The Shivering Sands

10

It took me some weeks to recover from the shock of my experience. Everyone was most concerned for me, which was flattering, but I just could not rid myself of the notion that one of these people who now enquired so solicitously after my health, had deliberately tried to kill me. But I kept my thoughts to myself; I pretended to accept the theory that a tramp’s carelessness had started the fire, that it had probably been smoldering in the outhouse for hours and, by some trick of fate, had burst into a conflagration embracing the lower part of the cottage some five or ten minutes after I had entered the place and gone upstairs; and the door had not been locked, merely jammed. That was the comforting theory.

I avoided Napier. I could not bear to look into his face for fear I should read something there which I dreaded. I kept thinking of our meeting in the copse and it haunted my dreams.

Mrs. Lincroft suggested that I take a little time off my duties.

“You will recover all the quicker,” she said. “It was a horrible shock. And it won’t hurt the girls to miss their music lessons for a while. They can, in any case, do their practicing.”

I myself found a great solace in the piano. I would sit by the hour playing Chopin and Schumann and trying to stop my thoughts going back over those nightmare moments when I had realized I was trapped in the cottage. One day I heard the girls discussing the fire. Allegra was leaning her elbows on the table looking dreamily into space. While I sorted out my music I listened to them.

“You’ll write a story about the fire, I expect,” said Allegra.

“I’ll read it to you when it’s ready.”

“All about a gallant rescue,” said Sylvia. “I wish I could do a gallant rescue.”

“I know,” mocked Allegra. “You’d like to rescue Mr. Wilmot from a burning cottage. You’d have to find another…because that one’s no good now.”

“It’s odd,” mused Sylvia. “Mamma was saying it was odd…”

“Well,” mocked Allegra, “it must be odd then.”

“…that there were two fires. The chapel in the copse and the cottage. That’s two isn’t it?”

“Your mathematics are improving,” said Allegra. “Full marks for a correct calculation. Two it is.”

“I’m only saying it’s a coincidence and so it is. Two fires and two disappearing ladies. I think that is very strange.”

“Two ladies?” queried Allegra.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten the archaeologist,” said Alice.

Sylvia whispered: “And there were nearly three.”

“But Mrs. Verlaine didn’t disappear,” pointed out Alice.

“Suppose no one had known she had gone to the cottage and she had just been found there. There would have been three ladies then.”

“But they would have found her…remains,” said Alice.

A hush fell on them because they had become aware of me.

I was standing by the Stacy vault in the graveyard when Godfrey came to meet me. It was no use meeting in the church during his organ practice now; we had been discovered and Mrs. Rendall was apt to send Sylvia either to call him or to sit and “enjoy” the music.

“Sylvia has always loved organ music,” Mrs. Rendall had said. “I think it would be better if she studied the organ rather than the piano. She certainly doesn’t seem to be making much progress in that direction, though she does work hard. Perhaps Sylvia is not at fault and if people are more interested in other things, it may not be surprising that their pupils suffer.”

Although since the fire, her attitude—like that of everyone else—had been gentler toward me, because of Godfrey’s interest in me, she had added me to her many targets for attack, and because he and I were aware of this and knew the reason for it, the possibilities which could arise from our friendship were stressed.

As he came toward me, wending his way through the gravestones, the sun on his hair, I thought how good-looking he was—not handsome, it was true, but there was great charm in his expression which came from the character within I was sure, and I thought how fortunate I was to have found such a friend. There was no doubt that friendship between us was growing at a great pace.

The incident of the fire had brought us even closer together and I found his concern for me most touching. He was particularly disturbed because I had gone to the cottage in response to a note which was supposed to have come from him. That, in my opinion, was the most alarming aspect of the affair. I had been lured to the cottage.

I had told no one but him about the note, and although his reaction when he had first heard of it was that I had had a shock and had imagined it, he was now perturbed. I persuaded him to say nothing; I thought it possible that the person who had written that note might betray knowledge of it in some way; but no one did. As for Godfrey he was constantly urging me to go away because it was clearly unsafe here. I could take a holiday, stay with his family. They would be delighted to have me.

“And what about Roma?” I demanded.

“Roma is dead, I feel sure of it. And if she is, nothing you can do will bring her back.”

“It’s something I have to find out, no matter…”

He understood but he continued to be very uneasy. So was I. I had developed a habit of looking over my shoulder constantly whenever I was alone. I made sure that my door was locked every night. At least I was on my guard.

Now Godfrey was smiling as he saw me. “I escaped the watch dog,” he said. “It is believed that I have gone to play the organ. Little is it known that I’m skulking about the graveyard in the company of that teacher of music who has failed to turn Sylvia Rendall into Clara Schumann.”

“You’re looking pleased with yourself this morning.”

“It’s rather good news.”

“Can it be shared?”

“Certainly it can. I have had a living offered to me.”

“So you’ll be leaving.”

“You look alarmed. How delightfully flattering. It’s not for six months. Ah, now you look relieved. Equally flattering. A great deal can happen in six months.”

“Have you told the Rendalls?”

“Not yet. I fear when I do Mrs. Vicar will bring up the big guns. No one knows yet. I thought it appropriate to tell you first. Though of course I shall have to tell the vicar today. I must give him ample time to find a substitute. And, of course, if he does find someone before I shall retire gracefully.”

“Mrs. Rendall will never allow that.”

He smiled. “You haven’t asked for details.”

“I haven’t had much opportunity yet. Please tell me.”

“The most delightful parish…in the country…not too far from London so that visits will be frequently possible. An ideal spot. I know it well. An uncle of mine held the living at one time before his bishopric. I spent quite a lot of my childhood there.”

“It certainly sounds ideal.”

“It is, I do assure you. I’d like you to see it.”

“And how long do you think you’ll remain there before you become a bishop?”

He looked at me reproachfully. “You make me sound like an ambitious man.”

I put my head on one side. “Some are born to honors, some earn them, and others have them thrust upon them.”

“The quotation is not quite correct but the meaning is clear. Do you believe that some people are born as they say with a silver spoon in their mouths?”

“Perhaps. But it is possible to acquire a spoon even if one hasn’t been born with one.”

“What a lot of effort is saved when it’s already there. You think life is too easy for me.”

“I believe that life is what we make it…for us all.”

“Some of us are lucky though.” His eyes fell on the marble statue of an angel. “We don’t have to look very far. Poor Napier Stacy whose life went wrong through a dreadful accident which could have happened to any boy! He picked up a gun which happened to be loaded and he killed his brother. If that gun hadn’t been loaded his life from then on would have been different. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

“Fortunately chance is not always so cruel.”

“No. Poor Napier!”

It was like him to spare a thought for Napier in his present elation—for elated he was. He was looking to the future with eagerness and I didn’t blame him. While at the moment he was content to dally here, to be amused by Mrs. Rendall’s scheming—how could she possibly think that Sylvia would be a suitable wife for such a man?—to talk with me, to become mildly involved in the mystery of two strange disappearances.

But it was more than that. He was thinking of me as earnestly as I was of him.

Good heavens! I thought. I believe he is considering asking me to share this pleasant life of his. Not immediately, of course. Godfrey would never be impulsive. Perhaps that was the reason for his success. But it was there between us. At the moment an affectionate friendship existed, fostered by our common interests and our desire to solve the mystery. I was aware that life was offering me a chance to build something.

“I’d like you to see the place sometime,” he went on warmly. “I’d like your opinion of it.”

“I do hope you’ll show it to me…one day.”

“You can be sure I shall.”

