Part 23 (1/2)
”No. She read that later. Later, the same morning.”
Below the church gate I saw the Kendall groom and the dogcart. He raised his whip, at sight of his master's daughter, and climbed down from the trap. Louise fastened her mantle and pulled her hood over her hair. ”She lost little time in reading it, then, and driving out to Pelyn to see my father,” said Louise.
”She did not understand it very well,” I said.
”She understood it when she drove away from Pelyn,” said Louise. ”I remember perfectly, as the carriage waited and we stood upon the steps, my father said to her 'The remarriage clause may strike a little hard. You must remain a widow if you wish to keep your fortune.' And Mrs. Ashley smiled at him, and answered, 'That suits me very well.' ”
The groom came up the path, bearing the big umbrella. Louise fastened her gloves. A fresh black squall came scudding across the sky.
”The clause was inserted to safeguard the estate,” I said, ”to prevent any squander by a stranger. If she were my wife it would not apply.”
”That is where you are wrong,” said Louise. ”If she married you, the whole would revert to you again. You had not thought of that.”
”But even so?” I said. ”I would share every penny of it with her. She would not refuse to marry me because of that one clause. Is that what you are trying to suggest?”
The hood concealed her face, but the blue eyes looked out at me, though the rest was hidden.
”A wife,” said Louise, ”cannot send her husband's money from the country, nor return to the place where she belongs. I suggest nothing.”
The groom touched his hat, and held the umbrella over her head. I followed her down the path and to the trap, and helped her to her seat.
”I have done you no good,” she said, ”and you think me merciless and hard. Sometimes a woman sees more clearly than a man. Forgive me for hurting you. I only want you to be yourself again.” She leaned to the groom. ”Very well, Thomas,” she said, ”we will go back to Pelyn,” and he turned the horse and they went away up the hill to the high road.
I went and sat in the little parlor of the Rose and Crown. Louise had spoken true when she told me she had done me no good. I had come for comfort, and found none. Only cold hard facts, twisted to distortion. All of what she said would make sense to a lawyer's mind. I knew how my G.o.dfather weighed things in the balance, without allowance for the human heart. Louise could not help it if she had inherited his shrewd strict outlook and reasoned accordingly.
I knew better than she did what had come between Rachel and myself. The granite slab, above the valley in the woods, and all the months that I had never shared. ”Your cousin Rachel,” Rainaldi said, ”is a woman of impulse.” Because of impulse she had let me love her. Because of impulse she had let me go again. Ambrose had known these things. Ambrose had understood. And neither for him, nor for me, could there ever be another woman, or another wife.
I sat a long while in the chill parlor of the Rose and Crown. The landlord brought me cold mutton and some ale, though I was not hungry. Later I went out and stood upon the quay and watched the high tide splas.h.i.+ng on the steps. The fis.h.i.+ng vessels rocked at their buoys, and one old fellow, seated across a thwart, baled out the water from the bottom boards of his boat, his back turned to the spray that filled it again with every breaking sea.
The clouds came lower than they had before, turning to mist, cloaking the trees on the opposite sh.o.r.e. If I wished to return home without a soaking, and Gypsy without a chill, I had best return before the weather worsened. No one remained now without doors. I mounted Gypsy and climbed the hill, and to spare myself the further mileage of the high road turned down where the four roads met, and into the avenue. We were more sheltered here, but scarce had gone a hundred yards before Gypsy suddenly hobbled and went lame, and rather than go into the lodge and have the business of removing the stone that had cut into her shoe, and having gossip there, I decided to dismount and lead her gently home. The gale had brought down branches that lay strewn across our path, and the trees that yesterday had been so still tossed now, and swayed, and s.h.i.+vered with the misty rain.
The vapor from the boggy valley rose in a white cloud, and I realized, with a shudder, how cold I had been the livelong day, since I had sat with Louise in the church, and all the while in the fireless parlor at the Rose and Crown. This was another world from yesterday.
I led Gypsy past the path that Rachel and I had taken. Our footmarks were still there, where we had trodden in around the beeches for the primroses. Clumps of them nestled still, dejected, in the moss. The avenue seemed endless, with Gypsy hobbling, my hand upon her bridle guiding her, and the dripping rain found its way down the collar of my coat to chill my back.
When I reached home I was too tired to say good afternoon to Wellington, but threw him the reins without a word, leaving him staring after me. G.o.d knows, after the night before, I had little desire to drink anything but water, but being cold and wet I thought a taste of brandy might bring some sort of warmth to me, however raw. I went into the dining room and John was there, laying the table for dinner. He went to fetch me a gla.s.s from the pantry, and while I waited I saw he had laid three places on the table.
On his return I pointed to them. ”Why three?” I said.
”Miss Pascoe,” he replied, ”she's been here since one o'clock. The mistress went calling there this morning, not long after you had gone. She brought Miss Pascoe back with her. She's come to stay.”
I stared at him, bewildered. ”Miss Pascoe come to stay?” I said.
