The Shivering Sands

5

I had dined with Alice and her mother and had come to my room to prepare the next day’s lesson. I had not seen Napier since the night of my performance and it was very hard for me to believe that I had not exaggerated in some way the scene in the moonlit garden. I had been overwrought on that night: and he, of course, had been aware of this. I must not forget that he was Edith’s husband, and that he might well be a philanderer for there was Allegra to bear that out. And how foolish had I been on that night? It was true I had not lingered in the garden but looking back I was sure I had been ready to delude myself. I wondered whether he remembered that scene with amusement.

I really must get the man out of my thoughts and concentrate on work.

There was a knock at my door. Alice stood there; she looked excited or frightened out of her usual gravity.

“You asked me to tell you, Mrs. Verlaine. I—I’ve seen the light in the chapel. You said to tell you…”

“Where?” I said, moving toward the window.

“You can see it better from my room,” she said. “Please come.”

She led the way to the schoolroom which was close to her mother’s rooms and her own. We climbed a short spiral staircase and she took me into a neat little room with dainty curtains and a small bed covered with a chintz counterpane—a dainty room reflecting Alice’s personality. She led me to the window and we stood side by side looking out across the grounds to the darkness of the copse.

“You could see from your room,” she explained. “But here you can see it really is in the chapel.”

An almost full moon gave a cool steady light to the scene. There was no wind.

“What a calm, clear night,” I said.

“The sort of night when ghosts would walk,” whispered Alice. I glanced at her; her gray eyes were wide; her little figure tense.

“You’re not afraid?” I asked.

She shivered. “I don’t know. I think I should be if I saw…the ghost of Beau.”

“You won’t,” I assured her. “Don’t be afraid, Alice.”

“But if he…walks.”

“The dead don’t, I’m sure of it.”

“If they’re angry, if they hate someone living…if someone had set fire to the sanctuary…”

“Alice,” I said, “you are letting your imagination run riot.”

“But there is the light, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“Perhaps you thought you saw a light.”

“I’ve seen it several times. There is a light in the chapel. That’s not imagination.”

“It could be someone on the road.”

“It’s too far away. Besides, it’s right there in the chapel…You can see it from this window. It moves about in the chapel, and then it goes out. I’ve seen it more than once since Mr. Napier came home.”

“There could be many explanations. People might meet there.”

“Lovers, you mean, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Anybody. Why shouldn’t they?”

“It’s an eerie place. Besides it’s trespassing and if people were trespassing they wouldn’t show lights to betray themselves, would they? Look. Look! There it is!”

She was right. I saw the light distinctly. It seemed as though it were held stationary against the window which I remembered seeing in the burned-out ruin.

I stared and could not entirely suppress a shiver. Who was there with the light? Who had gone to the ruin in the copse after dark for the purpose of haunting it? I was determined to find out.

Alice whispered: “It’s the ghost of Beau.”

“No, no…that’s absurd. But it could be someone pretending to be.”

“But who would? Who would…dare?”

I did not answer her. I said: “Would you like to come down there now with me?”

She shrank away from me. “Oh…no, Mrs. Verlaine. He—he might be angry. He might do something terrible to us. He might—”

“Who?”

“Beau.”

I said: “I don’t believe that. Beau is dead. And whoever is showing that light is very much alive. I want to know who it is. Don’t you?”

She lowered her eyes and then lifted them to my face. “Yes, I do, but something terrible could happen to us if we went down there.”

“What do you think would happen to us?”

“We might be turned to stone. He might change us into one of those figures on the altar. I always think they look as though they were once people.”

“Oh, Alice!” I scolded.

She gave a nervous laugh. “I know I’m silly, but I should be so frightened.” She seemed to believe I was going myself for she caught my hand and cried: “Mrs. Verlaine, please don’t go there. Please…please!”

I was gratified that she should be so concerned for me. I said gently: “But, Alice, this is the sort of thing that should be investigated. No one should be allowed to play tricks like this.”

