The Shivering Sands (16 page)

I had been sitting on the seat looking into the lily pond for some seconds when I was suddenly aware that I was not alone.

Miss Stacy had been standing by the green shrubs at the far end of the garden, so still, that I had not noticed her; she was wearing a green dress which had seemed like part of the bush. It was an uncanny feeling when I realized that she must have been watching me through those silent seconds.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Verlaine,” she cried gaily. “This is a favorite spot of yours. I know.” She tripped toward me lifting her finger and coyly shaking it at me. I saw the little green bows in her hair—the color of her dress.

She must have noticed my gaze for she touched them lightly. “Whenever I have a new dress I have my bows made at the same time. I have bows for every dress that way.” A look of satisfaction spread across her face as though she were inviting me to comment on her cleverness. Her movements and her voice were so youthful that it was a shock when she came so close that I could see the smudges of brown on her neck and hands and the wrinkles round the blue eyes. In fact then she seemed older than she actually was.

“You’ve changed since you came here,” she announced.

“Oh? Is that possible? In such a short time.”

She sat beside me. “It’s peaceful here. It’s a lovely little garden, don’t you think? But of course you do. You wouldn’t come here if you didn’t, would you? One gets the impression that one is shut away from the world. But one isn’t, you know.”

“Of course not.”

“
You
would realize that. I think you are very clever, Mrs. Verlaine. I think you know about a lot of things as well as music.”

“Thank you.”

“And…I’m glad you came. I have definitely made up my mind to paint your portrait.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh but it might be unkind.” She laughed “Some artists
are
unkind. At least their subjects think they are…because they paint what they see and it could be something the subject might not want seen.”

“At least I should be interested to discover what you see in me.”

She nodded. “Not yet though…I have to wait a while.”

“We have only met once.”

She began to laugh. “But I’ve seen you many times, Mrs. Verlaine. I’m very interested in you.”

“How good of you.”

“Then again it might not be good. It all depends.”

She clasped her hands like a young girl who is hugging a secret to herself. Here was another member of this household who made me feel uncomfortable.

“I saw you come in today,” she said. And she nodded several times like a mandarin. “With Napier,” she added.

I was glad that my skin did not flush and so betray my embarrassment.

“We met by accident…at the Roman remains,” I said rather hotly and then realized I was foolish to more or less offer an excuse.

She did her three or four little nods which I gathered were to denote wisdom.

“You are very interested in these remains, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“Who wouldn’t be. They are of national interest.”

She turned to me and regarded me coyly from under those shriveled lids. “But some people in the nation are more interested than others. You will agree with that.”

“Inevitably.”

She stood up and clasped her hands together. “I could show you some remains…closer at hand. Would you like to see them?”

“Remains?” I said.

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

“Come,” She held out a hand and I could do nothing but take it. Hers was cold and very soft. I dropped it as soon as I could.

“Yes,” she said, “we have some remains here. You must see them now that you are becoming so interested in us all.”

She tripped to the wrought-iron gate and opening it stood there poised like an ancient fairy, her expression conspiratorial. I caught her excitement and asked myself why nothing seemed to be ordinary in this house.

“Remains,” she murmured as though to herself. “Yes, you could call them remains. Not Roman though this time. Still, there’s no reason why the Stacys shouldn’t have remains if the Romans had them.” She gave her high-pitched titter.

I passed through the gate; she shut it and was beside me, then she tripped past leading the way and turning to smile at me in her little girl manner.

She took me through a shrubbery to a part of the garden in which I had never been before. We followed a path and came to a little copse of fir trees—thick, bushy evergreens.

There was a path through the trees and as she tripped along this and I followed I wondered whether she was more than slightly mad.

But at last I saw the object of this visit. It looked like a white circular tower; she ran on ahead.

“Come on, Mrs. Verlaine,” she called. “This is the remains.”

I hurried after her and I saw that the tower was gutted and that the inside walls were blackened by fire. It was not large—just a circular wall; the roof had been partially destroyed and it was possible to see the sky.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A shell,” she answered in a sepulchral voice. “A burned-out shell.”

“When was it burned?”

“Not very long ago.” And she added significantly: “Since Napier came home.”

“What was it meant to be?”

“It was a little chapel in the woods…a beautiful little chapel and it was built in honor of Beaumont.”

“You mean as a sort of memorial?”

Her eyes lit up. “How clever you are, Mrs. Verlaine. It
was
a memorial, a memorial to Beau. After he was killed his father built this chapel so that he could come here…or any of us could…and be silent, shut away in the woods where we could think of Beaumont. It stood here for years and then—”

“It was burned down,” I added.

She came close to me and whispered: “
After
Napier came home.”

“How was it burned?”

Her eyes blazed suddenly. “Mischief. No…not mischief…wickedness.”

“You mean someone did it purposely? Why should they? For what purpose?”

“Because they hated Beau. Because they couldn’t bear that Beau was beautiful and good. That’s why.”

“Are you suggesting that…” I hesitated and she said slyly: “You should finish, Mrs. Verlaine. Am I suggesting what?”

“That someone did it on purpose. I can’t see that anyone would want to do that.”

“But there’s a great deal you can’t see, Mrs. Verlaine. I’d like to tell you…to warn you.”

“Warn?”

Again that silly wise nod of hers.