I could see it clearly in my mind’s eye, a gracious house with a beautiful garden. My home? My drawing room would look onto the garden and there would be a grand piano. I should play frequently but not professionally; music would be my pleasure and my solace but I should not need to teach impossible musicians again.

I would have children. I could see them…beautiful children with placid happy faces—the boys looking like Godfrey, the girls like myself only young, innocent and unmarked by sorrow. I wanted children now as once I had wanted to startle the world with my music. The desire to win fame on the concert platform had gone. Now I wanted happiness, security, a home and a family.

And although Godfrey was not ready to make a declaration yet and I was not ready to give him an answer, it was as though I had really come to the end of that dark tunnel and I was looking at the sunny paths spread out before me.

When Mrs. Rendall heard the news about Godfrey she was not unduly depressed. Six months was a long time and, as Godfrey said, a great deal could happen in that time. Sylvia must grow up; Sylvia must change from an ugly duckling into a swan. Therefore she must pay more attention to her appearance. Miss Clent, the seamstress of Lovat Mill, was sent for and she made a new wardrobe for Sylvia.

Mrs. Rendall saw only one reason why her plans should go awry. A certain scheming adventuress, she believed, had her eyes on the prize.

I was put into the picture by the girls whose remarks, sometimes candid, sometimes oblique, made me aware of what was being attributed to me. Godfrey and I would laugh together over this and sometimes I felt that he considered it only natural that in due course he and I would slip into that relationship for which Mrs. Rendall had convinced herself I was scheming.

Sometimes I would find Alice’s grave eyes fixed on me.

She began embroidering a pillowcase “for a bottom drawer,” she told me.

“Yours?” I asked; and she shook her head and looked mysterious.

She was so industrious and whenever she had a spare moment she would bring out the needlework which she carried in a bag embroidered in wools—her own work, which her mother had taught her.

I knew the pillowcase was for me because she was naive enough to ask my opinion.

“Do you like this pattern, Mrs. Verlaine? It would be easy to do another.”

“I like it very much, Alice.”

“Alice has had a great affection for you, since…” began Mrs. Lincroft.

“Since the fire, yes.” I smiled. “It’s because she saved my life. I think she feels extremely gratified every time she looks at me.”

Mrs. Lincroft turned aside to hide an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “I’m so glad she was there, so…so proud…”

“I shall always be grateful to her,” I said gently.

The other girls had started to make pillowcases.

“It’s very good,” said Alice looking at me almost maternally, “to have a good supply of everything.”

Alice’s work was neat and clean like herself—Allegra’s was quickly grubby. In any case I did not think she would finish it. As for Sylvia, hers was not a success either. Poor Sylvia, I thought, forced to help furnish the bottom drawer for the prospective bride of the man her mother had chosen for her!

I watched them, their heads bent over their work, and I felt an affection for all of them; they had become so much a part of my life. I always found their conversation unexpected, often amusing and never dull.

Alice was exclaiming in dismay because Sylvia had pricked her fingers and had made a spot of blood on the pillowcase.

“You would never earn your living by sewing,” she reproved.

“I wouldn’t want to.”

“But you might have to,” put in Allegra. “Suppose you were starving and the only way to earn your living was by sewing. What would you do?”

“Starve, I expect,” said Sylvia.

“I’d go off with the gypsies,” put in Allegra. “They neither toil nor do they spin.”

“That was the lilies of the field,” explained Alice. “Gypsies toil. They make baskets and clothes pegs.”

“That’s not toiling. That’s fun.”

“It’s meant…” Alice paused and said with effort: “figuratively.”

“People who make shirts get very little money,” said Alice. “They work by candlelight all day and all night and they die of consumption because they don’t get enough fresh air and food.”

“How horrible!”

“It’s life. Thomas Hood wrote a wonderful poem about it.”

Alice began to quote in a deep sepulchral voice:

“Stitch, stitch, stitch,

In poverty hunger and dirt.

Stitching at once with a double thread

A shroud as well as a shirt.”

“Shroud,” screeched Allegra. “These aren’t shrouds; they’re pillowcases.”

“Well,” said Alice coolly, “they didn’t think they were stitching shrouds. They thought they were shirts.”

I interrupted them and said what a ghoulish conversation. Wasn’t it time Alice put her pillowcase-cum-shroud away and came to the piano?

Neatly she folded her work, threw back her hair and rose obediently.

Lovat Stacy was indeed haunted—by the gypsy Serena Smith. I often saw her near the house, and once or twice strolling across the garden. She did not do this furtively but as if by right and I was becoming more and more convinced that she was Allegra’s mother. That would account for her proprietary air and her insolence.

Coming into the house one day I heard her voice—shrill and carrying.

“You’d better, hadn’t you?” she was saying. “You wouldn’t want to go against me, would you? Ha. There’s people here that wouldn’t like me telling things about them but you more than anyone, I reckon. That’s the way I see it. So there’ll be none of this talk about ‘Get the gypsies off.’ The gypsies are here to stay…see!”

There was silence and I thought sick at heart: Napier, oh Napier. What trouble you have brought on yourself. How could you become involved with a woman like this!

Then the voice again. “Oh yes, Amy Lincroft…Amy Lincroft. I could let out some secrets about you and your precious daughter, couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that.”

“Amy Lincroft.” Not Napier!

I was about to turn away when Serena Smith came out. She was running and her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling. How like Allegra she looked—Allegra in a mischievous mood!

“Why,” she cried, “if it’s not the music lady! Ear to the ground, eh, lady…or to the keyhole?” She burst out laughing, and I could do nothing but walk into the hall.

No one was there and I wondered whether Mrs. Lincroft had heard her remarks. She must have. But I expected she was too embarrassed to talk to me.

At dinner Mrs. Lincroft was as cool and calm as ever. “I hope you like the way I’ve cooked this beef, Mrs. Verlaine. Alice, take this beef tea up to Sir William, will you? And when you come down I’ll be ready to serve.”

Alice carried the dainty tray out of the room and I said what an obedient child she was.

“It’s a great comfort to me that she should be so,” said Mrs. Lincroft. My thoughts immediately went to the words of the gypsy; and I wondered once again whether there ever had been a Mr. Lincroft or whether Alice was the result of a youthful indiscretion. This could be likely for I had never heard Mr. Lincroft mentioned.

Mrs. Lincroft seemed to read my thoughts for she said: “I do wish Mrs. Rendall would not interfere with the gypsies. They’re doing no harm.”

“She certainly seems determined to drive them away.”

“If only she were as gentle and peace-loving as her husband how much more comfortable life would be for us.”

“And for the vicar and Sylvia particularly.”

Mrs. Lincroft nodded.

“I expect you’ve guessed who this Serena Smith is. You’ve heard some of the family history.”

“You mean she’s AIlegra’s mother.”

Mrs. Lincroft nodded. “It’s all so unfortunate. Why ever she was allowed to come here in the first place I can’t imagine. She worked in the kitchen…though she did little work. And then of course she became embroiled with Napier…and Allegra was the result. It all came out immediately after Beaumont’s death when Napier was preparing to leave. She stayed here till the child was born and then she went.”

“Poor Allegra!”

“I came back and looked after her in time…It suited me well as I was able to bring Alice with me.”

“Yes,” I said sympathetically.

“And now here she is again…ready to make trouble unless we allow the gypsies to stay. That would be all right. They would never stay long. But that dreadful interfering woman has to try to make an issue of it. Do you know I believe she likes to make trouble.”

At that moment Mrs. Lincroft really looked troubled; there was a frown between her eyes and she bit her lips, lowering her eyes as she did so.

