Ivy Tree (17 page)

Ballad: The Unquiet Grave.

SUPPER with Lisa and Grandfather was not the ordeal I had feared it might be. The old man was in excellent spirits and, though he was in something of a 'do you remember' vein, and Lisa's eyes, under their lowered lids, watched us both over-anxiously, it went off smoothly enough, with no hitch that I could see. Con wasn't there. It was light late, and he was at work long hours in the hayfield while the weather lasted. Shortly after supper Grandfather went into the office to write letters, and I helped Lisa wash up. Mrs. Bates went off at five, and the girl who helped in the kitchen and dairy had gone home when the milking was over. Lisa and I worked in silence. I was tired and preoccupied, and she must have realised that I didn't want to talk. She had made no further attempt to force a tete-a-tete on me, and she didn't try to detain me when, soon after nine o'clock, I went up to my room.

I sat there by the open window, with the scent from the climbing roses unbearably sweet in the dusk, and my mind went round and round over the events of the day like some small creature padding its cage. The light was fading rapidly. The long flushed clouds of sunset had darkened and grown cool. Below them the sky lay still and clear, for a few moments rinsed to a pale eggshell green, fragile as blown glass. The dusk leaned down slowly, as soft as a bird coming in to brood. Later, there would be a moon. It was very still. Close overhead I heard the scratch and rustle of small feet on the sloping roof-tiles, then the throaty murmur as the pigeons settled back again to sleep. From the garden below came the smell of lilac. A moth fluttered past my cheek, and a bat cut the clear sky like a knife. Down in the neglected garden-grass the black and white cat crouched, tail whipping, then sprang. Something screamed in the grass.

I brushed the back of a hand impatiently across my checks, and reached for a cigarette. Round the side of the house, in the still evening, came the sharp sounds of a door opening and shutting. A man's footsteps receded across the yard, and were silenced on turf somewhere. Con had been in for a late meal, and was going out again.

I got up quickly, and reached a light coat down from the hook beside the door. I dropped the packet of cigarettes into the pocket, and went downstairs.

Lisa was clearing up after Con's meal in the kitchen. I said quickly: "I'm going out for a walk. I—I thought I'd take a look round on my own."

She nodded, incuriously. I went out into the gathering dusk.

I caught him up in the lane that led down to the river-meadow. He was carrying a coil of wire, and hammer and pliers. He turned at the sound of my hurrying steps, and waited. The smile with which he greeted me faded when he saw my expression,

I said breathlessly: "Con. I had to see you."

"Yes." His voice was guarded. "What is it? Trouble?"

"No—at least, not the kind you mean. But there's something I have to say. I—I had to see you straight away, tonight."

I was close to him now. His face, still readable in the thickening dusk, had stiffened almost into hostility, arming itself against whatever was coming. So much, I thought, for Con's co-operation; it was fine as long as you stayed in line with him, but the moment he suspected you of deviating ...

"Well?" he said.

I had meant to start reasonably, quietly, at the right end of the argument I had prepared, but somehow the abrupt, even threatening sound of the monosyllable shook my resolution into flinders. Woman-like, I forgot reason and argument together, and began at the end.

"This can't go on. You must see that It can't go on."

He stood very still. "What do you mean?"

"What I say! It'll have to stop! We were mad, anyway, even to have thought of starting it 1" Once begun, it seemed I couldn't check myself. I had had more of a shaking that day than I cared to admit, even to myself. I stumbled on anyhow, growing even less coherent in the face of his unresponding silence.

"We—we'll have to think of some other way—something to tell Grandfather—I'm sure we can think something up! You must see there's no point in my staying now, you must see! Even if I could have got away with it—"

I heard him breathe in sharply. "Could have got away with it? Do you mean he's found you out?"

"No, no no!" I heard my voice rising, and checked it on a sort of gulp. We were near the gate where we had been that afternoon. I took a step away from him, and put out a hand to the gate, gripping it hard, as if that might steady me. I said, shakily: 'Con... look, I'm sorry—"

His voice said coldly, behind me: "You're hysterical."

Since this was undoubtedly true, I said nothing. He put the tools and wire down beside the hedge, then came up to the gate beside me. He said, as unpleasantly as I had ever heard him speak: "Getting scruples, my dear, is that it? A little late, one feels."

