Greygallows (7 page)

'Nothing is being done,' Jonathan said quickly. 'That is their complaint.'

Clare sighed.

'My dear fellow,' he said, with perfect good humor, 'what they—and you earnest young reformers—refuse to realize is that the condition of the poor can only be improved by themselves. The consumption of gin—if the ladies will pardon me—in the London slums...'

'People seek drunkenness in order to forget their misery.'

'If they did not drink, they would not be so miserable.'

'At least gin is an untainted beverage,' Jonathan retorted angrily. 'The same cannot be said of London's water supply.'

'I drink the same water.'

'If you ever stopped to look closely at the river from which it comes, you would not! The very color of the Thames is dark brown. The sewers empty into it; dead rats, dogs, human bodies—'

'No more, if you please,' Mr. Beam barked. 'There are ladies present.'

My aunt looked so prim and smug, I wanted to laugh. The previous afternoon I had heard her complaining about the kitchen drains with a wealth of vocabulary that made Jonathan's references seem restrained.

Jonathan turned on his employer.

'There are some ladies who do not find suffering too delicate a topic for their ears.'

I did not understand his reference then, but Mr. Beam did; his gruff face softened a trifle. Jonathan went on,

'With all respect to the ladies, I feel we cannot go on behaving like ostriches, hiding our heads to avoid seeing ugly sights. You laugh, sir, at my reference to reports; no doubt you found the report on conditions in the coal mines equally amusing? Children of seven and eight years crawling on all fours like dogs, through dank, dark tunnels, dragging coal trucks ... Harnessed like animals—girls as well as boys—beaten, hungry, half-naked—'

There was a roar from Mr. Beam and a gentler, deprecating sound from Clare. I was glad of their intervention. I felt sick.

'I don't believe it,' I said. 'It cannot be true.'

'The Commission saw these conditions,' Jonathan said. 'There was one case of a three-year
-old working the pumps,
standing
ankle-deep in water for twelve hours—'

'Enough, sir,' Clare exclaimed. 'You are distressing Miss Cartwright. My dear—you are quite pale! A glass of wine...'

He bent over me, holding my hand, his fine features drawn with concern. I own I felt closer to loving him than I had ever felt, his tenderness was so welcome. My aunt sputtered and exclaimed; Mr. Beam made gruff noises; and I, the center of their attention, sat upright and waved away the glass of wine Clare brought me.

'No, no, I am not at all faint. I am merely incredulous. It is a lie, it must be a lie. Such things cannot happen in a Christian land.'

Jonathan stood stricken on the hearth rug, still holding his forgotten cup. His eyes met mine. I saw no trace of regret or embarrassment in his face.

'I am, as they say,
de trop,'
he said coolly. 'If you will excuse me, ladies ... my lord ... Mr. Beam...'

With a dignified bow he walked steadily to the door. It would have been a grand exit; but he forgot the teacup, and had to come back to put it on the table. His face was red as fire.

When he had gone, everyone relaxed. My aunt's amusement could not be contained; in her efforts to conceal it behind a handkerchief, she almost burst. Mr. Beam was not amused.

'I must apologize,' he said, in his stateliest tone.

'A regular young Leveler,' Clare remarked. 'He must be an excellent worker, sir, for you to tolerate such firebrand opinions.'

'He is,' Mr. Beam said briefly. He was ready to apologize for behavior he considered crude; but he would not justify his choice of employees to any
man alive.

For a while Jonathan's remarks haunted me. I told myself I did not believe the dreadful picture he had painted; and, such is human nature, I found the horror of it fading as the days went on. I had other problems to engage my attention.

Clare's intentions were becoming unmistakable. He was on the verge of making a declaration; and the idea threw me into a panic. I avoided being alone with him. The touch of his hand sent a strange thrill through me; and the thrill was not wholly unpleasant. Yet I could not forget Margaret's warning.

Slyly, as I thought, I questioned Clare about his parents. Concerning his father, who had died the year before, he spoke quite freely.

'I fear he was something of a Bad Baron,' he said, with one of his rare smiles. 'A good man, in his fashion, do not mistake me; but he was a product of another, more profligate age, one which, thank heaven, is now passing into history. His sense of family and property was very strong.'

'And your mother?' I asked casually.

'She died when I was born.'

'So long ago? How touching, that your father should not have remarried.'

'I can see why you might have that impression,' Clare said slowly. 'But it is not accurate. Sentiment was not one of my father's qualities. He did remarry, not once but twice. Both ladies died young, unfortunately, and Greygallows has lacked a mistress for many years.'

'What!' I exclaimed involuntarily. 'What name did you say?'

'I am so accustomed to it I had not thought how it would sound to you,' Clare said. 'Greygallows is the name my ancestor gave his home; but the local peasants, who resented a newcomer, twisted it into another meaning.'

'How very unpleasant. Yet you use their name.'

'We have, perhaps, a perverse kind of pride___

But you could not understand that, it is quite alien to your open, innocent nature. What does the name matter, after all? It is a stately old place and will, I hope, be even more attractive to me in the future.'

If Clare's intentions were becoming plainer, so were those of another man. Fernando's adoration had ceased to be remote.

One morning he seemed more subdued than usual, and while I plucked the strings he wandered about the room instead of bending over me. Innocently I asked him what was wrong. His timid caresses had become very pleasant to me.

'I have come to say good-bye,' Fernando said quietly. 'I shall not see you again.'

My hands wrung a painfully discordant note from the strings.

'What do you mean? Are you leaving London?'

'Yes, I am leaving.'

'Oh,' I said wanly. 'You have, perhaps, a position in Europe?'

Fernando laughed harshly.

'I do not go to Europe. No, I seek a more distant clime, more distant by far.'