Alice came back; she was a little flushed and her eyes were dancing.

“He’s taking it Mamma. He said it was very good and that no one knew how to make it just like you.”

“Then he is a little better.”

“And it is all thanks to you, Mamma,” said Alice.

“Come to the table, my dear,” said Mrs. Lincroft, “and I’ll serve.”

I thought how pleasant it was to see the affection between those two.

Sir William was a little better, for the next day Mrs. Lincroft joyfully told me that he had expressed a desire to hear me play. He had not been told about the fire. There was no need to upset him, said Mrs. Lincroft and I agreed with her. Since that unfortunate occasion when I had played Danse Macabre I had not been to the room next to his. I could quite imagine why not. Any reminder of that day would be most distressing to him. However, it was clearly a good sign that he had asked for me to play.

“Something light and quiet that you have played before,” said Mrs. Lincroft. “He hasn’t chosen. He’s not really well enough. But you will know.”

“Schumann, I should think,” I said.

“I am sure you’re right. And not too long…”

I was a little nervous remembering that other occasion; but as soon as I played I felt better. After half an hour I stopped playing and as I turned from the piano I was startled to see someone in the room—a woman with her back to me wearing a hat of black lace trimmed with pink roses. She was looking up at the picture of Beau and for a moment I thought that this was indeed the dead Isabella. Then there was a laugh and Sybil turned to face me.

“I startled you,” she whispered.

I admitted. “If Sir William had seen you,” I said, “he might have…”

She shook her head. “He couldn’t leave his chair. And it was your playing that shocked him.”

“I played only what was put out for me.”

“Oh, I know. I know. I’m not blaming you, Mrs. Verlaine.” She laughed. “So you thought you really had lured my sister-in-law from the grave by your playing? Confess it.”

“You intended me to think that, did you?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t want to frighten you. I just didn’t think of it. I put on my hat because I thought of going into the garden. And I came in here instead. You didn’t hear me. You were so absorbed in your music. You are all right now. I don’t frighten you, do I? You are very calm, you know, even now after what happened in that cottage. You’re like Mrs. Lincroft. She has to be cool, doesn’t she, for fear of betraying herself. Do you have to be calm for the same reason?”

“I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“Don’t you? William is asleep now, so he is perfectly safe. Your music soothed him. ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.’ He’s not savage now, but he has been. Come up to my studio. I want to show you something. I’ve started on my portrait of you.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Kind. I’m not kind. I’m not doing it for kindness. It’s because you’re becoming involved…part of the house. I’ve watched.”

“I came here to play for Sir William.”

“But he’s asleep. Go and look.”

I went to the door and looked into his room. She was right. He was fast sleep.

“You might wake him if you played on.”

She laid her hand on my arm…that little hand with the long tapering artist’s fingers which had once worn the ring she had thrown into the sea.

“Come on,” she coaxed. So I went.

In the studio I at once recognized the picture as a portrait of myself, although it shocked me a little. Did I really look as cool and worldly as she had depicted me? The features were mine—the slightly tip-tilted nose, the large eyes and the heavy dark hair. There was even a touch in the eyes of that romanticism on account of which Pietro had teased me. But I felt that a veneer of sophistication was there which I did not believe I possessed.

She watched my vague discomfiture with a faintly malicious delight.

“You recognize it,” she accused me.

“Oh, yes, of course. There can be no doubt who it is.”

She put her head on one side and regarded me shrewdly. “You know,” she said, “you are beginning to change. The house is doing that to you. It does something to everyone. A house is a living thing, don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine?”

I said that as it was made of bricks and mortar I did not see how it could be.

“You are being deliberately obtuse, I know. Houses are alive. Think what they’ve seen. Joys, tragedies…” Her face crumpled. “These walls have seen me weep and weep until I had no tears left…and then they saw me rise like the phoenix and find a reason to be happy again with my painting. That’s what happens to great artists sometimes, Mrs. Verlaine. And I’m an artist…not only in paint. Sybil! That’s what my parents christened me. Did you know it meant a wise woman?”

I said I did.

“Well, I watch and learn…so I grow wise. That Mrs. Rendall…I should paint her, I suppose. But she’s too obvious, isn’t she? Everyone can see what she is like. They don’t need to be told. Other people are less obvious. Amy Lincroft for instance. Ah, there’s a deep one. And she’s worried now…I sense it. She thinks I don’t. But she betrays it in her hands. They pick up things and put them down. She’s practiced keeping her face in order…she’s practiced very hard at that. But everyone has some special thing which betrays them. With Amy Lincroft it’s her hands. She’s afraid. She lives in fear. She has a secret…a black black secret, and she’s a frightened woman. But she’s lived with fear and thinks she knows how to hold it in check. But I wasn’t called Sybil for nothing, so I know it.”

“Poor Mrs. Lincroft. I’m sure she’s a very good woman.”

“You see what’s on the surface. You’re not a painter. You’re only a musician. But we didn’t come here to talk about Mrs. Lincroft, did we? Lincroft! Ha! Ha! We came to talk about you. Do you like this picture?”

“I’m sure it has great merit.”

She laughed again. “You amuse me, Mrs. Verlaine. Now you know I didn’t ask you whether it had merit. I said: ‘Do you like it?’”

“I…I’m not sure.”

“It’s perhaps not you today…but you tomorrow.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m painting you as you’re becoming, Mrs. Verlaine. Very sure of yourself…very much the lady of the vicarage…who is learning to be the bishop’s wife. Very successful…she will help the bishop in every way possible and everyone will say: ‘The dear bishop is so fortunate. What a lot he owes to that efficient wife of his.’”

“I think you must have been taking a few lessons from the gypsies.”

“‘Clever conversationalist! Never at a loss! That’s such an asset to the dear bishop, you know.’” She pouted. “I don’t much like the bishop’s wife, Mrs. Verlaine. But that won’t matter because I shan’t have to see her, shall I? I can see her at the breakfast table smiling across the napery at her husband. Oh this is years and years ahead and she is saying: ‘And what was the name of that place where we met? Lovat Something? Such odd people! I wonder what became of them all.’ And the bishop will wrinkle his brow and try to recall and he won’t be able to. But she will. She will go to her bedroom alone and think and think and there’ll be a pain because…because…But you don’t want me to go on.”

She laughed aloud and whipped the canvas from the easel exposing that of the three girls.

“Poor poor Edith! What does she look like now, I wonder. But it is nice to remember them as they were together. One moment. I have another picture of you.”

“Of me? What a quick worker you are.”

“Only when my hands are guided.”

“Who guides them?”

“If I told you I was guided by Inspiration, Intuitiveness, and Genius you wouldn’t believe me, would you? So I won’t mention it. But here you are again. There.”

She had put a picture on the easel which was recognizable as myself though it was quite different from the one it had replaced. My hair was flowing loose; there was an expression of rapture on the painted face; my shoulders rose bare from a sea green smock. It was beautiful. I gasped and could not take my eyes from it.

She crowed with delight and pressing her palms together stood on one foot like a child.

“You like it?”

“It’s a wonderful picture. But I don’t look like that.”

“You don’t look like the woman in the other…yet.”

I looked from one picture to the other and she whispered: “I told you…I told you…” Then she went on: “This woman is happy and she is sad…and she lives. The other is calm and grows more and more contented as the years pass by. Cows are contented chewing the cud. Did you know that, Mrs. Verlaine? They put their heads down and see the rich verdant grass. It is all they ask because they do not see anything else.”