His tone, even more than what his words implied, was all the cure my nerves needed. I turned my head sharply. "Does one? I think not!"

"No? Think again, my pretty."

I stared at him. "Are you trying to threaten me, Connor Winslow? And if so, with what?" It was almost dark now, and he was standing with his back to what light there was. He had turned so that he was leaning his shoulders against the gate, seemingly quite relaxed. I felt, rather than saw, his look still on me, watchful, intent, hostile. But he spoke lightly.

"Threaten you? Not the least in the world, my love. But we're in this together, you know, and we work together. I can't have you forgetting our . .. bargain . .. quite so soon. You're doing splendidly, so far; things have gone even better than I dared to hope . . . and they're going to go on that way, darling, till I— and you, of course— get what we want. Fair enough?"

"Oh, quite."

The moon must be rising now beyond the thick trees. I could see the first faint glimmer on the river. The sky behind the black damask of leaf and bough was the colour of polished steel The mare, grazing thirty yards away, had lifted her head and was staring towards us, ears pricked. Under the eclipsing shadow of hedgerow and tree she gleamed faintly, like some palladic metal, cool and smooth. The yearling was beside her, staring too.

I regarded Con curiously, straining my eyes against the dark. "I wonder..."

"Yes?"

I said slowly: "I wonder just how far you would go, to get what you wanted ?"

"I've sometimes wondered that myself." He sounded amused. "You'd maybe be surprised what you can bring yourself to do, little cousin, when you've never had a damned thing in your life but what you could make—or take—with your own two hands. And what's wrong with that, anyway? A man who knows he can—" He broke off, and I thought I saw the gleam of a smile. "Well, there it is, girl dear. I'm not going to be sent on my travels again . . . fair means if I can, but by God, I'll see foul ones if I have to 1"

"I see. Well, we know where we are, don't we?" I brought the packet of cigarettes out of my pocket.

"Smoke?"

"Thanks. You smoke too much, don't you?"

"I suppose I do."

"I knew you'd more sense than to panic at the first hint of something you didn't like. What is the trouble, anyway? I've a light. Here."

In the momentary flare of the match I saw his face clearly. In spite of the light words, and the endearments with which he was so lavish, I could see no trace of liking, or even of any human feeling, in his expression. It was the face of a man concentrating on a job; something tricky, even dangerous, that called for every ounce of concentration. Me. I had to be got back into line.

The match went out. I thought I must have been mistaken, for his voice when he spoke was not ungentle.

"Supposing you tell me exactly what's upset you? Something has, hasn't it? What was it? The horses this afternoon? You looked like seven sorts of death when I came down."

"Did I?"

"You know, you don't have to go near Forrest's horse if you don't want to." "I know I don't. It's all right, it wasn't that." I leaned back against the gate beside him, and drew deeply on my cigarette. "I'm sorry I started this at the wrong end, and scared you. I don't have to tell you, I hope, that I'm not planning to let you down. I—I've had a hell of a day, that's all, and I was letting it ride me. I'll try and explain now, like a reasonable human being, which means not like a woman."

"You said it, honey, not me. Go ahead; I'm listening."

"It's true, though, that I did want to talk to you about altering our plans. No, wait, Con; the point is, things have changed."

"Changed? How? Since when?"

"Since I had my talk with Grandfather down here this evening."

"I. .. thought there had been something." I heard his breath go out. "I told you, you looked like death. I thought it was that fool of a mare."

"No."

"Well?"

"The point is, Con, that all this may have been for nothing. It shook me, rather. I—I think he's going to leave Whitescar to you anyway."

"What?"

"That's what he said." "He said so?"

"Almost, I'll swear that's what he meant. Did you know that his lawyer, his name's Isaacs, isn't it?—is coming down here on Friday?"

"No, I didn't know." He sounded dazed. His voice was blurred at the edges.

"Well, he is. Julie gets here on Wednesday, .and Mr. Isaacs comes on Friday. Grandfather didn't say anything definite, but he hinted like mad. I've a feeling he wants to have some sort of family gathering on his birthday, and he's asked the lawyer here before that, so it's a fairly reasonable guess that it's to be about his Will. He said 'I want to get things fixed up'."

