Misery (21 page)

      This by itself would
n
ot have put him i
n
a state of
n
ear-terror -- but he remembered comi
n
g to Calthorpe Ma
n
or the day after Misery's death. He a
n
d Ia
n
had looked at each other, a
n
d Ia
n
had tried to smile, although his eyes were gemlike with u
n
shed tears.

"It would somehow be easier," Ia
n
had said, "if she looked . . . looked more dead. I k
n
ow how that sou
n
ds -- "

     "Bosh," Geoffrey had said, tryi
n
g to smile. "The u
n
dertaker doubtless exercised all his wit a
n
d -- "

"U
n
dertaker!" Ia
n n
early screamed, a
n
d for the first time Geoffrey had truly u
n
derstood that his frie
n
d was totteri
n
g o
n
the bri
n
k of mad
n
ess. "U
n
dertaker! Ghoul! I've had
n
o u
n
dertaker a
n
d I will have
n
o u
n
dertaker to come i
n
a
n
d rouge my darli
n
g a
n
d pai
n
t her like a doll!"

     "Ia
n
! My dear fellow! Really, you must
n
't -- " Geoffrey had made as if to clap Ia
n
o
n
the shoulder a
n
d somehow that had tur
n
ed i
n
to a
n
embrace. The two me
n
wept i
n
each other's arms like tired childre
n
, while i
n
some other room Misery's child, a boy
n
ow almost a day old a
n
d still u
nn
amed, awoke a
n
d bega
n
to cry. Mrs. Ramage, whose ow
n
ki
n
dly heart was broke
n
, bega
n
to si
n
g it a cradle so
n
g i
n
a voice cracked a
n
d full of tears.

At the time, deeply afraid for Ia
n
's sa
n
ity, he had bee
n
less co
n
cer
n
ed with what Ia
n
had said tha
n
how he had said it -- o
n
ly
n
ow, as he whipped Mary ever faster toward Little Du
n
thorpe i
n
spite of his ow
n
deepe
n
i
n
g pai
n
, did the words come back, hau
n
ti
n
g i
n
light of Colter's tale: If she looked more dead. If

she looked more dead, old chap.

     
N
or was that all. Late that after
n
oo
n
, as the first of the village people had begu
n
we
n
di
n
g their way up Calthorpe Hill to pay their respects to the grievi
n
g lord, Shi
n
ebo
n
e had retur
n
ed. He had looked tired,
n
ot very well himself;
n
or was this surprisi
n
g i
n
a ma
n
who claimed to have shake
n
ha
n
ds with Welli
n
gto
n
-- the Iro
n
Duke himself -- whe
n
he (Shi
n
ebo
n
e,
n
ot Welli
n
gto
n
) had bee
n
a boy. Geoffrey thought the Welli
n
gto
n
story was probably a
n
exaggeratio
n
, but Old Shi
nn
y, as he a
n
d Ta
n
had called him as boys, had see, Geoffrey through all his childhood ill
n
esses, a
n
d Shi
nn
y had seemed a very old ma
n
to him, eve
n
the
n
. Always gra
n
ti
n
g the eye of childhood, which te
n
ds to see a
n
yo
n
e over the age of twe
n
tyfive as elderly, he thought Shi
nn
y must be a11 of seve
n
ty-five
n
ow.

     He was old . . . he'd had a hectic, terrible last twe
n
ty-four hours . . . a
n
d might
n
ot a
n
old, tired marl have made a mistake?

A terrible, u
n
speakable mistake?

      It was this thought more tha
n
a
n
y other which had seat him out o
n
this cold a
n
d wi
n
dy
n
ight, u
n
der a moo
n
which stuttered u
n
certai
n
ly betwee
n
the

clouds.

Could he have made such a mistake? Part of him, a crave
n
, cowardly part which would rather risk losi
n
g Misery forever tha
n
look upo
n
the i
n
evitable results of such a mistake, de
n
ied it. But whe
n
Shi
nn
y came i
n
. . .

     Geoffrey had bee
n
sitti
n
g by Ia
n
, who was rememberi
n
g i
n
a broke
n
, scarcely cohere
n
t way how he a
n
d Ia
n
had rescued Misery from the palace du
n
geo
n
s of the mad Fre
n
ch viscou
n
t Leroux, how they had escaped i
n
a wago
n
load of hay, a
n
d how Misery distracted o
n
e of the viscou
n
ts guards at a critics mome
n
t by slippi
n
g o
n
e gorgeously u
n
clad leg out of the hay a
n
d wavi
n
g it delicately. Geoffrey had bee
n
chimi
n
g i
n
his ow
n
memories of the adve
n
ture, wholly i
n
the grip of his grief by the
n
, a
n
d he cursed that grief how, because to him (a
n
d to Ia
n
as well, he supposed), Shi
nn
y had barely bee
n
there.

     Had
n
't Shi
nn
y seemed stra
n
gely dista
n
t, stra
n
gely preoccupied? Was it o
n
ly weariless, or had it bee
n
somethi
n
g else . . . somethi
n
g suspicio
n
. . . ?