Greygallows (21 page)

Thanks, in part, to my frequent trips to the village I had learned to
ride reasonably well, though I never mounted Sultana without
an
inward qualm. I did not mention my fears to Clare; he was pleased at my prowess and I wanted to keep him in a good humor with me, though some of the feats of jumping and galloping to which he urged me left me secretly shaking for hours afterward.

When he was at home, we rode out daily, and he taught me the moor paths. Without such knowledge a rider could have been in serious danger, for there were bogs and concealed pitfalls under the seemingly smooth surface. One afternoon we rode clear across the narrower part of the moor to Rawlinson Hall. The Rawlinsons were our nearest neighbors, only a few miles away by this direct route, though by road the distance was longer. I was not very fond of the family; Mr. Rawlinson's tendency toward improper grammar and bad language was restrained only by his obsequious respect for Clare. How dull he was—and how ill-bred—compared with my old friend in the village! Yet even this visit had its pleasurable aspect, because I made it with Clare.

How often, during the days of Clare's anger, had I wished for the old relationship of friendly indifference. Now that it was restored, I realized that it was not enough. Yet my feelings were ambivalent; when I dreamed, as women will, of Clare's arms about me and his lips on mine, the shiver that ran through me was not wholly one of rapture. I wanted love, but I was afraid of his; and as the days went on, the ambiguity of my situation grew more intolerable.

A letter from my aunt, the sole communication I was to receive from her, brought this home to me. I puzzled my way through her sloppy, sprawling
hand, and grimaced as I read her frank comments on marriage—for now that I was a married woman the reserve she had placed on her tongue was removed. She congratulated me on having gained 'such a strong, hearty man' for a husband, and wondered why she had heard no announcement, as yet, of an expected heir. 'It must be your fault, my dear niece, for if rumor be true Clare has already proved his capabilities in various inns and pleasure houses ...'

I was about to cast the ill-spelled epistle down in disgust when a phrase in the next paragraph caught my eye and made my heart flutter. 'Our young musical friend' was the phrase in question; and what I went on to read did not quiet my palpitations.

Someone had called at my aunt's rooms—for she had given up the expensive house—to inquire after 'our friend.' The inquirer had represented himself as a solicitor, making private inquiries on behalf of a client, but my aunt questioned his bona fides. 'Such an ugly fellow I have never seen,' she wrote. 'He would hardly inspire confidence as a solicitor, with that smirking, shifty face; even his garments were rusty, and his hair looked painted on his head.'

I gathered that the 'ugly fellow' had had persuasion of a successful character to offer—money, in short—because my aunt had taken pleasure in informing him what a worthless fellow 'our friend' was. I did not doubt that she had told the solicitor all the horrid facts of my frustrated elopement. As for tracing Fernando, she could give no help; she understood he had gone abroad the week after 'that famous event which
you well remember.'

This tale struck me most oddly. I could not help but connect the man who had called on Lady Russell with Clare's unattractive solicitor. Yet it seemed unlikely that Clare would stoop...

The more I thought about it, the more likely it became. I had no proof; the description was too vague to be definite, and my aunt gave no name. Yet in my growing need to explain Clare's indifference, I was grasping at straws. Did he still doubt my fidelity?

At any rate, Fernando had disappeared. That was a small consolation. I found the very thought of him repulsive, and wondered how I could have imagined myself in love with such a creature.

September came, and with it an abrupt change in the weather. The sultry days of August were but a memory; fog and damp and cold nights set in. The incessant rain did not help my patients in the village. Some died and some recovered, but always there were those who suffered.

One of the victims of the sweating sickness was Miss Fleetwood. Her brother assured me she was not in danger, but of course she did not receive callers; beyond sending every few days to inquire, and dispatching the usual invalid offerings of jellies and fruit, I could do nothing. And indeed, when I thought of her in her pretty little house, waited on by servants and a devoted brother, I could not help contrasting her state with that of the villagers, and I did not care to do much.

One day, when I called on my rounds with my basket of medicines, I found all the doors barred against me.

I went home in tears, and could not stop crying.

Clare saw my red eyes at dinner, and inquired as to the cause. I told him what had happened.

'They said it was not safe,' I ended, fresh tears coming to my eyes as I spoke. 'That I had risked myself too long for them, and they would not let me do so any longer. It is not the sweating sickness now, but something worse; I told them I had had the typhoid, but...'

