, it is quite the thing to drop in, to lift a knocker when the spirit moves. I grant you, Ralph, there is more formality in County Wexford. I expect you are acquainted with the Dean of Ferns?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, there you are. No, we take things lightly here. It’s quite expected that we don’t much stand on ceremony. In social ways,’ the Canon added with sudden severity, ‘stand-offishness has no place among us. No place at all.’

‘Actually,’ Ralph began, ‘I’m not -’

‘My boy, of course you’re not. I feel that in all my bones. And Mrs Crosbie does. Has your path crossed that of Mr Sullivan?’

‘Sullivan?’

Of Sullivan and Pedlow? Solicitors, commissioners for oaths?’

Ralph shook his head.

‘Mr Sullivan has searched the world for Captain Gault and his wife. And in the meantime Mr Sullivan has kept an eye on things. He has kept an eye on Lucy. In his own time, beyond all professional duties, he has been concerned – concerned, Ralph, for Lucy’s well-being and livelihood, concerned about repairs and upkeep in that barracks of a house. Not much can be done, for there is no money to be spared. A few fields and the cattle on them have for generations been the outward and visible sign of the Gaults’ ease of passage. Lahardane has struggled on, and it is Mr Sullivan who has arranged that it does so still. I have said to Mr Sullivan – I have stopped him in the street to say it – that he is a good man. The reply I drew was that he has taken many a dinner at Lahardane, that he has – in the Captain’s day and before – spent many a night when a journey home in the dark seemed arduous. He claims no more for his humanity, Ralph, than that it’s a payment for hospitality.’

Ralph nodded. The flush of colour had gone from his cheeks. He would have liked to bring the encounter to an end, but didn’t quite know how to do so.

‘It has reached Mr Sullivan’s ears, as it reached my own, that you have been out to Lahardane. That has spelt delight for Mr Sullivan, Ralph, as it has for Mrs Crosbie and for myself. We have given thanks. We have given heartfelt thanks.’

‘I mistook the avenue that day.’

‘Mistake it again, Ralph. I entreat you to mistake it again. I entreat you to give a little company to a young girl who lacks the company of her own generation. I entreat you not to leave undone those things which ought to be done. I truly entreat you. Go again to that lonely house, Ralph.’

With this wordy hyperbole, Canon Crosbie offered Ralph his hand and passed on his way.

*

In handwriting that seemed strangely perfect, that followed every instruction as to downstroke and loops, and flow and style, there was a note at last from Lucy Gault. That name, so secretly cherished by Ralph, was formed with the same slant that characterized the words of the letter’s content. Not all the world’s poetry could capture the potency in this confirmation of a name; about that Ralph was certain. Not all the world’s poetry could reflect an iota of his happiness as he taught his charges beneath the leafy boughs of the beech tree. ‘Oh, we’ll just read today,’ he exclaimed, smiling on the morning the letter came, then reading aloud from The Diary of a Nobody while Kildare dozed and Jack drew gargoyles.

When the mid-morning tray came and the boys had run away there was the letter to peruse again with luxurious slowness, the taking of it from the pocket, the slow unfolding, the dappled shadows on white paper and blue ink. The envelope was kept separately; it, too, was examined now. The pleas of Canon Crosbie, the unspoken wishes of the Ryalls, were no longer at odds with the stubborn shyness that characterized Ralph’s nature. And it was delight enough, in these first hours of everything being different, to gaze at a few brief sentences and at how a name was written.