Greygallows (28 page)

We took our leave; when we had reached the edge of the grove Jonathan stopped and looked
back.

She was standing where we had left her. The wind had dropped, and the heavy folds of her cloak hung unmoving. With the muffling hood hiding her head she did not look like a woman at all, but like a pillar or a tall-standing stone, featureless and inhuman.

I jabbed Jonathan rather sharply, and he started like someone waking from a dream. He took my arm and we walked on till a slight rise in the ground hid the vicarage and the trees and the motionless figure from our sight.

'Well?' I said.

'She is too beautiful,' Jonathan said slowly. 'A face like that is destined for tragedy. It commands men, and leads them to extravagant follies. Perhaps that is why she hides herself here. With such a commonplace mind—'

'What?' I cried, astonished. 'She is brilliant!'

'Well taught,' Jonathan said coolly. 'No doubt she shared her brother's tutor. Certainly she has read widely and understands what she has read. But there is no originality, no flash of imagination, no humor. Now,' he added, with a sidelong glance at me, 'have I regained favor, or must I abuse the lady further?'

I began to laugh, in spite of myself, and Jonathan grinned.

'What I said was true, however. You laugh at such absurd things, Lucy! You can even see the ironic humor in your present uncomfortable situation. You laugh, you smile, when you think of loving. That is how loving should be. And that is why I love you, because of your laughter and your courage and your undisciplined imagination. Now,
now! How dare you cry., after I have just said I loved you for your laughter?'

'You never said it before,' I said, sniffling and laughing at the same time—a deplorable combination.

'I will never say it again, probably. I had to do so once. And you? You must show that courage I credit you with. Say it!'

'I love you.'

'So, then,' he said, after a long silence. 'We have considered the evidence—which has nothing to do with those three words—and what conclusion have we reached?'

'There is nothing we can do,' I said, almost indifferently; and I added, because I could not help saying it, and because it was the only thing just then that really mattered, 'Is this what it feels like, to drink too much wine? This illogical joy, this happiness that is unrelated to reality? If so, I can understand why gentlemen get drunk.'

'Don't,' Jonathan muttered. 'Don't say such things.'

'I thought it might help,' I said, '... for you to know that whatever happens ... if I never see you again ... this hour makes it all worthwhile.'

'I am glad it does for you,' Jonathan said violently. 'I wish I could feel the same. It doesn't help me to realize that the best hope for your future happiness is in an act that will drive
me
to drink when I think about it.'

It was several seconds before I realized what he meant, and some of my fine rapture evaporated.

'What else can I do? I can't—I can't make overtures to him, not now ... But if he wants me...'

'I'll tell you one thing,' Jonathan said. 'If he doesn't, you will be in serious trouble. The situation is so abnormal it can't continue.'

I stopped, pulling my arm away from his grasp.

'How can you speak so? You sound as if you didn't care!'

Jonathan took my arm again.

'I am a solicitor as well as a man and a lover. I can't help thinking like a solicitor—especially when I must think in those terms or go mad. That would not help either of us. No, Lucy, I won't rush off like Romeo and take poison, or fall into a decline, or be driven to drink. I am not so foolish, or so romantic. Does that disappoint you?'

'No. What sort of lover would I be, to want you to destroy yourself as a measure of love?'

'And that is another reason why I love you.' He went on, with a faint smile. 'You have persuaded me of one thing, and that is your assessment of Miss Fleetwood.'

'I could see you admired her.'

'My admiration has nothing to do with it. I agree with you that she is not the explanation of your husband's coolness. Under no circumstances could such a woman stoop to the disastrous folly

He stopped walking; his fingers tightening on my arm jerked me to a sudden halt. I looked at him in surprise and annoyance—and then stood rigid, my protest frozen on my tongue. Every vestige of colour was gone from his face. Even his lips were white.

'What is it?' I cried. 'Are you hurt—in pain? Why do you look like that?'

He moved his head to look at me; it moved
stiffly, as if his neck hurt.

'No,' he said. 'No, it is nothing ... I
am
going mad. Such a thing is not possible.... I am sorry, Lucy. Let us go in; you are shivering with cold.'

I was shivering, but the cold I felt was not physical. What could he be thinking, to make him look like that?

The mere sound of his voice in the hall was enough to make my heart contract. A premonition of sheer disaster came over me; my hands went
cold, and I dropped my cup. It was one of a set, a family heirloom that Clare cherished, and Mrs. Andrews squeaked with horror on seeing it shatter.

Clare was in the room before I had time to recover. He had not stopped to remove his greatcoat; it was black with rain, and water dripped off its hem onto the polished floor. He glanced around the room, his eye passing over me disinterestedly; he did not even notice the broken cup.

'Where is Mr. Scott?'

'In his room, your Lordship,' said Mrs. Andrews. She knew his moods too; her voice was tremulous.

'Get him.'

'I beg your—'

'Fetch him here!'

Mrs. Andrews retreated hastily. I sat fingering the broken bits of china and trying to match them together. Clare went to the window and stood looking out.

Jonathan came in. His eyes were sunken, and his moustaches had a weary droop.

Clare turned.

'Where were you last night?'

'Out,' said Jonathan.

'Damn you, sir, I asked you where you were!'

'Here and there,' said Jonathan. 'My lord, it can hardly concern you—'

'You will admit that the nocturnal activities of my wife concern me.'

