Greygallows (17 page)

Our nearest neighbors lived five miles off, across the moor. Sir Henry Rawlinson was a bluff, hearty man, a Yorkshire-pudding-and-roast-beef sort of baronet, and his three giggling daughters were as
square and red-faced as he was. They all had cherished hopes of being Lady Clare, and were not very good at concealing their disappointment. Mr. Martin and his wife, who had been the Honorable Miss Ponsonby and who took good care to inform everyone of that fact, had one child, a pasty-faced dreadful infant who whined and teased and mashed cakes into the parlor carpet. He was only one degree more disgusting than the twin terriers of Miss Bliss, the daughter of Sir William and Lady Bliss. They ate tea cakes too, and were sick on the hearth rug. Miss Bliss looked like her horse, and was vocally amused to learn I did not ride. These are a sample; it can hardly be wondered that I was not moved to form friendships, and I was forced to agree with Clare when, after one of these visits, he said dryly,

'You may understand why I am regarded hereabouts as proud and unsociable. I am happy to see that you share my opinion of our neighbors, though you conceal your feelings admirably.'

'I can't blame you,' I admitted.

'But it is lonely for you,' Clare said. I glanced at him in some surprise. Meeting my eye squarely, he went on, 'I have invited the vicar and his sister to dinner tomorrow. Jack is an old friend of mine; he tells me you called upon them.'

'Yes.'

'Miss Fleetwood has been unwell of late,' Clare went on smoothly. 'However, she has recovered now and is anxious to meet you again.'

He left the room after that, which was just as well; I don't know what I might have said.

I had not seen either brother or
sister since that unexpected encounter with Clare. He
had
suggested I was not well enough to attend church services, and I was only too glad of an excuse to stay away. Clare's religious convictions were unorthodox. We had discussed the subject once. He was a persuasive and convincing speaker—though it did not take much argument to persuade me, ignorant as I was of any serious subject. Yet I enjoyed talking with him—or rather, listening to him.

Clare called himself a rational deist, whatever that might mean. Practically, so far as I could see, it meant he attended church only as an example to the lower classes, who needed the comforts of religion, which he, of course, did not. The Bible he regarded as a collection of legends, produced by a savage people whose ethical notions were as primitive as their dietary rules, and he truly shocked me by questioning the divinity of the Saviour.

'As a teacher and moralist he was inspiring, of course; yet one can understand why he was regarded as a dangerous revolutionary. Society has the right to rid itself of those who would destroy it; and it is always easier to destroy than build.'

'But He did build,' I cried. 'New ideas of love and duty to one's neighbor—'

Clare laughed aloud.

'Ah,' he said playfully. 'You have been thinking—perhaps even reading! A dangerous occupation for a pretty child.'

'I have little else to do,' I said.

'Well, well,' Clare said lightly. 'You must not be surprised if I cling to my own opinions, or shocked when you hear me arguing with Jack. We are old acquaintances, and he enjoys our friendly debates
as much as I do. But you will find an ally in him, he is quite of your persuasion.'

Though I did not look forward to meeting the Fleetwoods again, the day turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. Miss Fleetwood exerted herself to be agreeable, and I could not help but find her so. The delicacy of her mind, and her informed opinions, were in striking contrast to the other ladies who had come visiting. When Clare and Mr. Fleetwood got into a discussion of the Sermon on the Mount, she interposed little comments that showed a true understanding.

Finally the time I had been dreading arrived, when we must withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their wine. I led the way into the drawing room and took a seat. She went to the piano and stood leaning on it, looking over my music. The sunset light silhouetted her graceful form; and the half-averted face, with its fall of shining black hair, had a delicacy of line and purity of expression...

No, I thought to myself all at once; no, I do not believe it. I had been misled by jealousy and malice. What I had imagined could not be true, not of this girl.

