The Weeping Ash (54 page)

Thomas was seen no more at home that day. The weather continued gray and rainy, the garden uninviting, and Goble so strange and distracted in his manner that Fanny was almost afraid to go near him. Walking out to ask him if there were enough strawberries for dinner, she heard him mutter:

“Leave a babby under the owd asp tee, can ye wonder if the asp maid abuses 'im? Arr, I shouldn' wonder if 'twas
she
throwed 'im down, powerful aggy, she be, an' can you blame 'er, so tied up and throttled as she be? Better to 'a left 'im in the apple terre, apple treeses 'ont bear no grudges.”

Shivering under his wild wondering eye, Fanny retreated to the house again. Who could he imagine the
asp maid
to be? The spirit of the tree?

Later in the day, risking Thomas's displeasure, Fanny went on two errands into the town. The first took her to the jail.

The Petworth Bridewell was a decent-sized stone building with a notice carved on a slab over the portal informing the passer-by that it had been erected on that spot in 1788 at the expense of the third Earl of Egremont to a design made by J. Wyatt Esquire.

Old Boxall, the jailer—who resembled some ancient Nibelung hobbling out of his crevice in a rock—would have been pleased to show Fanny over the entire building.

“It be a main fine jail, ma'am—ye'll never see a better. Owd Lordy had 'er builded, acos the jail we had afore was so tarnal damp, a-many prisoners died o' the jail fever, 'thout ever coming to trial.” Fanny shuddered. “But it bain't so now, missus! They gets a dry cell apiece, two pun' o' bread a day, decent thick does, an' looked over by a surgeon does they so much as complain o' the rheumatiz.”

Nevertheless, Fanny had no wish to see over the place. She left her basket of provisions for Callow and promised to bring more every day that he was there. Boxall, however, was loath to see her go; it was not often that gentry-ladies visited his domain.

“It be a rare different place now, missus, from when your owd gardener Goble did see a Token 'ere. But that were in the owd jail, see, afore Lordy 'ad 'er pulled down.”

“
Goble?
Was he here? In the jail?” said Fanny, startled. In spite of the recent strangeness in his manner, Goble seemed such a respectable character that it was hard to imagine his going to jail.

“For debt, it wurr. 'E tuk on another man's debt; the more fule 'e,” said Boxall with some scorn. “An' then the press gang got 'im an' 'e wurr obleeged to go to sea. But while 'e wurr in the jail 'e did see a Token.”

“A Token? You mean—a phantom?”

“A Token,” Boxall agreed, nodding his aged head up and down. “It wrung its pore hands something crool, and huffed an' hollered till owd Goble was all of a vlother; 'e couldn' get no sleep 'count of its hollerings and carryings on. ‘Remember pore Ned Wilshire,' the Token said, ‘what died in this jail. Remember me!'” This was Boxall's most notable story, polished by much telling and retelling during the last twenty-three years, and he invested the specter's words with great dramatic emphasis, fixing his pale ancient eyes on those of Fanny.

He had never had such a gratifying reaction from an auditor.

“
Wilshire?
” she whispered, pale with astonishment, gazing at him wide-eyed. “You say there was a prisoner called Ned Wilshire who died in this jail?”

“Not in
this
one, missus,” Boxall repeated patiently. “'Twas in the owd jail, what Lordy 'ad pulled down.”

“When was this?”

“Over a score of years agone. When I was a young man in me forties.”

“Then if Wilshire died here,” pursued Fanny, “where would he be buried?”

“Likely 'e'd be down i' the new graveyard near to Hampers Green way; they doesn't want jailbirds stodding up the Bartons' graveyard nigh to your place. Rackon that's whurr e'ell be.”

Nodding her thanks, Fanny left the disappointed Boxall, who was just on the point of telling his Token story all over again. She walked on, her empty basket over her arm, doing sums in her head.

Thomas had been five years older than his half brother Edward Wilshire—Thomas was now forty-eight, so his brother would have been forty-three—he had died “over a score of years agone”—so he would have been twenty-one or twenty-two—yes, it was feasible that the Ned Wilshire who had died in Petworth jail had been Thomas's unhappy half brother. Then
that
was why—yes, it came back to her now that, on her first evening at the Hermitage, Bet had said her father had some objection to living in Petworth. No wonder, if his brother had died here in disgrace! Knowing Thomas, he must have been anxious lest his connection with the prisoner should ever come out; though there seemed little reason why it should, since the names were different.