He moved sharply, and the gate creaked. "Yes, but this is only a guess! What about Whitescar? What did lie actually say?"

"Not very much, but—Con, it's all right. I wouldn't have mentioned it to you, if I wasn't sure. I'll swear that's what he means to do. Oh, no, he didn't quite commit himself, not in so many words, even to me. But he was as definite as he'd ever be."

"How?"

"Well, he reminded me first of all that Whitescar had always been promised to Annabel. 'It should have been your father's, and then it would have been yours.' "

" 'Would have been?' " he asked, sharply.

"Yes. Then he began to praise you. You'd been a son to him, he couldn't have done without you—oh, all sorts of things. He really does recognise your place here, Con. Then he said, would it be right if I were allowed simply to walk back home, and claim Whitescar over your head. Yes, over your head. 'Would you call that fair? I'm hanged if I would!' Those were his very words."

"My God, if you're right!" he breathed. "And Julie? Did he say anything about her?"

"Nothing you could be clear about. He wouldn't even say definitely that he intended to tell us all on the twenty-second, and when I tried to pin him down—asked flat out if he was re-making his Will in your favour—he just wouldn't give a straight answer. I couldn't press it, you know what he's like. He seems to like to keep people guessing, doesn't he?"

"He does, damn him!"

He spoke with such sudden, concentrated viciousness, that I stopped with my cigarette half-way to my lips. I was reminded sharply, shockingly, of the charming way he had talked to the old man that afternoon. Oddly enough, I thought that both attitudes were equally genuine.

I said gently: "The thing is, Con, don't you see, he's old? I think he minds not being able to do things the way he used to. He's always been—well, I've gathered he's a pretty domineering type, and now his property and his money's the only kind of power he's got left. That's why he won't commit himself; I don't think he realises just how unfair he's being to younger people ... to you, anyway. He just thinks—quite rightly—that it's his property, and he'll play Old Harry with it if he wants to. But he's made up his mind now. He must have, since he's sent for Mr. Isaacs."

I could see Con's cigarette smouldering unheeded between his fingers. He hadn't stirred. I got the impression that only the essentials of what I'd been saying had got through. He said painfully, as if the readjustment of ideas was somehow

a physical effort: "If he's made a decision, it's happened since you got here ... or rather, since he knew you were coming back. He went to the telephone soon after Lisa broke the news to him. I remember her telling me so. It must have been to get hold of Isaacs." He lifted his head. "My God, but you must have got this the wrong way round! Why should he send for him now, except to cut me out and include you in}"

"He isn't doing that. Be sure of that. I tell you, he kept asking me, harping on it almost, if I thought it was fair for me to walk straight home after eight years and expect to take up as I left off. That was almost the very phrase he used. Yes, he asked flat out if I thought I ought to be allowed to walk straight home and scoop Whitescar from under your nose, after all the work you'd put into it."

"Did he, by God?" A long breath, then he laughed, a sharp exultant crack of sound. "And what did you say?"

"Well, I thought it would be less trouble if I just said no. I may say he seemed surprised."

"And well he might! Annabel would never have parted with a penny piece to me, and what's more, she'd have seen that he didn't either!"

"Well," I said, "she could have learned sense in eight years, couldn't she? Found out what really mattered most?"

"You call that sense? Letting her rights go, for want of a fight?"

" 'Rights?' Annabel's? What about Mr. Winslow's? Hasn't he as much 'right' to leave his own property any way he pleases?" "No."

"Oh? Well, I'm not breaking any lances with you over Annabel. You've staked a claim of your own, and I won't argue with that, either. In any case, it looks very much as if you're going to get what you want."

"Do you know something?" said Con slowly. "You're a very much nicer person that Annabel ever was."

"Good heavens, why on earth? Because I encouraged Grandfather to give you the poor girl's property."

"No. Because I honestly believe you want me to have it And not just for the 'cut' you'll stand to get, either."

"Don't you believe it. I'm as mercenary as hell," I said cheerfully. He ignored that, "You said she 'might have learned sense in eight years', and found out what really mattered. What really does—to you?"