Of course Clare admired her. No one sensitive to beauty could remain indifferent to such a face; and he had known her from a child. No doubt there had been gossip among the evil-minded. But I could not believe a face so pure could hide infamy and deceit. Surely Clare would not brazenly introduce his mistress into his home. She was not unprotected; she had a brother, and he a clergyman ... As I considered the question impartially, all the weight of common sense was on the side of her innocence. Perhaps they had loved
one another once, as children. Perhaps they still felt fondness for one another. Would that be strange, or evil? Only in evil minds.

I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders; I had not realized, till it lightened, how it had burdened me. I did not even feel the need to converse now, I could relax and admire her. After the gentlemen came, she spent all the remainder of the time playing and singing. She was all that I was not as a performer; and when Clare's rich voice blended with her golden tones in duets, I reminded myself that this, too, they might have shared before.

Once I had convinced myself that Clare was innocent, he began behaving ... not so much guilty as less than completely candid. He took to watching me when he believed I was not aware of it; several times I caught him staring, with the oddest fixed glare. He would then look away, or make a comment that had nothing to do with what we had been saying. I began to wonder if there was something about my looks, some change in appearance, that I was unconscious of, and I took to examining myself surreptitiously in the glass, without finding anything to explain the matter. Finally, one evening as we sat over tea, I caught the look again, and I said involuntarily,

'Why do you stare so? Am I looking more than usually sickly?'

'Quite the contrary,' Clare said slowly. 'I have been observing how your looks have improved. I thought at first it might be only my hopeful fancy; but there can be no doubt. You are quite recovered, are you not?'

'I have been for some time. I was never so ill as
you feared.'

Unable to meet his searching eyes, I bent over my embroidery frame. My heart was beating unevenly. If he had avoided me because of concern for my health...

'My native air has done you good, as I hoped. I am glad you have adjusted so well to life here. You don't find it excessively tedious—the house too lonely and gloomy?'

'Not gloomy enough,' I said, laughing. 'After hearing Mrs. Andrews' tales, I had expected an encounter with the family ghost.'

'But you did have such an encounter,' said Clare. 'At least you led me to believe you thought so.'

Cursing my idle tongue, I began to embroider furiously. My aunt always told me I spoke without thinking, never anticipating where my thoughtless remarks would lead. During the weeks of my suspicions about Miss Fleetwood, it had not been difficult to find a rational explanation for the white-robed form in the garden. The staircase from Clare's bedchamber led down to the terrace.

Now I tried to find words that would not reveal my unjust suspicions, though I feared my flushed cheeks were betraying me.

'I was foolish. It must have been a—a woman. One of the servants, out for a breath of air.'

'If you did see a human figure,' Clare said, 'it must have been one of the servants.'

'I am not usually fanciful.'

'The house is gloomy,' Clare said with a reasonable air. 'It would not be surprising for a lady whose nerves are delicate and high-strung—'

'You sound as though you believed in ghosts,' I
snapped. I had stabbed my thumb with the needle. Putting it to my mouth, I sucked it and glared at my husband. I did not like his suggestion that I was nervous and high-strung.

'I do not believe or deny. I only say that many things are possible. There are some temperaments, more spiritually inclined—since you do not care for the words "high-strung"—that would be more receptive to such apparitions, if they do occur. One cannot deny the possibility. The weight of the evidence is rather striking.'

He began to tell me legends of the supernatural. I heard of the Black Hound that pursues night-bound travelers; of poltergeists, the malicious spirits who toss objects about like naughty children; and of family curses and banshees. When the head of the house of Hastings, sitting at table, twice hears a carriage drive up to his door, and no carriage is there, he will die within the year. The Ghost's Walk at Haverholme is haunted by the ghost of a nun, whose slow steps herald disgrace or disaster for the family; and a ghostly ship passes up Loch Fune when the Chief of the Campbells lies dying.

Nothing holds more gruesome charm than a well-told ghost story. Clare's powers as a raconteur had never been more evident. I listened, in shivering fascination, as he proceeded from White Ladies to invisible spirits, from the ghostly Harpers of Scotland to the witch hare of his native heath. The shadows gathered and darkness added its spell to the magic of Clare's slow voice. When Mrs. Andrews opened the door to ask if we would not have the candles in, I gave a shriek and stabbed myself again with my neglected needle.