“Yes, but don’t go now, Mrs. Verlaine. Perhaps some of us could go with you. But not now…please.”

“All right. But Alice I don’t accept this idea of a ghost, you know. I am certain that we shall find a perfectly logical explanation if we look for it.”

“Do you really?”

“I most certainly do.”

“What a comfort.”

“Now, Alice, I think you should forget about this light.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “otherwise I shall think about it in bed tonight and I shan’t be able to sleep.”

“Have you a good book to read?”

She nodded. “It’s Evelina. It’s fascinating, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s all about a young lady’s adventures in society.”

“Why, Alice, I believe you would like to be a young lady in society.”

She smiled and I was pleased because I could see that the fear and the morbid imaginings engendered by the light in the chapel were already receding. “Well,” she said, “I can imagine it, Mrs. Verlaine, though it could never happen to me. Allegra is always reminding me that although I live in a big house and enjoy some of the privileges of the family, I am only the housekeeper’s daughter.”

“Never mind, Alice. It is really what you are that counts.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. Now you get back to Evelina and don’t give another thought to that mysterious light which I’m determined shan’t be a mystery much longer.”

“You don’t like mysteries, do you?”

“Who doesn’t want to solve them?”

“A lot of people don’t bother. Perhaps they’re like me and imagine what happened. But you want to know. Like what happened to Miss Brandon.”

“I daresay a number of people want to know that.”

“But they never will now, I suppose.”

“One can never be sure what will be discovered.”

“No.” She was thoughtful. Then she said: “That’s what makes it all so exciting, doesn’t it?”

I agreed and went back to my room.

I was not really as unconcerned about the mysterious light as I had led Alice to believe. There seemed no doubt that someone was playing tricks; it was someone who wanted to pretend the place was haunted, and keep alive the memory of Beaumont Stacy. As if that were necessary! No, that was hardly the answer. The haunting was meant to imply, I was sure, that the ghost of Beaumont was in revolt against Napier’s return.

It was silly, childish, miserable and vengeful; and I was more angry than the situation warranted.

Napier undoubtedly had his enemies—and that did not surprise me.

Returning to my room I went to the window seat and looked out over the grounds. The moon had waned slightly since the night of my concert. I thought of the moonlit garden and of Napier who was trying to put the past behind him and I wondered who it was who was determined that he should not. Who would go to the copse and wave a light about in the hope that it would be believed his beautiful brother had returned because he was displeased. It was childish. And yet it was just the way to keep the story alive.

I looked across the lawns to the copse. Alice was right, it was not so easy to make out the ruin here as it was higher up. In fact I could not see the chapel—only the dark smudge of firs which was the copse.

The chapel had been destroyed by fire after Napier came back. Who had done that? Was it the same one who now “haunted it” by waving a light about after dark?

I felt a desire to lay the ghost, to stop this childishness—and the reason was that I wanted to know what Napier would be like if he were no longer living in the shadow of the past. Much the same, was the answer to that. Just because of a few moments in that garden, when I was decidedly not my usual practical self, I was ready to endow him with all sorts of qualities which he undoubtedly did not possess.

“The maternal instinct, dear Caro,” Pietro would have said. He had mocked that in me on one occasion when I was anxious because he had walked through the streets for hours in the rain contemplating some cadenza which had failed to please him.

“Not that I want to discourage it, Caro. But it should be applied sparingly, and in secret. Worry about me, but don’t let me know it. Be unobtrusive. Little attentions should be performed subtly so that they go unnoticed. I should turn in disgust from a fussy possessive female.”

Go away, Pietro. Leave me alone. Let me forget you. Let me escape.

I could hear his voice mocking over the years. “Never, Caro. Never.”

Then momentarily I forgot Pietro for I saw a dark figure emerge from the shrubbery. For a few seconds that figure was in moonlight and I recognized Allegra.

She ran swiftly across the grass, keeping close to the hedge; then she disappeared into the house.

