Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife.

—Tennyson, Maud (1855)

Mrs. Poulteney’s face, that afternoon when the vicar made his return and announcement, expressed a notable ignorance. And with ladies of her kind, an unsuccessful appeal to knowl-edge is more often than not a successful appeal to disappro-val. Her face was admirably suited to the latter sentiment; it had eyes that were not Tennyson’s “homes of silent prayer” at all, and lower cheeks, almost dewlaps, that pinched the lips together in condign rejection of all that threatened her two life principles: the one being (I will borrow Treitschke’s sarcastic formulation) that “Civilization is Soap” and the other, “Respectability is what does not give me offense.” She bore some resemblance to a white Pekinese; to be exact, to a stuffed Pekinese, since she carried concealed in her bosom a small bag of camphor as a prophylactic against cholera .. . so that where she was, was always also a delicate emanation of mothballs.

“I do not know her.”

The vicar felt snubbed; and wondered what would have happened had the Good Samaritan come upon Mrs. Poulteney instead of the poor traveler.

“I did not suppose you would. She is a Charmouth girl.”

“A girl?”

“That is, I am not quite sure of her age, a woman, a lady of some thirty years of age. Perhaps more. I would not like to hazard a guess.” The vicar was conscious that he was making a poor start for the absent defendant. “But a most distressing case. Most deserving of your charity.”

“Has she an education?”

“Yes indeed. She was trained to be a governess. She was a governess.”

“And what is she now?”

“I believe she is without employment.”

“Why?”

“That is a long story.”

“I should certainly wish to hear it before proceeding.”

So the vicar sat down again, and told her what he knew, or some (for in his brave attempt to save Mrs. Poulteney’s soul, he decided to endanger his own) of what he knew, of Sarah Woodruff.

“The girl’s father was a tenant of Lord Meriton’s, near Beaminster. A farmer merely, but a man of excellent princi-ples and highly respected in that neighborhood. He most wisely provided the girl with a better education than one would expect.”

“He is deceased?”

“Some several years ago. The girl became a governess to Captain John Talbot’s family at Charmouth.”

“Will he give a letter of reference?”

“My dear Mrs. Poulteney, we are discussing, if I under-stood our earlier conversation aright, an object of charity, not an object of employment.” She bobbed, the nearest acknowledgment to an apology she had ever been known to muster. “No doubt such a letter can be obtained. She left his home at her own request. What happened was this. You will recall the French barque—I think she hailed from Saint Malo—that was driven ashore under Stonebarrow in the dreadful gale of last December? And you will no doubt recall that three of the crew were saved and were taken in by the people of Charmouth? Two were simple sailors. One, I un-derstand, was the lieutenant of the vessel. His leg had been crushed at the first impact, but he clung to a spar and was washed ashore. You must surely have read of this.”

“Very probably. I do not like the French.”

“Captain Talbot, as a naval officer himself, most kindly charged upon his household the care of the ... foreign officer. He spoke no English. And Miss Woodruff was called upon to interpret and look after his needs.”

“She speaks French?” Mrs. Poulteney’s alarm at this appall-ing disclosure was nearly enough to sink the vicar. But he ended by bowing and smiling urbanely.

“My dear madam, so do most governesses. It is not their fault if the world requires such attainments of them. But to return to the French gentleman. I regret to say that he did not deserve that appellation.”

“Mr. Forsythe!”

She drew herself up, but not too severely, in case she might freeze the poor man into silence.

“I hasten to add that no misconduct took place at Captain Talbot’s. Or indeed, so far as Miss Woodruff is concerned, at any subsequent place or time. I have Mr. Fursey-Harris’s word for that. He knows the circumstances far better than I.” The person referred to was the vicar of Charmouth. “But the Frenchman managed to engage Miss Woodruff’s affec-tions. When his leg was mended he took coach to Weymouth, there, or so it was generally supposed, to find a passage home. Two days after he had gone Miss Woodruff requested Mrs. Talbot, in the most urgent terms, to allow her to leave her post. I am told that Mrs. Talbot tried to extract the woman’s reasons. But without success.”

“And she let her leave without notice?”

The vicar adroitly seized his chance. “I agree—it was most foolish. She should have known better. Had Miss Woodruff been in wiser employ I have no doubt this sad business would not have taken place.” He left a pause for Mrs. Poulteney to grasp the implied compliment. “I will make my story short. Miss Woodruff joined the Frenchman in Weymouth. Her conduct is highly to be reprobated, but I am informed that she lodged with a female cousin.”

“That does not excuse her in my eyes.”

“Assuredly not. But you must remember that she is not a

lady born. The lower classes are not so scrupulous about appearances as ourselves. Furthermore I have omitted to tell you that the Frenchman had plighted his troth. Miss Woodruff went to Weymouth in the belief that she was to marry.”

“But was he not a Catholic?”

Mrs. Poulteney saw herself as a pure Patmos in a raging ocean of popery.

“I am afraid his conduct shows he was without any Chris-tian faith. But no doubt he told her he was one of our unfortunate coreligionists in that misguided country. After some days he returned to France, promising Miss Woodruff that as soon as he had seen his family and provided himself with a new ship—another of his lies was that he was to be promoted captain on his return—he would come back here, to Lyme itself, marry her, and take her away with him. Since then she has waited. It is quite clear that the man was a heartless deceiver. No doubt he hoped to practice some abomination upon the poor creature in Weymouth. And when her strong Christian principles showed him the futility of his purposes, he took ship.”