That night I would not have been surprised to meet the wicked first Baron., muttering and leering along the hallway.

Next day the Fleetwoods were coming again to dine. Though I had quite dismissed my wicked notions about the young lady, an odd reluctance kept me from making more than the necessary formal visits. I did not dislike her; on the contrary, I found her good company. But she seemed to have a trace of reserve with me. I thought perhaps she was shy. Yet from time to time there was a flash, a sudden burst of sympathy between us.

So on this next occasion. It was a day in June, as balmy and beautiful as only June can be. I thought Miss Fleetwood seemed pale and silent. Her brother was in a delightful mood. He had been reading Saint Augustine and had an argument, he declared gaily, which would completely demolish his skeptical friend. I was unable to follow the argument, but I enjoyed it because the participants were so delighted by it. Clare laughed, and Mr. Fleetwood kept smiling and nodding at me whenever he made a particularly killing point.

When we went to the drawing room after dinner, Miss Fleetwood wandered restlessly about the room instead of sitting down. She played a few bars on the piano and then got up; examined a book; went to the window and stood looking out into the garden. The gentlemen soon joined us, and with music and conversation the time passed until tea was brought in. Miss Fleetwood then owned she was too restless to sit still any longer, and suggested a walk. Clare agreed; he was anxious to show them the improvements he had made. He had ordered bushes and shrubs from
abroad, and was in the process of having laid out a pretty little Wilderness behind the rose arbors. It seemed to me he might have left the grounds in their original state, which was wild enough, but I kept silent, knowing I would simply get a lecture, kind but firm, on my ignorance of the latest fashions in landscaping.

It was so pleasant out of doors that we walked for some time. Clare suggested a visit to the stables. Miss Fleetwood, however, said she was too tired; she would sit on a bench under a tree near the Wilderness, and enjoy the evening air and the soft light. I said I would stay with her; she was looking rather unwell.

After a few desultory remarks she fell silent, and I did not disturb her. It was restful to sit there, watching the colors fade into gray as the sun sank below the horizon, and seeing the first bright stars pricking the sky. I felt quite kindly toward Miss Fleetwood, who seemed to share my appreciation of the mood of nature; but I own it was easier to feel kindly toward her when she was only a featureless silhouette, with that amazing face hidden by shadows. The poor lady must have suffered a great deal from the jealousy of other members of her sex; I wondered if some such difficulty had made her seek the seclusion of a country rectory.

'You are better now?' I ventured, after a long silence.

'Yes, thank you.'

'Shall we go in then? The night air—'

'Not yet, please. The air is pleasant; and I like darkness. I feel as if I can hide in it.'

There was a sudden energy in her voice that
quite moved me.

'Why should you wish to hide? You must forgive me—perhaps I should not say it—but you are so beautiful. It must be wonderful to be so lovely.'

'Wonderful?' She laughed harshly. 'It is a curse. It has been so to me; my downfall, my ruin.'

'If I can help you...' I began, and touched her hand, which rested on the seat between us.

I felt her stiffen, and when she spoke again her voice had lost its wildness.

'I do not need help. You are very kind, but my erratic manner has led you astray. I meant—I only meant that the world is a censorious place, and both men and women are more ready to think ill of a woman who is ... well-looking. You might have found it so, if you had been poor.'

The speech started well enough, but the last words were charged with venom. I did not blame her; indeed, I felt greater sympathy for her than I did before. I believed I had surprised her secret. She loved, and had been rejected because of her poverty.

'No,' I said honestly. 'I am considered handsome because of my fortune; without that, I assure you I would be quite plain in the eyes of the world. But I can understand how cruel and unfair it would be to have every gift of mind and body and be disregarded because of trivial worldly considerations.'

She turned toward me.

'You would not say that if you knew—'

I heard no more. My eyes, looking past her toward the shadowy shape of the Wilderness, saw a sight that shut out all other sensations.