“Well, which is myself? They can’t both be.”

“But none of us is one person. I could have been a wife and mother if Harry had not deceived me and if he had not met a richer girl he would still have deceived me but I should not have known it, should I? It isn’t so much what we know as what we believe. I wonder if you agree with me. If you don’t now, you will some day. Two paths are opening for you, Mrs. Verlaine. You will choose. You chose once before. Oh Mrs. Verlaine, you are not as wise as you pretend to be. Once you had a big decision to make…and you didn’t choose your music. Were you right…or wrong? Only you can say because it is what you believe to be right which will be right for you. Perhaps you believe you have been unwise once. You are lucky. Second chances are not given to us all. This time you must make the right choice. I never had a second chance…” Her face puckered. “I wept and wept…” She came close to me. “I think you’ll choose safety this time, Mrs. Verlaine. Yes, I think you will.”

She disturbed me. I was sure she was mad, and yet…She seemed to have an uncanny gift for reading my thoughts for she said: “Of course I’m mad, Mrs. Verlaine. My misfortunes drove me mad, but there are always compensations. Blind people find them. They become philosophical. So why shouldn’t the mad find them? Some are given special powers, special insight. They sometimes see what others fail to. That’s a pleasant thought, isn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine? There are always compensations.”

“I think it’s a comforting philosophy.”

She laughed aloud. “So diplomatic. Yes, I think it will be the bishop’s wife. But it shows you have changed doesn’t it? The bishop’s wife would have chosen music.”

Her expression changed again; it became sly, malevolent.

“But,” she said, “it may be that you won’t be either if you meddle. You are a meddler.” She was her childish self again, lifting an admonishing finger. “Admit it. You know what happens to those who try to find out too much when there are wicked people about.” She laughed. “You ought to know. It nearly happened to you, didn’t it?”

She stood in the center of the room nodding like a mandarin, an incongruous figure, her flowery, feminine hat shading her wrinkled face, a shrewd wisdom looking out of her mad eyes.

I pictured her writing that note, creeping into my room with it, hiding herself in the outhouse, waiting, sprinkling the floor with the paraffin oil that was left in the drum.

But why?

How could I know what secrets this old house was hiding, and how each member of this household was concerned in them?

Roma, I thought, what did you discover?

Sybil had disturbed me more than I cared to admit.

Everyone seemed to have decided that an understanding was growing between myself and Godfrey Wilmot, and in a way it was true. I could dream if I wanted to of a peaceful future and I did; but when I dreamed of it, it was not Godfrey I saw but my children. It’s natural, I told myself. Every woman wants children; and when she is of a mature age and never expected to have them, then the prospect is very desirable indeed. Yet…But why should there be any doubts? I was lucky, as Sybil said. I had a second chance. Or I could have—if I took care not to meddle.

When I was with Godfrey the time passed quickly and pleasantly but there were occasions when I did not want his company. I liked to be alone with my thoughts and one of my favorite spots was the little walled garden. Perhaps because she was such an observant little person Alice knew this. She came into the walled garden on this afternoon and asked in a demure voice whether she was disturbing me.

“Of course not, Alice,” I said. “Have you done your practice?”

“Yes, Mrs. Verlaine, and I came to talk to you.”

“That was nice of you. Sit down for a moment. It’s very pleasant in this garden.”

“You love it, don’t you, Mrs. Verlaine? I’ve often seen you here. So quiet and peaceful, isn’t it? I expect you will make a garden like this in your new home.”

“My new home?”

“When you’re married.”

“My dear Alice, I have been married once and I am not engaged to do so again.”

“But you will be soon.” She brought her face closer to mine and I could see the freckles across the bridge of her nose. “I think you’ll be very happy.”

“Thank you, Alice.”

“I think Mr. Wilmot is a charming man. I’m sure he’ll make a good husband.”

“How is it that you can judge a good husband?”

“But it’s easy to tell in this case. He’s handsome and rich I think…otherwise Mrs. Rendall wouldn’t want him for Sylvia. And he’s kind and he wouldn’t be cruel to you as some husbands are.”

“Your knowledge astounds me, Alice.”

“Oh well,” she said modestly, “I have lived here with Edith and Napier. He was unkind to her. You see I have an example close at hand.”

“How can you be sure that he was unkind to her?”

“She used to cry a lot. She said he was cruel to her.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes. She used to confide in me a lot. It was because we were both little girls together.”

“You haven’t a notion why she…went away?”

“It was to get away from him. I think she’s gone to London to be a governess.”

“What gave you that idea? You thought she had run away with Mr. Brown, remember.”

“So did everybody. But that was silly. She couldn’t run away with him, could she? Any more than a married woman could run away with Mr. Wilmot, because he is a curate and curates don’t ran away with people whom they can’t marry.”

“So you think she has gone off on her own. Oh Alice, as if she would! You remember Edith. She would never be able to stand on her two feet.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Verlaine, that if a tiger came into this garden you and I would run as we never had run before. We’d have special reserves of strength. Our bodies would provide them. Isn’t that interesting? And it’s true, I read it somewhere. It’s Nature’s provision. That’s what it is. Well, Edith had to get away so Nature gave her the strength to do so.”

“What a little wiseacre you are.”

“Wiseacre,” she repeated. “I haven’t heard that word before. I like it. Wiseacre. It makes me sound like a clever piece of land.”

“If you know anything about Edith you should tell it, Alice.”

“I only know that she’s run away. I don’t think she’ll ever be found because she won’t want to be. I wonder what she’s doing now. Teaching some children their lessons I expect…in a house like Lovat Stacy. Isn’t that strange, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Too strange to be believed,” I said. “I’m sure Edith would do no such thing. It would be wrong and wicked.”

“But while he has a wife, Napier won’t be able to marry anyone else. I’ve written a story about it, Mrs. Verlaine. There’s a woman who is married to a bad man and she cannot escape from him, so she runs away and hides herself. You see, she has no husband and he has no wife and while she is hidden he can’t take another wife. It’s her big sacrifice. She remains hidden away until she is an old woman. And then she is lonely because she has no grandchildren. But that was her sacrifice.”

“You must let me see some of your stories, Alice.”

“Oh, they’re not very good. I have to improve a lot. Shall I tell you a secret, Mrs. Verlaine? It will probably shock you.”

“I’m not easily shocked.”

“Mr. Lincroft was not my father.”

“What?”

“Sir William is my father. Oh, it’s true. I heard them talking—my mother and Sir William. That’s why I’m here…living in the house. I’m what is called a love child. I think that’s rather a nice thing to be…in a way. Love child. It’s like Allegra. She’s one too. Isn’t it strange, Mrs. Verlaine, that there should be two of us? Two love children…in the same house, brought up together.”

“Alice, you are romancing again.”

“No, I’m not. After I heard them talking I asked my mother and she admitted it. She loved Sir William and he loved her…and she went away because she thought it was wrong to stay here. And she had me and she married Mr. Lincroft…to give me a name. That’s why I’m Alice Lincroft but really I’m Alice Stacy. Sir William is very fond of me. I think that one day he will make me legitimate. You can do it, you know. I’m going to write a lovely story about a girl whose father makes her legitimate, but I’m saving that one. It’s going to be the best I’ve ever done.”

As I looked at the earnest little face beside me I could well believe this would be so.

The skein of circumstance grew more and more tangled with every new disclosure.

It had been raining heavily all day long. The girls had come back from their morning at the vicarage wet through and Mrs. Lincroft insisted that they take off all their clothes and put on dry ones.