Occupied in these reflections, Fanny walked at a quick pace through the great gates of Petworth House and, without giving her time to become nervous or change her mind, rang the bell at the main door which, as usual, stood open. A manservant asked her business, and she announced firmly that she wished to inquire after the health of Mrs. Wyndham, and see her, if it were possible.

“Sure, ma'am, she be in the library, an' I reckon she'll be main glad to see ye,” said the friendly if unpolished footman, and led Fanny off to the left, adding, “'Tis Missus's fust day out of her chamber, she've been in the sheets three weeks, nigh, lamentable ornery she've bin, ever sin' the big randy.”

“So I heard yesterday, and I am very sorry for it,” said Fanny.

A voice from the library called, “Is that Mrs. Paget?” and Fanny came around a screen to see Liz reclining on a sofa, her face alight with expectation.

“Oh, my dear friend, I have been so wearying to see you! But Chilgrove said my complaint might be contagious, and my conscience would not allow me to send out a call for your company, or even to tell how I was, lest you come and take the infection. But I am so
very
glad you have come! Especially since George told me about the dreadful accident to your baby! What a fright you have been in! Is he really quite unhurt?”

Fanny was touched that Liz should inquire after the baby when she herself was plainly still far from well. She looked very pale, waxen, and was a great deal thinner man when last seen; in spite of being carefully arranged, her curling gold-brown hair had lost its luster and her eyes their sparkle. Fanny's conscience smote her that she had been harboring censorious and unkind thoughts of her friend; at the sight of Liz her suspicions melted totally away. She hastened to make light of little Thomas's misadventure and inquire how Liz really did.

“For indeed you look sadly pulled down.”

“Oh, it was a shocking bore, but I am better now,” sighed Liz. “And it made an excuse to bundle all our guests out of the house, including that viper Henriques, who I could see was rendering himself disagreeable to you. I am truly sorry for that; the man is a pest, and quite without principle, but the trouble is, there is no getting rid of him. He was a friend of George's in the wild days, when George belonged to the Four-in-Hand Club and the Prince of Wales's set, and now, when he wishes to stay here, George is too good-natured to say no. Thank heaven he was afraid of taking the infection, and departed to find some other accommodating hosts. But tell me how you go on, my dear friend? And how is that curmudgeonly husband of yours?”

Somehow, without having the least intention of doing so, Fanny found herself relating the story of her visit to the jail and Boxall's astounding revelation.

“Is it not strange, Liz? My poor brother-in-law dying in that jail, and
Goble
having seen his ghost there. Do you believe in ghosts, Liz?”

“I have never seen one myself,” Liz admitted. “But I remember hearing George speak of this occurrence—indeed at one time it was a well-known tale, all over the town. George used to think very highly of Goble, you know—he was employed as a gardener here before he was impressed—and George would have taken him on again when he came back from his naval service; but Goble would not; he said he was disgraced. But how could he have imagined the specter? Very likely he had never known Wilshire, who was not a native of the town. It must have been a real specter!”

“Goble is so strange now,” Fanny confessed. “I am half afraid of him. He was muttering something today about the
ash maid
—saying, I think, that it was she who had flung little Thomas into the well.”

“The ash maid? He has been reading Theocritus!” said Liz, laughing. “If it were young Talgarth, now, I would not be surprised. Were not the ash maids hollow dryads who came out of trees to lure travelers to destruction? But do you not think, Fanny,” she went on in a more serious tone, “is it not possible that it was
Goble
who put your baby in the well? As a kind of revenge on Thomas, perhaps, for the death of Ned Wilshire?”

“But why
now
? And how could he possibly know that Thomas was Ned Wilshire's brother?” Fanny began. Then, however, she recollected that Goble had been used to push old Mrs. Wilshire about the garden in her wheel chair. He might have discovered from the old lady—yes, he might—

“Good heavens!” she burst out. “Liz! What had I best do?”