'Cholera,' Clare said, half to himself, voicing the word I was afraid to speak. His lips were tight and his brow scored with lines of anger; I could not understand its cause until he went on, 'When I think of you standing outside those mean hovels and pleading for entrance ... No, I am not angry with you. I suppose I should not be angry with them, either; I had not expected gratitude or sensitivity from churls.'

'They are not churls, only unhappy, sick people. Clare, can we not—'

'We shall speak of it later.' Clare rose. 'I am spending the evening at Rawlinson House; Rawlinson has a party of gentlemen down from York. I may stay the night. If I do not return home, what do you say to riding out tomorrow and meeting me? You know the path now, I think.'

I appreciated his efforts to distract me, though I was scarcely in spirits for any adventures. I agreed. Later, after he had gone, it began to rain heavily, and I was not surprised when, by late evening, he had not returned.

Clare had said he would set out for home next morning after breakfast, so I got ready to leave early. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still gray and lowering, and Mrs. Andrews tried to dissuade me from going.

'You will be wet to the skin, and ruin your gown,' she declared. 'His Lordship will understand your not meeting him.'

Her tone was unconvinced, however, and I shared her doubts; Clare's suggestions had the weight of commands, and he had been so pleasant of late I did not want to do anything to incur his disapproval. I rather looked forward to a ride. It was not actually raining, and the wind that tossed the trees about had a wild, free air that tempted me.

When I went to the stableyard I found Sultana saddled, as I had ordered; but my faithful groom was nowhere in sight.

'Where is Tom?' I asked the head groom, who stood holding my stirrup.

He looked askance and muttered something I did not understand. I gathered that Tom had absented himself without leave, but I did not stop to worry about it; it was growing late, and I expected I would meet Clare before I had gone very far. The groom called out after me as I directed my mount toward the gate; but I was impatient, and went on without listening.

At first I enjoyed the ride. This weather suited the moors; in the gray light they had an austere, diabolical grandeur. I thought of the blasted heath and the witches muttering over their fire; the branches of the wind-lashed shrubs looked like bare arms waving about, and the coils of mist in the hollows swayed eerily.

Then all at once I awoke from one of these flights of fancy to see that the mist was no longer hovering in isolated wisps. It was gathering in all about me.

I stopped Sultana with an incautious jerk that made her prance; and I realized that, dreaming, I had come quite a long way. The house was nowhere in sight, and I was still some distance from Rawlinson House.

I was not afraid. I thought I could not lose the path; it was faint and hard to see, but there were a few landmarks. Straight ahead I saw the lofty shape of one of the odd rock formations that crop up here and there upon the moor; and even as I watched, the rolling blanket of fog crept over it and swallowed it up to the very pinnacle.

Sultana began to stir uneasily as she sensed my increasing concern. Her restiveness created a new source of alarm. I had always been a little afraid of her ... I tried to tell myself there was nothing to be afraid of. I had to decide whether to go on, or turn back. Finally I thought that Clare must be on his way and that I might meet him sooner than I could retrace my steps all the way to the house.

I went on, slowly; I did not dare let the horse set her own pace, for fear of missing the scanty traces of the path. She did not like our creeping progress, and my arms ached from holding her in. I was wearing a cloak with a hood; I pulled the latter up over my head, but it did not prevent the damp from settling on my face and making my lashes stick together.

We went on for what seemed like hours. In the stillness—for even the birds seemed to have taken shelter—I could hear the uneven beat of my heart. Sultana's light hooves made hardly a sound on the thick bracken. And then a thrill of genuine terror went through me. The path, though narrow, was of beaten earth. I looked down and saw it had
vanished. I was lost.

This time when I reined the horse in, she reared. I slapped her, and told her sharply to be still. But my voice shook so, and echoed so oddly through the muffling fog, that I knew better than to speak again. For the first time it occurred to me that a lady's sidesaddle is surely the most idiotic invention of modern times. Riding astride, a man has a good grip on the beast, and if he knows what he is about, he cannot easily be thrown; but a lady has no hold on the horse at all. Surely modesty is less important than safety.

This heretical notion astounded me so much I forgot for a moment where I was and what my peril was. I had acquired a number of peculiar ideas in the past few months, but I had not questioned the basic ideals of womanly behavior. Perched absurdly on my steed, I remembered Jonathan's mother; I could almost see her face wrinkle in a smile as I expounded my wild ideas. She would not be shocked, not even at the idea of ladies wearing trousers; for that, of course, was the only possible answer to the problem.