Allegra? I asked myself. Was she the ghost who was haunting the chapel in the copse?

I studied her closely while she stumbled painfully through the Czerny study.

“Really, Allegra!” I sighed.

She grinned at me and then frowned at the book, paused and proceeded.

When she came to the end of the piece she sighed and put her hands in her lap. I sighed too. Then she burst out laughing.

“I told you I’d never be a credit to you, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“You don’t concentrate. Is it because you can’t or you won’t?”

“I do try,” she said looking at me mischievously.

“Allegra,” I said, “do you ever go to the ruin in the copse after dark?”

She looked startled and gave me a quick glance before she turned her head to stare down at the keyboard.

“Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, I…I’d be scared. You know it’s haunted, don’t you?”

“I know someone shows a light there.”

“There is a light there sometimes. I’ve seen it.”

“Do you know who is playing the trick?”

“Oh…er…yes. I suppose so.”

“Who is it, Allegra?”

“They say it’s the ghost of Uncle Beau.”

“They do? Who are they?”

“Oh…almost everybody.”

“But what do you say, Allegra?”

“What should I?”

“You might say it was someone playing a trick.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Verlaine, I don’t say that.”

“But you think it.”

She looked at me truly alarmed. “I don’t understand you.”

“There was a light in the chapel last night and Alice drew my attention to it. A little later I saw you coming into the house.”

She bit her lip and cast down her eyes.

“You do admit, Allegra, that you were out last evening.”

She nodded.

“Then…”

“You can’t think that I—?”

“What I think is that if anyone is playing a silly trick Sir William would be glad to hear of it.”

She was alarmed. She said: “Mrs. Verlaine, I can tell you where I was. I borrowed Mrs. Lincroft’s scarf, then I left it at the vicarage and went back to get it. If Mrs. Lincroft had missed it she would have told my grandfather. So I went out and got it.”

“Did you see the vicar or Mr. Brown or Mrs. Rendall when you called?”

“No, but I saw Sylvia.”

“Why didn’t you leave it till the morning when you would be going over there?”

“Mrs. Lincroft might have found out and she did say that if I borrowed anything else without asking she would tell my grandfather. It was scarlet,” she added ingratiatingly. “I love scarlet.”

I turned over the leaves of Czerny’s Studies.

“Let’s try this,” I said. I had made up my mind that I didn’t believe Allegra and I was going to watch her.

I lost no time in speaking to Sylvia. Sylvia was the girl of whom I necessarily saw least. She seemed to me a little sly. I wasn’t quite sure what had given me this impression: perhaps it was because in her mother’s presence she was so demure and seemed to change subtly when Mrs. Rendall was not present. I was being unfair to her, I admonished myself. Poor child! Who would not be overawed by the formidable Mrs. Rendall, particularly one over whom she had as much control as her own daughter.

Sylvia was a painstaking pupil and, I felt, did her best—a poor best, it was true, but all she was capable of.

“Did you see Allegra last night?” I asked when she had thumped out her scales.

“Allegra? Why…”

“Did she come to see you?” I persisted. “Try to remember. I particularly want to know.”

Sylvia looked down at her nails which I saw were bitten. She seemed as though she were desperately trying to work out what she must answer.

“If you had seen her last night you would have remembered, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” said Sylvia. “She came to the vicarage.”

“Does she often come in the evening?”

“Er…no.”

“What did your parents say when she came?”

“They…they didn’t know.”

“So it was a secret visit?”

“Well, it—it was the scarf. You see, Allegra had borrowed it. It was one of Mrs. Lincroft’s, and she was afraid Mrs. Lincroft would find out and tell Sir William so she came over to get it and I let her in and no one knew she had come.”

So it was true. The story fitted, and if Allegra had been at the vicarage she could not possibly have been at the chapel at the time when the light was there.

I must look elsewhere for my practical joker.

I had dined with Mrs. Lincroft and Alice, and the latter had left me with her mother.