“Well, it is only conjecture,” Liz said quickly. “Best do nothing, is my advice. Your husband is such a hothead, you know! Wait and watch. Do not leave the baby unattended.”

“No,
indeed
I will not.”

Greatly preoccupied with this idea, Fanny shortly afterward took her leave, saying that she had tired Liz for long enough. Lord Egremont came in as she was going, greeted her in friendly fashion, asked after the baby, and offered to send her home in the carriage. She was laughingly declining this offer when Liz contradicted her.

“Yes, George—Fanny would like to be driven down to the new graveyard. She wishes to lay some flowers on her mother-in-law's grave.”

“Oh, but I have none with me—” Fanny began; but Lord Egremont had already given the order, and at the same time dispatched a footman for some blooms from the glasshouses. Two beautiful bouquets of roses and lilies were brought before Fanny had time to utter more than a few words of protest, and Lord Egremont handed her into the carriage.

The graveyard lay a quarter of a mile outside the town by the Billingshurst road upon a grassy eastward slope. There were very few graves in it, as yet, and the planted trees were still young, hardly more than saplings; the place was kept, still, mainly for persons coming from outside the town who had not family plots in the Bartons' graveyard near the church.

Fanny, having laid one of her bouquets on the newly turfed resting place of Thomas's mother, which as yet lacked a headstone, turned to scrutinize the rest of the stones, of which there were fewer than a score. Ned Wilshire's must be one of the oldest here, she thought, if he died more than twenty years ago.

Her search was not difficult. A stone in a corner by the hedge that seemed somewhat older than the rest caught her attention, and, crossing to it, she read the brief inscription: “Edwrd. Wilshire Esq. A Stranger to this Town. ‘Many that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake.' Went to his rest 1773.”

Seventeen seventy-three. Thomas would have been twenty-three, and his brother eighteen or thereabouts.

Poor young man, Fanny thought. No doubt he was foolish and dissipated, but so were many young men of his years; he might, with increased age, have mended his ways. It did not occur to Fanny at this moment that she herself was only seventeen; so many cares sat on her shoulders that she felt, often, older than the Sphinx. She laid her flowers on the grave and was returning to the carriage when an oddity struck her; among the graves of strangers, many neglected, with grass long and shaggy or nettles growing on them, that of Ned Wilshire was kept clipped and neat. She turned back to verify the fact: yes, the grass was carefully scythed, even the stone looked as if it had been cleaned. Could it be possible that Thomas had paid this attention to his brother's grave? Or hired someone to do it? Puzzling over this, she had walked a few steps away when a movement caught her eye: somebody who had been kneeling beside a distant grave stood up; she was a little confused to recognize the young gardener, Andrew Talgarth. Still, her errand to the graveyard was a perfectly proper one. She went forward to greet him. He had, she saw, been placing a very beautiful bunch of wild flowers—honeysuckle, campion, cowslips, herb Robert, traveler's-joy—on the grave of Jennifer Talgarth, dearly beloved wife of Robert Talgarth and mother of Andrew, born in Llandovery 1740, died in Petworth 1790.

“My mam always liked the wild flowers best,” explained Andrew, giving Fanny his slow, wide smile. “So in summertime I try to bring her over a new posy every two-three days; my da comes over on Sundays but he's not so young as he used to be and he finds it a fair step from his house in the dillywoods. Lord Egremont'd send the carriage for him, but that he won't allow.”

“Lord Egremont sent the carriage for me,” said Fanny, smiling too. “And the flowers! There is no end to his kindness!”

It occurred to her that if Andrew Talgarth were of an inquisitive nature he would immediately notice the identical bouquets on the new grave of Mrs. Wilshire and the old grave of poor Edward; it would be simple for him to make the connection and form his own conclusion; but she was certainly not going to stoop to any deceptions about it; she liked him much too well for that. Indeed she went on:

“I have only just discovered that my husband's brother, who died long ago, is also buried in this graveyard. I was quite surprised to find his grave so well tended.”

Talgarth's brilliant dark blue eyes turned to follow the direction of her glance; he said:

“Ah, that grave's been well tended ever since old Goble came back from the sea.”