He brushed his falling hair from his brow and turned away; but not before I had seen his hand go
to the pocket of his coat. Moved by a sudden premonition, I sprang to my feet.

'What do you mean? What do you have there?'

'Ah, you have discovered my secret,' Fernando cried, somewhat prematurely. He drew a small bottle from his pocket and held it up before his eyes. 'Yes, it is here; my ticket to eternal rest. No'—as I uttered a cry of horror—'shall I live to see you the bride of another? I know the dark man means to have you for his own! And you will accept him, will you not? Wealth and title will crush true love! What they say is true— faithlessness, thy name is woman!'

By this time I was in floods of tears and could hardly speak. Fernando's wildly glittering eye softened as he watched me.

'So you do feel,' he said tenderly. 'You feel a little for the poor music master? One day you will think kindly of me. You will say, "He loved me best. He alone loved me well enough to die for me!'"

The illogic of this struck me even through my distress. With difficulty I exclaimed,

'You do me no favor, Fernando, to die for me. What possible advantage could there be for me in that?'

'Oh,' said Fernando, slightly taken aback. 'I meant ... that is to say...'

'You must live,' I went on, more tenderly. 'To live with the memory of a beautiful love—is that not more romantic than dying?'

'It is all very well for you,' said Fernando, with a sudden descent into sulkiness. 'You may cherish your beautiful memories in the midst of luxury—an adoring husband, a family of—no, no,

I cannot bear it! I must, I will, destroy myself!'

He wrenched the top from the bottle and raised it to his lips.

I flung myself upon him; he let the bottle fall to his side and clasped me in a passionate embrace.

'Marry me,' he murmured. 'You alone can save me! We will run away—elope.'

The words sobered me like a dash of cold water. I struggled feebly; but Fernando's passion had given strength to his slight frame. His arm tightened and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

'Come away with me. I love you—adore you!'

'I don't know,' I gasped, quite overcome by his burning eyes. 'I can't think—'

'Think! This is not the time for thinking! Tell me you will be mine! Tell me, or...'

Again the small bottle went to his lips.

'No, not that,' I cried. 'Very well. I agree. Anything but that!'

'Ah.'

Fernando released me. I staggered back, covering my face with my hands. Through my fingers I saw Fernando carefully cork the bottle and return it to his pocket. He reached for me and gently pulled my hands from my face.

It was a kiss quite unlike the other, tentative touches of lips we had exchanged; it was long and intense and—but I really cannot remember it, even now, without blushing. Even more embarrassing to recall is the response it roused in me. I found myself kissing him back. My arms held him tightly; my body pressed against his.

When his mouth released mine, I was limp. Clinging to him, I heard his whisper in my ear.

'I will return. We will make our plans. It must be soon, before that gentleman of title carries you off. My treasure! You will not regret, I promise.'

He kissed me again, completing the process the first kiss had begun; when he was finished, I would have fallen if he had not placed me tenderly in a chair. Through hazed eyes I saw him walk to the door—pause, to kiss his hand to me—and then disappear. He walked like a conqueror, and the slam of the door had a distinctly triumphant sound.

I was not quite the young fool I ought to have been, considering my lack of worldly experience. My aunt's caustic comments about fortune hunters and my wretched ten thousand a year had awakened suspicions. But—those kisses! And those mild blue eyes and waving golden locks! And my
mistrust of Clare, my dislike of my aunt___It was
all too confusing. I didn't know what I wanted to do; I only knew that, whatever I did, someone was going to be dreadfully angry with me.

Next day a package was delivered to the house. It was mad of Fernando to risk it, though the contents were anonymous—a small gold ring, obviously antique, with the scarcely distinguishable crest of a noble house. (Fernando had told me he was descended from Tuscan aristocrats.)

I had the fiend's own time with that ring. Obviously I could not wear it, even if it had not been far too large for my finger, nor could I hang it about my neck on a chain, not with Mary watching me dress and disrobe. In the end I tossed it into a trinket case among other minor pieces of jewelry and prayed it would escape the inquisitive eyes of
my maid. It did what Fernando no doubt hoped it would do—it gave me a sense of being bound, by obligation if not by love.

Matters became even more complex when, later that week, I received my second proposal.

I was in a terrible state of mind by then. My aunt had suddenly decided I needed no more lessons on the harp. It was one of those situations that are so comical on the stage and so agonizing in real life. Lady Russell had no actual suspicion of what was going on, but years of cynical experience had given her a kind of sixth sense. So she acted by instinct rather than knowledge and I, of course, assumed she knew the truth and chose not to speak of it in order to torment me with uncertainty.

Guilty and confused, unable to communicate with Fernando; visualizing him lying pale and cold on his bed with the little bottle clutched in his stiffening hand; missing his passionate kisses—and at the same time resenting his peremptory wooing—my state of mind can be imagined. When Clare finally did declare himself, I only stared at him dumbly.

The parlor was dark, lit by the flickering flames of the fire and by a few candles which had been tactfully set at the far end of the room. Clare had never looked more handsome. He was paler than usual, and his fine eyes glowed with a steady light. His declaration was couched in the most poetic language; it might have come from a book.

My response, when I finally made it, was not at all poetic. Staring at his bowed black head—for he had actually knelt to await my answer—I croaked out,

'No—no indeed. I—I really can't.'

Luckily he did not inquire into my reasons. I could hardly have explained that I was already betrothed. But his response told me that instead of freeing myself I had only become more deeply involved.

He lifted his head. He really was very handsome. I felt that I was weakening.

'I understand,' he murmured. 'I expected no other response, at first. Believe me, my dear, your delicacy will receive no rude shocks from me. I admire your modesty more than I can say.'