“Don’t go yet,” Mrs. Lincroft had said. “Stay and I’ll make some coffee.”

I watched her making it. “I like to make it myself,” she said. “I’m rather particular about my tea and coffee.”

I watched her move about the room—an elegant woman in one of the flowing skirts which she favored—gray this time—and the feminine chiffon blouse of the same color with the tiny pink decorative buttons. She moved silently, and with grace; and I thought what a beautiful girl she must have been. She was not old but just a little past her youth; I was deeply conscious of that slightly faded air and fell to wondering what the late Mr. Lincroft had been like.

When the coffee was ready she brought the brass tray to a little table and sat down near me.

“I trust this is to your liking, Mrs. Verlaine. No doubt you know what good coffee is, having lived in France. What an exciting life you and your husband must have had.”

I admitted that that was so.

“And to be widowed so young!”

“You know what that means.”

“Ah yes…” I hoped for confidences but they were not forthcoming. Mrs. Lincroft was one of the rare women who did not talk about herself. “You have been with us now for some weeks,” she went on. “I hope you are settling in.”

“I think so.”

“You begin to know something of the family now. By the way, how do you think Edith is looking?”

“I think she looks well.”

Mrs. Lincroft nodded. “There is a change in her. Have you noticed? But then…you did not see much of her before. I would say she is going to have a child.”

“Oh.”

“There are signs—I do hope so. This will make everyone so happy. If it’s a boy…I do hope it’s a boy…then Sir William will be reconciled.”

“I am sure it would be a very happy state of events.”

Mrs. Lincroft smiled. “It will change everything. The past will be forgotten.”

I nodded.

“I shall pray for a boy, and one who looks like Beaumont. I daresay Sir William would want the child called Beaumont. Why, if we had another Beaumont in the house the ghost would be completely laid.”

“It’s a pity it was not laid long ago.”

“Ah, but he was such a beloved boy. If he had been a little less handsome, a little less charming, it would have been so much easier. The only way to forgetfulness is to replace him, and that can be done by a grandchild.”

“There is already Allegra.”

“Napier’s natural daughter! But she only reminds Sir William of an unfortunate occurrence.”

“It is scarcely her fault.”

“No indeed. But her presence does nothing to make Sir William forget. In fact at one time I believe he was contemplating sending Allegra away.”

“He seems fond of sending people away,” I blurted out.

Mrs. Lincroft looked at me coldly. I could see that she thought it presumptuous of me to criticize Sir William.

“You would understand that the presence of Allegra could be painful to him.”

“It is sad for the girl if he gives that impression.”

Again I appeared to be criticizing Sir William and she said rather shortly: “Allegra has always been a difficult child. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not been brought up here.”

“It must have been hard for her. A mother who deserted her, a father she did not know, and a grandfather who resents her.”

Mrs. Lincroft shrugged her shoulders. “I have done my best,” she said. “It’s not easy with a girl like Allegra. If she had been more like Alice…” She looked at me anxiously. “You find Alice…obedient?”

“I find her a charming girl—intelligent and well mannered.”

Mrs. Lincroft’s good humor was restored. “Ah,” she sighed. “I wish Allegra were more like her. That child is a little light-fingered, I fear.” I thought immediately of the scarf. “Oh, nothing criminal,” went on Mrs. Lincroft quickly, “but she is apt to think that other people’s property can be borrowed without first asking permission as long as she puts it back afterwards.”

“She seems afraid of her grandfather.”

“She is naturally in awe of him. So is Edith. But then she is so meek. Not that that is a fault in itself, but she is so nervous, nervous of everything. Frightened of thunder and lightning…frightened of giving offense. It will do her the world of good to produce a child.”

I said: “What in your opinion is at the bottom of this talk about a mysterious light in the chapel?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “The servants are all discussing it. I think it’s a trick played by someone who wants to keep the past alive.”

“But why?”

“Someone who has a grudge against Napier, perhaps. Or it might be just for mischief.”