”That's so,” he answered, ”Miss Mary Pascoe, the one that teaches in the Sunday school. We have been busy getting the pink room ready for her. She and the mistress are in the boudoir now.”
He went on with his laying of the table, and leaving the gla.s.s upon the sideboard, without bothering to pour the brandy, I went upstairs. There was a note upon the table in my room, Rachel's hand upon it. I tore it open. There was no beginning, only the day, and the date. ”I have asked Mary Pascoe to stay here with me in the house as a companion. After last night, I cannot be alone with you again. You may join us in the boudoir, if you wish, before and after dinner. I must ask you to be courteous. Rachel.”
She could not mean it. It could not be true. How often we had laughed about the Pascoe daughters, and more especially about chattering Mary, forever working samplers, visiting those poor who had rather be left alone, Mary, a stouter, even a plainer edition of her mother. As a joke, yes, Rachel could have invited her as a joke, merely for dinner, so as to watch my glum face at the end of the table-but the note was not written as a joke.
I went out onto the landing from my room, and saw that the door of the pink bedroom was open. There was no mistake. A fire burned in the grate, shoes and a wrapper were laid out upon a chair, there were brushes, books, the personal paraphernalia of a stranger all about the room, and the further door, usually kept locked, which communicated with Rachel's suite of rooms, was locked no longer, but wide open too. I could even hear the distant murmur of voices from the boudoir beyond. This, then, was my punishment. This my disgrace. Mary Pascoe had been invited to make a division between Rachel and myself, that we might no longer be alone together, even as she had written in her note.
My first feeling was one of such intense anger that I hardly knew how to contain myself from walking along the corridor to the boudoir, seizing Mary Pascoe by the shoulders and telling her to pack and begone, that I would have Wellington take her home in the carriage without delay. How had Rachel dared to invite her to my house on such a pretext, miserable, flimsy, and insulting, that she could no longer be alone with me? Was I then doomed to Mary Pascoe at every meal, Mary Pascoe in the library and the drawing room, Mary Pascoe walking in the grounds, Mary Pascoe in the boudoir, for evermore the interminable chatter between women that I had only endured through force of habit over Sunday dinner?
I went along the corridor-I did not change, I was still in my wet things. I opened the boudoir door. Rachel was seated in her chair, with Mary Pascoe beside her on the stool, the pair of them looking at the great volume with the ill.u.s.trations of Italian gardens.
”So you are back?” said Rachel. ”It was an odd day to choose to go out riding. The carriage was nearly blown from the road when I went down to call at the Rectory. As you see, we have the good fortune to have Mary here as visitor. She is already quite at home. I am delighted.”
Mary Pascoe gave a trill of laughter.
”Such a surprise, Mr. Ashley,” she said, ”when your cousin came to fetch me. The others were green with envy. I can hardly believe yet I am here. And how pleasant and snug it is to sit here in the boudoir. Nicer even than below. Your cousin says it is your habit to sit here of an evening. Do you play cribbage? I am wild for cribbage. If you cannot play I shall be pleased to teach you both.”
”Philip,” said Rachel, ”has little use for games of chance. He prefers to sit and smoke in silence. You and I, Mary, will play together.”
She looked across at me, over Mary Pascoe's head. No, it was no joke. I could see by her hard eyes that she had done this thing with great deliberation.
”Can I speak to you alone?” I said bluntly.
”I see no need for that,” she answered. ”You are at liberty to say anything you please in front of Mary.”
The vicar's daughter rose hurriedly to her feet. ”Oh, please,” she said, ”I don't wish to make intrusion. I can easily go to my room.”
”Leave the doors wide open, Mary,” said Rachel, ”so that you can hear me if I call.” Her eyes, so hostile, remained fixed on me.
”Yes, certainly, Mrs. Ashley,” said Mary Pascoe. She brushed past me, her eyes goggling, leaving all the doors ajar.
”Why have you done this?” I said to Rachel.
”You know perfectly well,” she answered; ”I told you in my note.”
”How long is she to stay?”
”As long as I choose.”
”You will not be able to stand her company for more than one day. You will drive yourself mad, as well as me.”
”You are mistaken,” she said. ”Mary Pascoe is a good harmless girl. I shall not talk to her if I do not wish for conversation. At least I feel some measure of security with her in the house. Also, it was time. Things could not have continued as they had been, not after your outburst at the table. Your G.o.dfather said as much before he left.”
”What did he say?”
”That there was gossip about my being here, which your boast of marriage will have done little to improve. I don't know what other people you have chatted to. Mary Pascoe will silence further gossip. I shall take good care of that.”
Was it possible that my action of the night before could bring about such change, such terrible antagonism?
”Rachel,” I said, ”this can't be settled in a moment's conversation, with the doors open. I beg of you, listen to me, let me talk to you alone, after dinner, when Mary Pascoe goes to bed.”
”You threatened me last night,” she said. ”Once was enough. There is nothing to settle. You can go now, if you wish. Or stay and play cribbage here with Mary Pascoe.” She turned again to the book of gardens.