As I saw her efficiently taking charge I thought what a strong sense of duty she had and I believed that she was trying to expiate her misdemeanor. I pictured her coming to the house, a companion for Isabella—a lovely creature she must have been with that quiet grace and beauty. What bitter tensions there must have been, with Sir William falling in love with her and she with him, and Isabella…poor and tragic Isabella, suddenly growing aware of it.

No wonder I sensed the sadness in her room.

And when Mrs. Lincroft was going to have a child she went away and then, but perhaps that was later—married Mr. Lincroft for the sake of the child. I wondered about Mr. Lincroft who had conveniently died so that his wife could come back to Lovat Stacy after the death of Isabella.

I always had the impression that she was living in the past; there was an aura of “days gone by” about her. It was in those chiffon blouses and the long sweeping skirts which she favored—the grays, the misty blues…they were hazy, indefinite…ghostly, I thought and laughed at the word.

After tea I gave the girls a music lesson.

“Poor Sylvia! She’s missing hers,” said Alice.

“A fact for which she’ll be truly grateful to the rain,” declared Allegra. “Listen to it…pouring. All the gypsies will be in their caravans making pegs and baskets as fast as they can. That’s one thing I wouldn’t be a gypsy for. I’d hate to make baskets.”

“You hate to work anyway. All you want to do is lie in the sun.

“Who doth ambition shun

And love to lie i’ the sun,”

sung Alice. “The answer is Allegra. But do you shun ambition? I don’t think you do really. What is your ambition? I know what Mrs. Verlaine’s is.”

“What?” I asked.

“To live in a lovely house far away from here…with a handsome husband and ten children.”

“It’s not such an unusual ambition.”

“I think it’s mine too, in a way, always to live in a house like this. Only I’m not sure about the husband. I don’t know what I think about them. I’m too young yet.”

“Ha!” laughed Allegra. “She’s pretending.”

“I’m not,” said Alice. “Listen to the rain. Nobody would be out in weather like this. Not even ghosts.”

“It’s just the time they would come out,” contradicted Allegra. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I don’t agree that they come at all.”

“The ghost will be in the chapel tonight, you see,” said Allegra.

Alice shivered.

“I shall watch,” declared Allegra.

“You can’t watch all night,” Alice reminded her.

“No, but I shall keep looking. It’ll be easy to see the light flash because it’s so dark.”

“Now let’s discuss something sensible,” I suggested. “Alice, I’d like to hear you play that minuet again. You weren’t at all bad last time. Of course there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

Alice arose with alacrity and sat at the piano. As I watched those painstaking fingers picking out the melody, I thought that the two girls were good for each other because they were so different. Alice was a great help in curbing Allegra’s wildness; and Allegra put a curb on Alice’s primness. The two little love children.

The next morning the showers were intermittent and brighter weather was obviously on the way. In the morning I set out with the girls to walk to the vicarage.

“I was right, Mrs. Verlaine,” Allegra said as we left the house and went along Church Path. “We saw the light last night, didn’t we, Alice?”

She nodded. “Very bright it was, Mrs. Verlaine, because of the darkness.”

“Alice wanted to come and tell you but we didn’t because you don’t believe in it.”

“It was a trap or something on the road most likely,” I said.

“Oh no, Mrs. Verlaine. The road doesn’t go that way.”

“Then whoever played tricks on a night like that must be in his dotage.”

“Or dead. The rain wouldn’t worry the dead, would it?”

“Well, we have a lot of work to get through the morning. I think I’ll take Sylvia first.”

We had arrived at the vicarage and as we went up the path Mrs. Rendall appeared at the door, her arms folded, in a not unusual attitude.

“Sylvia,” she answered, looking through me, “will not be available for lessons today. She is not well. In fact I have sent for the doctor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I do hope she will soon be well.”

“I can’t understand what’s wrong. Shivering and sneezing…it’s a thorough chill.” She turned and we followed her into the vicarage. “Ah!” Her tone softened because Godfrey was coming down the stairs. “The pupils are here,” she added. “I was just explaining that dear Sylvia is having a few days in bed.”

“Doctor’s orders?” asked Godfrey.

“Mine. The child would go out yesterday to take some soup to poor Mrs. Cory. I said it was too wet but the dear girl insisted and said that it did not matter if she had a soaking and that what was important was that Mrs. Cory should have her soup.”

“What a little saint she is!” said Godfrey lightly and Mrs. Rendall smiled warmly.

“She has been brought up to think of others. So many people nowadays…” She threw a baleful glance at me, and I wanted to burst out laughing and I could see that Godfrey did the same.

I said that as Sylvia would be unavailable for her music lesson there was no point in my staying. I could give Allegra and Alice theirs at Lovat Stacy. This arrangement seemed to please Mrs. Rendall mightily and she smiled almost graciously at me.

On the way home I thought of poor Sylvia and I wondered if she had caught her cold by going into the copse to shine a light in the ruined walls.

She would never have the courage. But would she? She was a strange girl—the one I knew least about.

Godfrey was leaning against the Stacy vault. It was afternoon of the same day and my walk had led me there. We had fallen into a habit of being there at certain times of the day in case the other should turn up. The grass grew long between the gravestones and there were trees which gave a certain privacy.

“How’s the invalid?” I asked.

“Poor Sylvia! Not very well. The doctor says her temperature is too high and she’s to stay in bed for a few days.”

“Do you think it might be the result of getting wet in the rain?”

“She’s had a cold for several days. She often has colds, poor child.”

“What do you think of Sylvia?”

“I don’t think of her.”

“Shame on you after all her mother’s efforts. I’m sorry for her and I wonder what effect it’s having on her.”

“It?” he said. “Do you mean her mamma?”

“I do. Sylvia always seems so cowed. Do you think that someone who’s treated as she is might want to assert herself in some way?”

“I’m sure she would like to assert herself if she could.”

“What about going to the ruin and waving a lantern about?”

“As a ghost, do you mean? But ghosts are so anonymous. So where’s the glory?”

“In knowing that people are afraid to go there because of her. In knowing that she is the one who is making them all uneasy.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t quite see where the glory comes in.”

I felt a little impatient with him. “Of course you don’t. You’ve never had to make people notice you. You’re so…so normal.”

He burst out laughing. “You sound as though there’s something rather disreputable about that.”

“No, too reputable. But I want to understand Sylvia.”

“That’s easy. She’s just a mouse of a girl with a great big tomcat of a mother always waiting at the mousehole to catch her.”

I laughed. “More like a bulldog than a tomcat. And I’m sure we’re both wrong to change her sex. The female of the species is always more deadly than the male.”

“Do you believe that?”

“In the case of the vicar and his wife…yes. But I want to think of Sylvia. Do you know it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s the one who is doing the haunting. Frustrated mouse…seeking self-expression…seeking to form her own personality…seeking a chance of gaining power. That’s it: Power. She who is made uncomfortable so often now has the opportunity of discomfiting others. It fits. Besides, how did she become ill? By going out in the rain when she already had a cold.”

“Wait a minute,” said Godfrey thoughtfully. “When I came in last night after going to visit Mrs. Cory…”

“The same who had previously received soup through Sylvia’s bounty?”

“The same. When I returned from visiting her and hung up my clothes in the cloakroom I saw that Sylvia’s boots were there also…saturated.”

“So she had been out, too. Could she have done so without her parents knowing?”

“Yes, if she had retired to bed early as she might have done—having a cold—and slipped out afterwards.”

“We’re beginning to get somewhere,” I said. “So it’s Sylvia asserting herself, not someone trying to drive Napier away. The very next chance I get I’m going to catch that girl.”