“I suppose a ruin suggests a ghost.”

“The light was seen before the chapel was a ruin. As soon as Napier came back in fact. And then one night there was the blaze and since then the light has appeared again.”

“What does Napier think about it?”

She looked at me intently. “You, Mrs. Verlaine, would probably know that as well as I.”

So this quiet enigmatical woman was aware that Napier was not indifferent to me—nor I to him. I was uneasy and changed the subject. I mentioned the gardens and she was very ready to talk of flowers—which were a passion with her. Then the conversation flowed easily until I left her.

It was just after dusk. I was suffering a painful session at the piano with Allegra when Alice came in.

“I thought I would be ready when my turn came,” she said.

She sat in the window seat while I finished the lesson with Allegra and suddenly she called out: “There it is again. I saw it.”

Allegra got up from the piano and rushed to the window. I followed.

“It’s the light again,” said Alice. “I saw it clearly. Wait a minute. Look! There it is again.”

And sure enough the light was there. It flared up for a moment and remained steady like a light in a lighthouse and then all was dark.

“You saw it, Mrs. Verlaine,” said Alice.

“Yes I saw it.”

“No one could say it wasn’t there, could they?”

I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the dark copse. Then there it was again. It shone brightly through the darkness, lingered for a few seconds and was gone.

I was aware of Allegra breathing deeply beside me. I felt I owed her an apology and I had suspected her of playing the trick with the light; and now she was completely exonerated.

I had made up my mind that I was going to know the truth and one night at dark I slipped out of the house and made my way across the lawns to the copse.

I hesitated on the borders of it and an almost irresistible impulse to turn back came to me; it was so eerie and however much one scorns ghostly happenings by daylight and in company one is inclined to be less bold alone in the dark. The idea of going to the chapel—which had been my first intention—and waiting there now seemed, alarming. I stopped under one of the trees and peered into the gloom.

It would probably be a wasted effort, I told myself. Ghosts did not come to order. That was of course an excuse. Then I asked myself why I did not go back and suggest that Mrs. Lincroft or Alice accompany me. They might think I was overeager to prove that someone was playing a trick. I could not forget Mrs. Lincroft’s remark about Napier. A sudden thought struck me. What if Roma had wandered into the chapel one night? What if she had seen something which was not meant to be seen? The thought sent a shiver through me. I could well imagine Roma’s setting out skeptically determined to solve a mystery.

“Ghosts!” I could hear her rather strident voice saying. “What utter nonsense!”

But she would have been trespassing had she come here for although she had Sir William’s permission to dig on his estate that permission did not extend to his gardens. She was not, however, one to wait for permission if she wished to do something. But ghosts! As if she would worry about them! “What,” I could hear her voice demanding, “have lights in chapels to do with archaeology?”

I started to make my way cautiously through the copse; and now I could see the dark shadow which was the ruin. I came close to it and put out my hand to touch the cold stone. I will just look in, I promised myself, and then go back. After all I might wait here all the evening. I would come back later with a companion. Allegra and Alice would no doubt like to share in a watch.

Then suddenly I heard the sibilant whisper. It was the breeze in the trees, I told myself. But there was no breeze. It was undoubtedly the sound of voices; they were coming from the chapel and they were making me shiver from head to foot.

My impulse was to run back the way I had come but if I did I should despise myself. I was on the verge of discovery and I must go on.

In an endeavor to calm myself I made my way to the opening where the door had been, all the time my ears strained.

Voices again—two voices, one high pitched, one on a lower key…and they were whispering together.

Then the realization came to me. These two had not come to haunt the chapel. They had chosen this place to snatch a few moments together.

Edith’s voice. “You must not go.”

And another voice which replied: “My darling, it’s the only way. When I’ve gone you will forget me. You must try to be happy…”

Not wishing to eavesdrop on this tender lovers’ scene I moved away.

Edith had chosen to meet her lover in the ruined chapel; and this must surely be one of the last occasions when they would meet, for Jeremy Brown was leaving in a few days’ time for Africa.