In spite of all that had happened, I was dumbfounded to hear him speak so openly. Jonathan was not; evidently he had expected some such development. He replied, quite coolly.

'My lord, you have no evidence whatsoever of such an act as you are implying.'

'I need no paltry lawyer's proof!'

Clare crossed the room and stood glaring at Jonathan. This time, for me, it was not Jonathan who appeared at a disadvantage. He was not as cool as he pretended; I saw the muscles in his cheek knot and then smooth out as he mastered his rage.

'Get hold of yourself, Lord Clare. You shall not provoke me by such an insane accusation. Strike, if you will,' he added, eyeing Clare coolly as the latter raised his hand. 'I will not strike back. What, are we children, to exchange slaps?'

For a moment there was no sound in the room except for Clare's heavy breathing.

'Splendid,' he said finally. 'You are a credit to your trade and your low breeding, Scott. Let us see how far your admirable humility will carry you.' He turned to me.

'Go to your room,' he said.

He might have spoken in that tone to his dog. I suppose I looked half-witted, gaping at him. He strode toward me, and reached out; I tried, with undignified haste, to move out of his way. My shoulders still ached from our last discussion. But before I could shift the chair, or he could grasp me, Jonathan stood between us.

'My humility, as you guessed, stops here,' he said, in a low voice. 'Be careful, my lord; you go too far.'

Clare's arm moved. I could not tell which of us he was striking at, and I never found out; for quickly as he moved, Jonathan was quicker. Half hidden by the shield of his body, I did not see
exactly what happened. It ended with Clare half lying, half kneeling on the floor, held in a complicated grip. Kneeling by him, Jonathan held him with seeming ease. Only his quick breathing showed the strain. He looked up at me.

'Quickly,' he said, in a low voice. 'Go. Please.' I hesitated, knowing he was right, but hating to desert him; then Clare tried to move. He was caught in an even tighter grip. I saw his face; and I ran as if all the fiends in hell were after me. I did not stop running until I was in my room, with the door bolted and a chair pushed under the knob.

I paced the floor for a long time, torn between fear and self-reproach. I kept telling myself there was nothing I could have done. Bad enough that I had witnessed Clare's humiliation. He would never forgive me for that; and as for Jonathan...

At least Jonathan had left the house safely. I had seen him go; there was something magnificent about the way he strode out into the rain, coatless and bareheaded, as if even the elements must yield to him. At the foot of the steps he paused deliberately and looked up at my window. I don't suppose he could see me. It was raining heavily; he was drenched as soon as he stepped out of shelter. I struggled with the window, but before I could get it open he had gone, walking off down the graveled carriageway. His soaked shirt clung to his body, and the water streamed from his hair. I started to cry, idiotically, because he was so wet, and I was afraid he would take cold, and there was nothing I could do for him, not even give him his coat...

I sank down by the door in a miserable huddle. At least I could cry, now that no one saw me.

I must have fallen asleep. When I woke it was still pouring, and the leaden skies had taken on a darker hue. I pulled myself to my feet. My limbs were so cramped I could hardly stand, and my head was dizzy with hunger and nerves. The house was ominously still.

As the hours wore on I would have screamed aloud, just to break that waiting silence.

It was growing dark outside before there was a sound at the door. I sat bolt upright in the chair where I had fallen into an uneasy doze.

'My lady?' said a voice from outside. 'Are you awake? Let me in.'

I sank back in my chair. The voice was not Clare's. It was my new maid, Betty.

'What do you want?' I croaked.

'Your dinner, my lady. I was told to bring it. If you don't want it—'

'Leave it. By the door. Go away.'

I waited for some time before I took my barricade away. Common sense told me I must eat; it would serve no purpose to let myself get weaker. The lock, and the chair, were only a relief to my mind. If Clare wanted to come in, he would come.

After I had eaten there was nothing to do but sit and wait. Night fell; the rush of the rain was the only sound. Wrapped in a comforter, I dozed and woke again, and dozed—and dreamed, and woke shaking and crying from the vague terror of the dream. So the night passed, one of the longest I had ever known. Morning was only a lighter grayness; the rain, the interminable rain continued.

When I looked out my window I saw little pools of water spreading across the drive.

I got no breakfast. It was almost noon before someone came, and by then I would even have admitted Clare. I was desperate with curiosity; I had to know what was happening if I had been struck dead the next moment. But the voice was not Clare's, nor the timid knock. I recognized Mrs. Andrews, and opened the door.

She started violently when she saw me, and I realized what a spectacle I must make. I had not taken off my clothing for twenty-four hours, nor put a comb to my hair. My eyes felt hot from so much crying.

'I have brought you tea,' she said, extending the tray as if I were a wild dog who might be propitiated by a bone. 'May I come in?'

'Certainly.' I stood back; as she entered I put my head out the door and peered suspiciously into the hall.

'His Lordship is in the library,' said Mrs. Andrews, putting the tray on a table. 'He spent the night there.'

Was it possible that there was reproach in her voice? I spun around, looking at her incredulously; she did not meet my eyes, but her mouth was pursed in an expression of disapproval.

'I spent the night in that chair,' I said, indicating the untidy nest of comforters. 'How Mr. Scott spent the night I cannot imagine—in a ditch, if my husband had anything to say about it.'