“Mr. Wilmot. Mr. Wilmot…” It was Mrs. Rendall’s voice, cooing sweetly yet somehow invincible.

“You’d better go and take tea with her,” I said. “For if you don’t she will search until she finds you.”

He grinned and went off.

I stood for some time looking at the memorial to Beau, thinking that I should be glad if it did prove to be Sylvia asserting herself.

As I moved through the long grass a voice cried: “Hello!” And the gypsy seemed to materialize before me. She had in fact been lying in the long grass and I wondered if she had overheard my conversation with Godfrey.

She grinned at me.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

She waved a hand. “I’ve a right, ain’t I? This place is free to the dead and the living alike…music teachers and gypsies.”

“You appeared so suddenly.”

“I was wanting to have a talk with you.”

“With me?”

“You look surprised. Why not? I like to know what’s going on up there.” She jerked her head in the direction of Lovat Stacy. “How do you like working there? I worked in the kitchens once. The cook they had…ran me off my feet, she did…or tried to. I was always missing when there was taters to peel. I never could abide peeling taters. Lazy good-for-nothing, that old cook used to call me.” She winked at me. “But I found something better to do than peel taters.”

“I am sure you did,” I said coldly and turned away.

“Hey. Not so fast. Don’t you want to talk to me about them up there…about Nap, for a start?”

“I can’t believe you would be able to tell me anything I want to know.”

She burst out laughing. “Do you know,” she said, “I like you…in a way. You remind me of myself. Oh that makes you sit up and listen don’t it. How can a high class lady music teacher be like a gypsy? Don’t ask me. Ask Nap.”

“If you’ll excuse me I have work to do…”

“But I won’t excuse you. Don’t you know it’s rude to push a lady off when she wants to talk with you? Tell me about Allegra. She’s a little beauty, wouldn’t you say? A bit different from that Alice. I wouldn’t change Allegra for Alice not for a mint of money. I’ve got four of them now…girls…all girls. Now that’s a funny thing. Some has girls and can’t get boys. That’s me. I’ve seen it in the cards every time. ‘It’ll be a girl again’ I say and so it is. But Allegra…she plays the piano lovely, does she? Do you know she’s the image of what I was at her age. Only I had me wits about me more than she has. Had to. I was a woman at her age. Why it was then I came to work in the kitchens…What made me do that? Wouldn’t you like to know? Oh, wouldn’t you like to know! But I reckon you can guess…though you might guess wrong.”

I had no desire to continue this conversation so I assumed a look of indifference and glanced at my watch.

She came closer to me and said: “I saw you with me lord from the vicarage just now. Very nice and friendly. I’ve heard talk too the way the wind blows there. Good luck, I says. Why don’t you take that luck, eh, and get out while you can? You’ve been warned, you know. Can’t you take a hint?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You should know after being nearly snuffed out in that old cottage. And would have been but for Miss Alice. I reckon Amy Lincroft was very proud of her daughter on that day.” She laughed aloud. “Oh, very proud.”

“If you know anything I should be glad if you told me.”

“Gypsies! They’re an ignorant lot. Don’t know anything, but they can warn you. Ever heard of the Gypsy’s warning?”

“What do you know about the fire at the cottage?”

“I wasn’t there. How could I know? But I’ll tell you this much. People are not what they seem. There’s Amy Lincroft for one. Why don’t you get away from here? Why don’t you marry his lordship and go? You won’t though, will you? Not yet. Mettlesome, that’s you. You’ve got to know. But tell me about Allegra.”

I thought: She is talking as gypsies will talk, feigning some second sight which is denied to the rest of us—and I suppose a woman who has a narrow escape from death seems a good subject.

In fact she was really a mother eager for news of her child.

“Allegra is a very intelligent girl but she’s rather lazy and won’t concentrate. If she did I think she would do very well indeed.”

She nodded and then went on: “In the house there you see the way things are. Sir William, is he fond of her? Is he going to find a husband for her?”

“She is young yet.”

“Young! Why at her age…but no matter. Is he fond of her?”

“Sir William has been ill since I’ve been in the house. I haven’t seen him and Allegra together.”

She was fierce suddenly. “He’ll have to remember her. After all she’s his granddaughter.”

“I’m sure he does not forget it.”

“Wrong side of the blanket,” she said. “It counts. But she’s the granddaughter for all that…no getting away from it. I tell you what I’m afraid of. That Amy Lincroft. She’s a cunning one, she is. She’ll try to push her Alice in and my Allegra out.” She narrowed her eyes and looked wicked. “If she does, I’ll…I’ll…I’ll make her sorry she was ever born and Alice was ever born too.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Lincroft couldn’t be kinder to Allegra.”

“Kind! When she’s trying to get her pushed aside for her Alice! She’d better not.”

“I don’t think anyone’s being pushed aside. I’m sure both Alice and Allegra will be provided for.”

I moved impatiently, asking myself what I was doing standing in a graveyard arguing with a gypsy.

“But suppose Nap was to get pushed out again.”

“Pushed out?”

“Well he was before. Sent away. Sir William couldn’t bear the sight of him. There was talk then that he’d disinherit him because he’d shot Beau. Well then who’d inherit? If Nap’s pushed out? He has a granddaughter, my Allegra. So…”

“I really must be going.”

“Listen!” Her eyes were pleading and she was suddenly beautiful. I could see in that moment why Napier had fallen into temptation. “Keep your eye on Allegra, will you? Tell me if anyone tries to hurt her.”

“I shall certainly do my best to see that she is not harmed. And now I must go.”

She smiled at me, nodding slowly.

“I’ll be on the watch,” she said. “No one’s going to drive me away. They daren’t. I’ve told them so. Neither Nap—and he’d be glad to see me go—nor Amy Lincroft. I’ve told them both and they know I mean it.”

“Good day,” I said firmly and walked toward the lych-gate and the road.

That evening I saw the light again. Alice had come to my room to bring me the first of the pillowcases she had been embroidering.

“I wanted to see whether you like this kind of flower. It’s pansies. Pansies are for thoughts, they say. But you could have another flower. I wonder whether it would be nice to have all your pillowcases with different flowers.”

“Why, Alice,” I said, “you’ve worked it beautifully.”

She smiled with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like it, Mrs. Verlaine. You’ve been so kind to me and to Mamma. Mamma was only saying the other day how glad she was that you had come here.”

“And you,” I said, “saved my life. That’s something one never forgets, Alice.”

She turned pink and replied: “But I just happened to be there. It would have been the same with anyone who had been on the spot. They would have done the same.”

“It was very brave to go into a burning house.”

“I didn’t think of it. I only thought that you were in there and how awful it would be…But my mother says we shouldn’t talk of it. It’s better for you not to think of it…if you can help it. Allegra’s pillowcase is coming along very nicely now. She does try, you know—but I think sometimes she feels she has to be naughty. It’s on account of her unfortunate birth. Mine was unfortunate, too, in a way. It would have been so much more respectable of Mamma and Sir William to have waited…and then married. But you see, he never married her. It was because she gave in first, but you mustn’t think badly of her for that. It was because she loved him. May I sit in your window seat? I love window seats. There are lots in this house. What a lovely view you have across the copse.”

“Yes, it is a beautiful view. I have to be grateful to your mother for…giving me this room.”

“All the rooms are beautiful but naturally Mamma would want you to have one of the best. Poor Sylvia! I do hope she is better. She looked ill when we saw her. She could hardly speak to us and the doctor says she’s to have at least three days in bed. I’m going to collect some books to take over for her tomorrow.”