I went quietly through the copse thinking that this could well be the solution. The chapel was a lovers’ rendezvous. Had they brandished the light to keep people away? I could scarcely imagine they would do that—but who would have believed that Edith was an unfaithful wife? When one probed below the surface one often found what one had least suspected.

A memory flashed into my mind of Alice standing before me gravely quoting:

“They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.”

I was almost at the edge of the copse but the trees were still thick about me when suddenly a figure loomed up behind me. I turned sharply and in that moment there came to me the absurd belief that I was about to come face to face with the ghost of Beaumont.

It was Napier, I saw almost immediately, and my relief was obvious.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

“I was temporarily startled, that was all.”

“You look as though you’ve been seeing ghosts. One is said to walk, you know, in this copse.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You did a moment ago. Confess it.”

“For a second.”

“I believe you are a little disappointed. You would have liked to come face to face with a ghost, wouldn’t you…the ghost of my dead brother, for he is the one who is said to haunt this spot.”

“If I had come face to face with him I should have asked him most severely what good he thought he was doing here.”

He smiled. “You are bold,” he said. “Here you are…in the copse at night. Yet you defy the ghost. Would you dare to go to the ruin now and repeat what you have just said?”

“I should say there what I say here.”

“Then I challenge you.”

In the pale light of the moon I caught the gleam of his eyes and the cynical twist of his lips; and I thought of the lovers in the ruin and I wondered what his reaction would be if he found them there. I wanted very much to know the answer to this but I was absolutely certain that at all costs he must be prevented from going to the ruin now. I believed that Edith and Jeremy Brown were two innocent children who had been caught up in circumstances too strong for them; the very fact that Jeremy Brown was proposing to renounce her and go away proved that. I felt an urgent need to protect and preserve their secret, so I said: “I don’t accept that challenge.”

He smiled at me sardonically. Let him think me a coward. What did that matter as long as Edith was not exposed?

“But who knows what you might discover if you did?” he asked slyly.

“I am not afraid of ghosts.”

“Then why not come there with me…now.”

I turned away but as I moved toward the edge of the copse he came after me and laid a hand on my arm.

“You are afraid of something,” he said. “Confess it.”

“There is a chill in the air.”

“Afraid of catching cold?”

My impulse was to leave him, but if I did so and he returned to the chapel and found the lovers…what would he do? I knew that I must try to stop that. So I did not move; nor did he; he stood beside me looking across the gardens to the house.

At last he spoke lightly. “You shouldn’t be afraid, you know. Nor should anyone else. I’m the one he comes back to haunt.”

“What nonsense.”

“On the contrary—once you accept the existence of ghosts it’s perfectly logical. I banished him from this house. He resents my return. You follow the reasoning.”

“It is all of the past,” I said impatiently. “It should be forgotten.”

“Can you forget at will? Can you?”

“It is not easy, but one can try.”

“You must set me a good example.”

“I?”

“You who have so much to forget…too.” He took a step nearer to me. “Don’t you see it gives us so much in common?”

“So much?” I said. “I should have thought we had very little in common.”

“Would you…would you indeed. Do you know, Mrs. Verlaine, I’m going to be bold and contradict you.”

“I’m sure that does not need a great deal of courage.”

“And if I am going to prove myself right, you are going to need a certain amount of tolerance.”

“Why?”

“Because you will be forced to endure my company now and then to give me a chance to prove my case.”

“I can scarcely believe that you wish for much of my company.”

“There, Mrs. Verlaine, I must again contradict you.”

I was alarmed. I drew a little away from him. “I don’t understand you,” I said.

“It’s quite simple. You interest me.”

“How extraordinary.”

“Surely others have found you interesting. One person did at least. I am referring to your genius.”

I said hastily: “Then I wish you would not refer to him in that way. He did have genius, and it’s no use your sneering at that simply because—”

“Simply because I lack all the accomplishments that were his. That’s what you mean. What a poor figure I must cut in comparison.”