“And what has happened to her since? Surely Mrs. Talbot did not take her back?”

“Madam, Mrs. Talbot is a somewhat eccentric lady. She offered to do so. But I now come to the sad consequences of my story. Miss Woodruff is not insane. Far from it. She is perfectly able to perform any duties that may be given to her. But she suffers from grave attacks of melancholia. They are doubtless partly attributable to remorse. But also, I fear, to her fixed delusion that the lieutenant is an honorable man and will one day return to her. For that reason she may be frequently seen haunting the sea approaches to our town. Mr. Fursey-Harris himself has earnestly endeavored to show to the woman the hopelessness, not to say the impropriety, of her behavior. Not to put too fine a point upon it, madam, she is slightly crazed.”

There was a silence then. The vicar resigned himself to a pagan god—that of chance. He sensed that Mrs. Poulteney was calculating. Her opinion of herself required her to appear shocked and alarmed at the idea of allowing such a creature into Marlborough House. But there was God to be accounted to.

“She has relatives?”

“I understand not.”

“How has she supported herself since ...?”

“Most pitifully. I understand she has been doing a little

needlework. I think Mrs. Tranter has employed her in such work. But she has been living principally on her savings from her previous situation.”

“She has saved, then.”

The vicar breathed again.

“If you take her in, madam, I think she will be truly saved.” He played his trump card. “And perhaps—though it is not for me to judge your conscience—she may in her turn save.”

Mrs. Poulteney suddenly had a dazzling and heavenly vision; it was of Lady Cotton, with her saintly nose out of joint. She frowned and stared at her deep-piled carpet.

“I should like Mr. Fursey-Harris to call.”

And a week later, accompanied by the vicar of Lyme, he called, sipped madeira, and said—and omitted—as his ec-clesiastical colleague had advised. Mrs. Talbot provided an interminable letter of reference, which did more harm than good, since it failed disgracefully to condemn sufficiently the governess’s conduct. One phrase in particular angered Mrs. Poulteney. “Monsieur Varguennes was a person of consider-able charm, and Captain Talbot wishes me to suggest to you that a sailor’s life is not the best school of morals.” Nor did it interest her that Miss Sarah was a “skilled and dutiful teacher” or that “My infants have deeply missed her.” But Mrs. Talbot’s patent laxity of standard and foolish sentimen-tality finally helped Sarah with Mrs. Poulteney; they set her a challenge.

So Sarah came for an interview, accompanied by the vicar. She secretly pleased Mrs. Poulteney from the start, by seeming so cast down, so annihilated by circumstance. It was true that she looked suspiciously what she indeed was— nearer twenty-five than “thirty or perhaps more.” But there was her only too visible sorrow, which showed she was a sinner, and Mrs. Poulteney wanted nothing to do with anyone who did not look very clearly to be in that category. And there was her reserve, which Mrs. Poulteney took upon herself to interpret as a mute gratitude. Above all, with the memory of so many departed domestics behind her, the old lady abhorred impertinence and forwardness, terms synony-mous in her experience with speaking before being spoken to and anticipating her demands, which deprived her of the pleasure of demanding why they had not been anticipated.

Then, at the vicar’s suggestion, she dictated a letter. The handwriting was excellent, the spelling faultless. She set a more cunning test. She passed Sarah her Bible and made her read. Mrs. Poulteney had devoted some thought to the choice of passage; and had been sadly torn between Psalm 119 (“Blessed are the undefiled”) and Psalm 140 (“Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man”). She had finally chosen the former; and listened not only to the reading voice, but also for any fatal sign that the words of the psalmist were not being taken very much to the reader’s heart.

Sarah’s voice was firm, rather deep. It retained traces of a rural accent, but in those days a genteel accent was not the great social requisite it later became. There were men in the House of Lords, dukes even, who still kept traces of the accent of their province; and no one thought any the worse of them. Perhaps it was by contrast with Mrs. Fairley’s uninspired stumbling that the voice first satisfied Mrs. Poulteney. But it charmed her; and so did the demeanor of the girl as she read “O that my ways were directed to keep Thy statutes!”

There remained a brief interrogation.

“Mr. Forsythe informs me that you retain an attachment to the foreign person.”

“I do not wish to speak of it, ma’m.”

Now if any maid had dared to say such a thing to Mrs. Poulteney, the Dies Irae would have followed. But this was spoken openly, without fear, yet respectfully; and for once Mrs. Poulteney let a golden opportunity for bullying pass.

“I will not have French books in my house.”

“I possess none. Nor English, ma’m.”

She possessed none, I may add, because they were all sold; not because she was an early forerunner of the egregious McLuhan.

“You have surely a Bible?”

The girl shook her head. The vicar intervened. “I will attend to that, my dear Mrs. Poulteney.”

“I am told you are constant in your attendance at divine service.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“Let it remain so. God consoles us in all adversity.”

“I try to share your belief, ma’m.”

Mrs. Poulteney put her most difficult question, one the vicar had in fact previously requested her not to ask.

“What if this ... person returns; what then?”

But again Sarah did the best possible thing: she said nothing, and simply bowed her head and shook it. In her increasingly favorable mood Mrs. Poulteney allowed this to be an indication of speechless repentance.

So she entered upon her good deed.

It had not occurred to her, of course, to ask why Sarah, who had refused offers of work from less sternly Christian

souls than Mrs. Poulteney’s, should wish to enter her house. There were two very simple reasons. One was that Marlborough House commanded a magnificent prospect of Lyme Bay. The other was even simpler. She had exactly sevenpence in the world.