“Does she enjoy reading?” I asked dubiously.

“No. But that’s all the more reason I should take her books, isn’t it? Then she will learn to like it and improve her mind.” Alice caught her breath. I took a step to the window and saw the light flash.

“There!” she cried. “It’s there again.” She stood up. “Would you like to come to my room, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“No thank you, Alice,” I said.

She nodded gravely and went to the door.

“I’m glad you saw it tonight,” she said, “because I believe you thought it was Sylvia doing it. And now you know she’s in bed…so it couldn’t be her, could it?”

I said: “It’s someone on the road somewhere.”

“But the road doesn’t…” She paused and smiled at me a little sadly. “I want to go up to see if it flashes again. I always think I may see something else.”

“Then you go,” I said; and she went.

As soon as she had gone I put on a cloak and went swiftly down the great staircase, through the hall to the gardens.

I might just be in time. It wasn’t Sylvia then, so who was it? Someone who wanted to keep the legend of the ghost alive and so the story of the unfortunate shooting accident. Someone who was hoping to drive Napier away.

The ground was a little spongy underfoot on account of the recent rain and when I reached the copse the grass was very wet My footsteps made a squelching sound which I feared would betray me. The important thing was speed. I must reach the ruin before whoever was haunting it had time to disappear.

There was no moon but the sky was clear of cloud and there was enough starlight to show me the way. I confess to a sudden panic as I caught sight of the gray bricks of the chapel.

I hurried on wishing I had changed my footwear for I was only wearing house shoes and I could already feel the damp seeping through them. I put out a hand to touch the wall and with my heart leaping uncomfortably went inside the ruin. It was a little darker than outside for some of the roof remained, but glancing up I could see a patch of starlight, which was comforting.

There was nothing there. No sign of anyone.

“Who’s there?” I whispered.

No answer. But had I heard a faint sound which could be that of feet on wet grass?

I felt a great urge to get outside, to escape from those walls, and as I stepped out and looked up at the sky I was suddenly caught from behind and held firmly in a vise-like grip.

I had not been so terrified since my adventure in the cottage and I immediately thought what a fool I had been to come. I had been warned—as both the gypsy and Sybil Stacy had pointed out to me. I could not expect to be so fortunate again.

“Well,” said a voice, “you always wanted to meet the ghost of Beaumont Stacy.”

“Napier!” I gasped, and tried to wriggle free but he would not release me.

“You came here to meet Beaumont, didn’t you?” He let me go but as I turned he caught me by the shoulders.

“What are you doing here?”

“You terrified me.”

“You haven’t by any chance been displaying lights?”

“I came to see who was.”

“Good God, haven’t you learned your lesson?”

“My lesson.”

He looked at me quizzically; and I thought of his bringing the spade into the stables, of his meeting me here in the copse when he discovered that I was looking for a grave. And shortly afterwards I had been trapped in the cottage—and he was asking me if I had not learned my lesson! And I was here in the copse with him. It was dark and no one knew I had come.

I heard myself stammer: “I…I saw the light. I was with Alice. I said I would come and investigate…”

“All alone?” His voice mocked me. “You are a very brave woman. Only recently…” His voice sounded suddenly harsh; his grip tightened on my shoulders. “You were up there…and couldn’t get down. For God’s sake, take care.”

“It is the sort of thing which happens once in a lifetime.”

“Some people are accident prone.”

“You mean without a reason?”

“Perhaps the reason is an unseen one.”

“This sounds very mysterious.” I was recovering after that terrible fear. I could not help it but when I was in his presence I could feel elation which banished all my fear. I said: “Did you come down here to discover the source of the light?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And found nothing?”

“The ‘ghost’ was too quick for me. Every time I am too late.”

“And have you a suspicion as to who it might be?”

“Only that it is someone who is trying to drive me away.”

“How could they?”

“By making things so uncomfortable here that I preferred to be elsewhere.”

“I should scarcely have thought you were the sort of man to be driven away because you were uncomfortable.”

“You’re right. All the same it revives the old story. It keeps it alive in my father’s mind. He could be the one to decide that I went away. He was before. I’m not really very popular here, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“It’s a pity.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry for me. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me.”

I felt a great surge of emotion then because he was lying. Of course it did bother him.

I said: “Do you think we should talk? We might frighten the ghost away.”

“Don’t you think he—or she—has done his—or her—haunting for the night?”

“I don’t know how he or she works. Let’s wait awhile…quietly.”

He took my arm and we went into the shelter of the ruined walls. An almost unbearable excitement had taken possession of me. I leaned against the cold damp wall and looked up at his profile. It appeared stern, sharply defined in the half light—tortured and sad; and my emotion was so mixed that I could not altogether understand it. I only knew that I would never forget his face as I saw it on this night and that the longing to help him was something as intense as my love for Pietro had been. Perhaps there was something of the same nature in my feelings—the longing to care for, to protect against the world.

I wanted so much for the person who was playing the tricks to come into that enclosure; I wanted us to lay hands on that person, to expose him as the ghost, to put an end to this attempt to keep open an old wound.

I wanted to see Napier settled in Lovat Stacy, doing work which was so suited to him. I wanted to see him happy.

He looked down at me suddenly and said in a whisper: “I believe you are sorry for me.”

I could not answer him because my emotion threatened to choke me.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why?”

“Hush,” I said. “The ghost will hear and keep away. Don’t forget we want to catch him.”

“I want to know why you’re sorry for me even more than to discover the ghost.”

“It was so unfair,” I said. “Everything was unfair. One accident and your life…shattered.”

“You put it too strongly,” he said.

“No,” I answered firmly. “They were so cruel to blame you…to send you away from your home.”

“Everyone is not as tenderhearted as you are.”

I laughed. I had stopped thinking of catching the ghost. It seemed to me too that it was more important that we should understand each other.

“You were so young.”

“Seventeen is not young really. I was old enough to kill…therefore old enough to be dealt with accordingly.”

“Please don’t talk of it if it upsets you.”

“Why shouldn’t I be upset? I ended his life didn’t I? There he was…magnificently alive and then…dead. And here am I alive and having had thirteen years of life which has been denied him. And you say I shouldn’t be upset.”

“It was an accident. Can’t you get that into your head? Can’t anyone?”

“How vehement you are. The counsel for the defense!”

“How flippant you are. But you don’t deceive me. It’s because you feel it so deeply now.”

“I am very happy to have you speak so vehemently in my defense. So some good comes out of evil.”

We were standing side by side and suddenly he took my hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I wish I could deserve your thanks.”

“I should not have given them if I had not considered them deserved.”

“I don’t see what I have done.”

His face was close to mine and he said: “You are here.”

I said uneasily: “Perhaps we should go in. The ghosts won’t come back having heard us talking.”

“It’s rarely now that I have an opportunity of talking to you.”

“Yes…it has changed since Edith…went.”

“So much. You are full of doubts. How could it be otherwise? But at least they are doubts. You do not stand in judgment. Nor will you until you have proved your suspicions to be true.”

“Don’t think that of me. I loathe people who judge others. How can they know every little detail which led up to disaster…and it is the details which are often of so much importance.”

“I think of you often,” he said. “In fact…all the time.”

I was silent and he went on: “There is so much between us. You know, don’t you, that it is believed by many people that I disposed of Edith. I’m not surprised. I soon realized how hopeless it was—and so did she. I knew of course that she was in love with the curate and I suppose I despised her for allowing herself to be forced into marriage with me—as I despised myself. But I tried to make something of our marriage—quite wrongly of course. I tried to make her into the sort of woman I could admire. Her meekness irritated me…her timidity, her fears. There is no excuse. My conduct was despicable. But you know what kind of man I am. Not very admirable, I fear. Why am I trying to explain?”