“I never thought for one moment of comparing you.”

I was uneasy. What did he mean? Was this a kind of inverted flirtation? It was like a scene from a French farce Pietro and I once saw at the Comédie Française. His wife was with her lover in part of the wood; he was with me talking in this enigmatic way in another.

I should have walked across the lawns to the house and left him. But if he went back to the copse…Perhaps that was partly an excuse. Perhaps I wanted to stay. Perhaps I was only partly repelled—and a great deal fascinated.

These people’s complicated affairs were not my concern, I kept reminding myself. Yet I was desperately sorry for Edith, and I knew that the worst thing that could happen to her was for her to be found in a compromising position with her lover. This man did not care for her; but what would his action be if he found himself cuckolded? And if Edith were going to have a child which he would disown…this house would see another tragedy.

“You should forgive me if I am too blunt,” he was saying as he had said before, and his voice was suddenly soft and caressing. “You see, I was seventeen when I shot my brother and when my mother killed herself because of it.” He almost relished the words, I thought, speaking slowly, savoring them. “And then I went to the other side of the world. It was a different life…one lived…rough. One did not enjoy the company of ladies such as yourself.”

“And your wife?” I said.

“Edith is a child,” he said dismissing her.

But I would not allow her to be dismissed. “She is young yet. That is something which we have all been once and it is quickly remedied.”

“We have no interests in common.” The second time he had used that phrase. I thought with horror: He is comparing us. He is telling me he prefers me. I thought of Allegra’s mother—the wild gypsy—what had his wooing of her been?

“Interests between married people are built up over the years,” I said primly.

“You take an idealized view of marriage, Mrs. Verlaine. But then you enjoyed such a perfect one yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said fiercely. “Yes.”

And again I felt that mockery.

“I should like to have met you…before…”

“Whatever for?”

“To see how it changed you. You were a music student, eager for fame. They all are, I believe. All the glories of the world are within the grasp. I’ll swear you heard the applause of enraptured audiences as you sat at your piano.”

“And you…what did you experience before…”

I stopped and he finished for me. “Before I fired the fatal shot. Oh, envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness.”

“Why do you want me to think you are so wicked?”

“Because I would rather tell you myself than wait for other people to do so…Caroline.”

I drew away from him.

“Ah, I’ve offended you. I should not use your Christian name. ‘Mrs. Verlaine, how do you do? What a nice day it is. It’s going to rain.’ That’s how I should talk to you. How dull. How inexpressibly dull. In Australia we never had conversation. There never seemed the time. I used to think of being home…gracious living as it would have been if Beau had lived. I could talk to him. He was witty, amusing; he knew how to enjoy life. That was why it was said that I was envious of him. Envy is the deadliest of the seven deadly sins, did you know?”

“It’s over. For God’s sake why can’t you say it’s over.”

“For the same reason that you can’t forget the past. It’s no use your telling me. You think of it all the time. You color it up. It was a perfect idyll. So you believe, and you go on believing it. At least I try to see things as they are.”

“You had an accident…”

“Listen. Would they have believed those things of me if I had been different? No, I had shown my unpleasant character, my sullenness…my outbursts of temper…If Beau had shot me—believe me they would immediately have said it was an accident.”

“You are still envious of him,” I said.

“Am I? You see how it helps me to know myself…talking to you.”

“It could be so pleasant,” I said, “if you put the past behind you. If you began again.”

“And you?” he asked.

“Myself too. I am trying to make a new life for myself.”

“You will,” he said. And then he added wistfully: “Perhaps we both will.”

I could not meet his eyes. I was afraid of what I might discover there. At all costs I must get away now.

“Good night,” I said, and walked quickly across the grass and into the house. He fell into step beside me; and as the dark pile of stones loomed up before us I thought of Edith in the copse with her lover while I was here with her husband.

And I wondered too if anyone saw us out here together.