“Napier burned this down when he came home because we liked to come here and think of Beaumont and he couldn’t bear it. So he got rid of it…just as he got rid of Beaumont.”

“How can you be sure of that?” I asked almost angrily.

“I remember it well. One evening…it was just dark. I could smell the fire from my room. I was the first to discover it. I came out of the house and I couldn’t tell at first where the smell was coming from. Then I saw…and I ran…I ran to the copse and there was the beautiful chapel…and the sparks flying out…it was terrible. I called everyone, but it was too late to save it. So now it’s just a shell, nothing but a shell.”

“It must have been a very pleasant place,” I said.

“Pleasant! It was beautiful. Such a sense of peace and calm. My beautiful Beau was
there
. He was. That was why Napier could not endure it. That was why he burned it down.”

“There is no evidence—” I began and stopped myself. I added rather hurriedly: “I have some work to prepare so I suppose I should get on with it.”

She laughed. “You seem as if you’d like to defend him. I told you you were beginning to take his side.”

I said coldly: “It is not for me to take sides, Miss Stacy.”

She laughed again and said: “But we often do things which it is not for us to do, don’t we? You are a widow. In a sense I am too.” Her face looked older suddenly and mournful. “I understand. And he…well, some people are attracted by wickedness.”

I said crisply: “I really don’t understand, Miss Stacy, and I do think I should be working. Thank you for showing me…the ruin.”

I turned and walked briskly away. I found her conversation not only distasteful but distinctly uncomfortable.

Two days later an even more disturbing event occurred.

I went along to the schoolroom in search of Edith and as I was about to open the door I heard her voice raised and distressed. I paused and as I did so she cried out: “And if I don’t, you’ll tell. Oh…how can you.”

It was not only the implication of the words but the agonized tone in which they were spoken that shocked me.

I hesitated, uncertain what to do. I had no wish to play the eavesdropper. I was a newcomer to this house and perhaps I was over-dramatizing a situation. These girls all of them seemed little more than children to me.

That was a more important moment than I realized at the time. How I wished afterwards that I had been bold and walked into that room. Instead of which I went quietly and hastily away.

Edith was quarreling with someone in the schoolroom, someone who was threatening her.

My excuse is that I thought of them as children.

It was half an hour later when I gave Edith her lesson. She played so badly that I thought she was making no progress whatsoever.

But of course she was distraught.

I
sat in the room next to Sir William’s and played for him. I played first
Für Elise
and after that some Chopin nocturnes. I believed that in that room I played my best, because I was conscious of a sympathetic atmosphere there, which may have suggested itself to me because I knew the room had belonged to one who had loved music. Pietro would have laughed at my fancies. An artist did not need an atmosphere, he would have told me.

Pietro’s image faded from my mind as I thought of this Isabella who had been Napier’s mother and who had loved music, who might have been a great pianist and had given up her career for the sake of marriage. Oh yes, we were in harmony. But she had had two sons and she had lavished more love on one than the other—and when her beloved son had died she had taken a gun and gone into the woods…

When I had played for an hour I stopped and went to the door. Mrs. Lincroft, who was with Sir William, asked me to come in and nodded for me to be seated. “Sir William would like to talk to you,” she said.

I sat down beside him and he turned slowly to me.

“Your performance is very moving,” he said.

Mrs. Lincroft tiptoed from the room and left us together.

“It reminds me,” he went on, “of my wife’s playing. I am not sure though that she had quite your excellence.”

“Perhaps she had less practice.”

“Yes, no doubt. Her duties here…”

I said hastily: “Yes, of course.”

“How do you find your pupils?”

“Mrs. Stacy has some talent.”

“A flimsy talent, eh?”

“A pleasant talent. I think she will find great joy in the piano.”

“I see. And the others?”

“They could play…adequately.”

“And that is a good thing to do.”

“Very good.”

We were silent and I wondered whether he had fallen asleep and I ought to tiptoe away.

I was about to do so when he said: “I trust you are comfortable here, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I assured him that I was.

“If there is anything you need you must ask Mrs. Lincroft. She manages everything.”

“Thank you.”

“You have made the acquaintance of my sister?”

“Yes.”

“And you have probably found her a little strange.”

I did not quite know what to answer but he went on: “Poor Sybil, when she was young she had an unfortunate love affair. She was going to be married and something went wrong. She has never been the same since. We were relieved when she began to take an interest in family affairs, but Sybil could never do anything very reasonably. She becomes obsessed. She has probably talked to you about our family affairs. She does to everyone. You should not take what she says too seriously.”

“She has talked to me, yes.”

“I thought so. The loss of my son affected her deeply. As it did us all. But in her case…”

His voice trailed off. He was clearly thinking of that terrible day when Beaumont had died…and afterwards when his wife had taken the gun into the woods. A double tragedy. I was so sorry for him. I was even sorry for Napier.

Sir William was speaking of Napier and his voice was quite lacking in any emotion. “Now that my son is married we shall be entertaining a little more than in the past. As you know, Mrs. Verlaine, I should like you to entertain my guests.”

“I should be delighted. What would you suggest I play?”

“That shall be decided later. My wife used to play for our guests…”

“Yes,” I said gently.

“Well, now you will do the same, and it will be like…”

He seemed unaware that he had stopped speaking.

He leaned forward and touched a bell and Mrs. Lincroft appeared so quickly that I felt she must have been outside the door listening.

I realized what was expected of me and left.