“I understand.”

“And do you understand too that I don’t want you to be involved…now?”

“How could I be?” I asked sharply.

“People tarnish with their thoughts…their evil whisperings. I have to prove to you, don’t I—and to the world—that I had nothing to do with Edith’s disappearance…at least directly.”

“You mean that indirectly you may be responsible?”

“I fear that’s obvious. The poor child—for that was what she was—was afraid of me. Everyone was aware of this. So…I am branded Edith’s murderer.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not, when they’re true? I thought you would be the first to agree with me that it is never wrong to speak the truth. I am telling you why you should spare your pity on my account. You can ask the advice of a number of people and they will all give you the same answer. They will assure you that you waste your pity. And more than that. They will warn you. Think of the case against me. Are you wise to linger in a haunted chapel with me?”

“Please be serious. This is a serious matter.”

“I’m deadly serious. You are in danger. You, my beautiful, poised widow are in acute danger.”

“How and from whom?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

His answer was to turn to me and with a swift movement put his arms about me. He held me tightly against him so that I could feel the beating of his heart and I knew he could feel mine. He put his face against my head. I thought he was going to kiss me, but he did not. He just stood very still holding me, and I remained in his arms, without protest because my one desire was to stay there and it was too strong to be resisted.

At length I said: “This is…unwise.”

Then he laughed bitterly and answered: “That is what I told you. Most unwise. You wanted to know why you are in danger. I told you.”

“And you wish to preserve me from that danger?”

“Oh no. I want to lead you right into it. But I am perverse. I want you to walk straight into it…knowing the danger…seeing the danger…I want you to choose it.”

“Are you talking in riddles?”

“Riddles to which we both know the answer. You could call it that. I will state my intentions which can scarcely be called honorable. Let’s look at the facts. I murdered my brother.”

“I insist on the truth,” I interrupted. “You shot your brother accidentally.”

“…when I was seventeen. My mother killed herself because of it. So there were two deaths at my door.”

“I don’t agree. You can’t be blamed for that.”

“Sweet counsel,” he said. “Sweet vehement counsel for the defense. While I was in Australia I longed to come home…but when I arrived I discovered that what I longed for was no longer there. I had dreamed of my home before the accident. How different it was! I was married. It was after all for this I had come home. My wife was a child…a frightened child who was afraid of me and I don’t blame her. She was in love with someone else. What could I do with such a marriage? No sooner had I made it than I began to wonder whether it would have been better for us all if I had remained on the Station.”

“But you love Lovat Stacy!”

He nodded.

“It’s your home…where your roots are.”

“And it’s not easy for some to uproot themselves. Why, I am taking over your job…defending myself, and that’s exactly what I must not do. There is no defense. I shot my brother. It is something I shall never forget.”

“But you must…you must.”

“Please don’t be so determined. You unnerve me. No one has ever tried to make a hero of me before.”

“I…make a hero of you! I assure you I am not doing that. I merely want you to face facts as they are…to realize that it is a mistake to brood on tragedies of the past…particularly when they are accidents which could happen to any of us.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Could this happen to your friend Godfrey Wilmot for instance?”

I was dismayed and he was aware of it. How deeply conscious we were of each other!

“Anyone could have such an accident,” I said sternly.

“Do you ever hear of anyone who did but me?”

“No, but…”

“Of course you didn’t. And there is Godfrey Wilmot, that eligible young man, who can offer so much. Perhaps he has already offered and been accepted.”

“I fear a great many people have been jumping to conclusions.”

“At which I infer there has been no formal betrothal.”

“It is embarrassing when one is friendly with a young man and everyone attempts to marry one off to him.”

“People like to imagine they are prophets.”

“Then I wish they would leave me out of their prophecies.”

“You have not thought of marrying again? It is because you still think of your late husband. But you’ve changed,” he added softly. “I’ve noticed the change. Did you know you laugh more frequently? You seem to have found a new reason for living. Lovat Stacy has done that for you.”

I was silent and he went on: “Could you have cared so much for him if you can forget him so quickly?”

“Forget him!” I said vehemently. “I shall never forget Pietro.”

“But you are ready now to build a new life. Is he going to be there always…the shadowy third? He will grow more perfect every year. He will never grow old. How could anyone compete with him?”

I shivered and said: “The night air is cool. I can feel that my feet are damp.”

He stooped and taking my foot removed my shoe. He held my foot in his hand and said: “You should have put on something heavier than this flimsy thing.”

“There wasn’t time. I wanted to catch the ghost.”

“You wanted to know who was so determined that my brother’s death should not be forgotten.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You are a very inquisitive young woman.”

“I fear so.”

“And an impulsive one.”

“That’s true.”

“You were impulsive once. Perhaps you will be so again.” He put on my shoe. “You are shivering a little. Is it the night air? There is a question I want to ask you. Once you made a decision. From a worldly point of view it was a very stupid decision. You threw away your career…for a man. You must have experienced a great deal of soul-searching when you did that. Did you?”

“No.”

“There was no great wrestling with yourself?”

“No.”

“As usual you were impulsive and you believed that decision the right one…the only one?”

“Yes.”

“And you regret it now.”

“I regret nothing.”

“You made a bold decision once.” He spoke almost wistfully. “I wonder if you would ever do it again.”

“Perhaps I have not changed very much.”

“Perhaps we shall discover how much. I am glad you don’t regret. People who do are often sorry for themselves and self-pity is such an unattractive quality. I try to avoid it.”

“You do…very successfully.”

“But I fear I am often sorry for myself. Constantly I say to myself: ‘How different it might have been if…’ And I have said that more frequently since you came here. You know why. There is so much between you and me,” he said. “Edith. Poor Edith…so much more effective in death than in life.”

“Death?” I said sharply.

“I think of her as dead. Ah, how suspicious you are. You doubt me. And yet a little while ago…Oh yes, you doubted me, and in a way I wanted you to. I want to say to myself…in spite of her doubts…You see then it would be the same sort of blindness which affected you before. No consideration for anything.”

I interrupted quickly: “I must tell you that I overheard your quarrel with your father…some of it at least. I heard him telling you that he would send you away.”

“And you heard me refusing to go.”

“And shortly afterwards I played that piece of music which someone put with the sheets he had chosen for me.”

“And you think I put it there.”

“Not unless you tell me you did.”

“Then I will tell you I did not. And you will believe me?”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe you.”

He took my hand and kissed it.

“Please,” I said, “always tell me the truth. If I am going to be of any use I must know the truth.”

“You make me very happy,” he said; and I was deeply moved because I had never heard his voice so low, so tender.

“It is what I want,” I replied impulsively. Then I added quickly: “I must return to the house.”

I started to move away. He was beside me and he said suddenly: “There was always a link between us. We were both being smothered by the past. I killed my brother; and you loved not wisely but too well.”

“I do not believe it is ever unwise to love and one cannot love too well.”

“So you defy the poet?”

“I do. I am sure one cannot love too much…give too much…for the greatest joy in life is surely loving and giving.”

“More than loving and receiving?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then you must have been very happy.”

“I was.”

We were crossing the lawns and the garden loomed before us.

“So,” I said, “we did not find the ghost.”

“No,” he answered, “but perhaps we discovered something more important.”

“Good night,” I said. I left him standing outside and went into the house.