Fascinated by these thoughts, I forgot for a few moments to be afraid; and the horse quieted with the quieting of my alarm. I then tried to think, calmly and rationally, what I should do. It might be worthwhile to dismount and lead the horse; I could see better then, and if I did by mischance step into a boggy patch I could hold the reins and let Sultana pull me out. On the other side of the argument was the fact that she was unruly and strong. If she decided to leave, I would not be able to hold her. Yet it might be better to be on foot, if she should run away, than risk being thrown.

Perhaps the best thing was to remain where I was. At least the ground here was solid, and I knew I could not be far from the path. Clearly I had missed Clare in the fog. When he reached the house and found I had set out to meet him, he would send the men to look for me.

I was, therefore, in perfect control of myself and my mount when it happened.

The sound might have been a bird's call, or the cry of a frightened animal. The muffling fog distorted it beyond recognition, and made it impossible to locate. In that white dripping stillness the effect was terrible. I started violently; and Sultana bolted.

. Luckily I fell off at once. If I had been a better horsewoman—or had been riding astride, in my imaginary trousers—I might have kept my seat until she had reached a gallop; and if I had fallen then, I would have been badly injured. The fall dazed me, but the bracken was wet and soft. I lay flat for a moment, shaking my spinning head and listening to the hoofbeats fading into silence.

The shrill screaming sound came again, farther away. I thought I heard Sultana answer it. Then silence closed in again.

I started to stand, and thought better of it. I was already as wet as I could be, and my limbs were none too steady. Yet as I grew calmer I realized that my situation was still not alarming. There was nothing for me to do now but wait. If I tried to find the path I might lose myself thoroughly, since I had no idea of the direction in which it lay. Surely someone would come before long.

As the time stretched out, seeming even longer because I could not measure it, I became aware of
an enemy just as dangerous, if more insidious, than the bogs I had been warned of. The damp cold penetrated my garments and seemed to settle in my very bones; my teeth clicked together and my hands went numb. I stood up and began to walk, back and forth, in a narrow path; but even that failed to warm me and finally I sank down on the soggy ground, too weary to replace the hood over my dripping head.

When I heard the voice I thought I must be dreaming. I was in a daze of cold and fright, and when I tried to answer my voice failed, producing a feeble croak that was inaudible a few feet away. The voice called again; it was a human voice, and it called for me, but I could see nothing, not even a shadow, through fog. Then I knew that unless I could answer, I was lost. A searcher could pass within a few feet and never see me; and those fogs sometimes lasted for days.

I staggered to my feet. This time necessity came to my aid. I bellowed like a lost calf, and the answer was immediate. Something plunged toward me out of the mist, as if materializing from the spiritual world. But it was no spirit, it was Tom, my groom, his red hair shining like a flame, his face alight with joy and relief.

I have only the vaguest recollection of the journey back. Tom tried to carry me, but the poor lad was no taller than I, and could not lift my water-soaked weight. So I walked, or was dragged, and toward the end of the tramp I was only a plodding automaton.

When I came fully to my senses I was in my own bed, so packed around with heated bricks and hot bottles that I felt like a broiled fish. Anna was piling blankets over me, and Mrs. Andrews was poking the fire as if she would make it burn whether it wished to or not. Mrs. Andrews was sobbing loudly.

'Why are you crying?' I asked, sitting up. 'Has someone died?'

Mrs. Andrews dropped the poker with a little shriek. Anna said nothing; but the color came back into her face with such a rush that she looked feverish. She put her hand over my forehead, then turned to the housekeeper.

'It is warm,' she said.

'Of course it is warm,' I said grumpily. 'Anyone would be warm with all these coverings. May I not have some water? And something to eat; I am absolutely ravenous.'

Mrs. Andrews would not believe it until she had seen me devour a huge pasty and a salad. Then she began to cry harder than ever.

'It's God's mercy, that is what it is. If you had seen yourself when they brought you in, looking like a little drowned kitten ... Oh, forgive me, my lady, but I am silly with joy. His Lordship will be so relieved.'

'Where is he?' I asked disinterestedly. I was looking at the tray for something more to eat.

'Gone to Leeds for a doctor; he was in such a state, he would go himself. Oh, what a relief for him when he returns! If you had seen yourself...'