The Reverend Mr Stratton had one of those faces that take some time to arrange themselves for the business of the day. In the mornings he could be expected to look tired and irritable. His colour, at this hour, was normally poor; his skin had no tone; the folds of his face — thin vertical lines like surgeons' scars on either side of his mouth-were deeper, more pronounced. But on this morning his face was ahead of itself-it was flushed and tight, and the eyes had all the secret life (and yet none of the wateriness) they normally took from a sherry bottle. He did not say good morning, or explain how it was he happened to be in Oxford at that hour. Rather he took the empty suitcase from Oscar's hands, seemed surprised at its lightness, and then put it down

inn

Covetousness

outside the door. He had no "intention" in this, unless it was that, in the midst of his confusion at being greeted by a young man holding a suitcase and, finding the suitcase empty, he judged the thing ready for the boxroom and put it in the passage where the scout might attend to it, although if this was what he thought, he did not know he thought it-his mind was aswim with imagined conspiracies; there was no room for a suitcase.

Hugh Stratton said: "You have paid your buttery bill." This was not said in a spirit of congratulation but, rather, accusation. He shook his head slowly, as if he were at once exhausted by but resigned to this example of the young man's treachery.

Oscar was, by now, quite accustomed to Hugh Stratum's fretful moods, but they had not lost their power to disturb him and he was, as usual, reduced to a sort of paralysis, knowing that almost anything he said would make the matter worse.

When Mr Stratton unbuttoned his coat Oscar held out his hand to take it from him, but the offer was not accepted. Mr Stratton draped the old-fashioned black gabardine on the end of the bed.

"And drinking coffee," said Mr Stratton, walking over to the table the scout had spread for breakfast. He lifted the lid of the tea-pot as if it were a clever disguise for secret luxuries.

"Oh no," said Oscar, "not coffee," and looked unhappily at the cold tight skin that was forming across the top of his porridge. He was hungry. It was his normal condition.

"Not?" said Mr Stratton. He squinted at the student, and then down into the pot. "Not?" "I hope you received your coffee."

"Oh, yes, we received it," said Hugh Stratton, meaning nothing in particular by his emphasis on received, wishing only to give the impression that he knew what tricks were being played, whatever they were. "And very nice too," he said, "forgetting" his wife's request that he pass on her especial thanks for so thoughtful a gift. "How are things in Hennacombe?" asked Oscar. "I bring a question from it. It is this: do you have an income? Because if you do, young man, you have deceived me." "Oh, no, Mr Stratton, please."

"Please nothing," said Mr Stratton. "I would take it very ill if you had tricked me. No, thank you, I would rather stand."

"I have not tricked you," said Oscar, pushing the hard-backed chair back against the breakfast table. "You have been too kind to me to deserve trickery." mi

Oscar and Lucinda

"Then how do you send me coffee? Explain that. It is fifteen years since I could afford coffee, and now you, a poor creature who did not know his Athanasian Creed two years ago, a pauper who would beg to be made a servitor, now you are so gracious as to send me this luxury with no explanation."

"Dear Mr Stratton, it was because I love you both. I meant no offence." At the mention of "love" Mr Stratton blinked. "And now I hear your buttery bill is paid," he said.

"I marvel at the sources of your intelligence," said Oscar, meaning to flatter, then panicking in mid-sentence when he saw it could be construed as rude.

Hugh Stratton stopped blinking. "I know everything," he said. "If you walked to Kidlington to say your prayers then I would hear about it."

Oscar thought: He knows I have been gambling. Then he thought: No, he does not. Mr Stratton had the subject firmly and would not let it go but then, it seemed, neither did he know what to do with it. "I am losing my health and my sleep worrying about how you may be supported here. I have written letters to the men whom I have previously asked to donate funds for the restoration of St Anne's. This is not wise of me. It damages me. It is a fine old church and I fear I have done its cause a great disservice. And then you send me coffee."

"Also: I pay my buttery bill. Surely this makes your worry less onerous?"

"But how did you make money?" asked Hugh Stratton, screwing up his face and tucking his chin into his neck. "Where did it come from? Is it from your father?"

"No, of course not."

"Do not 'of course not' me, young man."

"Dear Mr Stratton, I only wish you not to worry. God will provide for me." The Reverend Mr Stratton struck his brow with his fist. "Do not, I beg you, be so simple."

"Perhaps I am simple," said Oscar stubbornly, "but I should like to take responsibility for my own bills. I would wish you to worry no longer."

"Your father is paying."

"I swear to you he is not," said Oscar who was due to leave for Epsom in fifteen minutes. Wardley-Fish's binoculars sat on the ledge

in1?

Ascension Day beside the breakfast table, but they were of even less consequence than a suitcase.

"Then how," the clergyman hissed, "are you paying?" Oscar felt obliged to tell the truth, was about to do so, but then he thought: He will take the gossip back to Hennacombe and use it against my papa in some way.

"You are up to no good," said Hugh Stratton. "For all I know you are a member of a betting ring. There was one in my time, three Hons too, and they were all of them sent down. You must promise me you would never be involved in such a thing. I am raising money for my little church's restoration in Oxford. I cannot have my name

brought low."

"My dear patron," said Oscar, allowing himself to touch Mr Stratton on his rigid shoulder, "there is no need for such a promise."

There were heavy steps upon the stair. Oscar thought: It is Fish. But the steps passed on. It was not Fish.

"No need," said Oscar, "at all."

Hugh Stratton narrowed his eyes and stared fiercely at his protégé. If Oscar had not known him he would have imagined himself hated, but in a moment the gaunt face became loose and floppy and a small pink tongue came out to dampen the dry white corners of the mouth.

"You are a good boy, Oscar," he said. "You must not think that I imagine otherwise." vi,:.-., vvy;.•,*'.;."-x^ ^ •:..-•••'.•:•.• ••-<.',~ •;."•

31

Ascension Day

•V

There was something wrong with Lucinda's dress. She did not know what it was, but it attracted attention. She had no confidence in the stupid fashion which bespoke mincing and vapidity. But her own judgement was of no use in the matter and she had purchased in accordance with the preferences of Chas Ahearn and his lavender-water

im

Oscar and Lucinda

wife. Even now, on the day of departure, they would not let her be but shepherded her, the one huffing and blowing, the other wobbling on her ankles and complaining about the dangerous timbering on the wharf. People stared and she assumed it was the dress. A larrikin threw a rock to fright her with its splash. She was in a fright anyway. She needed neither larrikins nor Ahearns to make it any worse. She had her inheritance, her parents' lives rendered down as whole sheep are rendered down to tallow, something living and breathing that has become reduced to a piece of paper, a bank draft she could cany in this silly beaded purse and which, in the words of Mrs Ahearn, would "have you married in a jiff, and to the best in all the colony, a judge, a governor, yes, indeed, I mean to say."