The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris (16 page)

Ralph was sent for and Major Alexander excused himself. Since the challenge it had not been thought discreet for the antagonists to sit at the same table. It would have created an embarrassment. This gentlemanly behavior had been proposed in the first place by Mr. Brett—to each of the principals separately—and had helped tremendously in keeping his own extraordinary situation from general discovery.

The baronet greeted Ralph kindly and hoped all would go well on the morrow. Had he known of the affair, he would have been pleased to act for Ralph himself as, being a gentleman, he had some knowledge of such sporting events. Then he went on to give Ralph sound advice on where and how to stand so as to present the smallest target. If the ground sloped, it was an advantage to be lower down, as landscape offered a more confusing background to one's opponent. Also, he said with a smirk, it was better to be hit above rather than below the waist.

“Ha-ha! We don't want you gelded, eh?” He stared
around. “Saving the ladies' presence, eh, but I expect they know what's what?”

“
Bitte?
” said Mrs. Alexander.

“Bitter,” agreed the baronet, grinning broadly. “Very! You've hit the nail on the head, ma'am! Bitter for his bride. Like a mare being served
by
a feedbag instead of
with
it!”

He laughed immoderately at this and only subsided when he saw the ladies were not joining him. “Mealy-mouthed lot,” he grunted, and returned to the business of powder and shot, but continued to look around hopefully whenever he had occasion to mention balls.

The duel was now inevitable. In spite of all Dr. Bunnion's intended efforts, the fatal event was to take place. The headmaster's spirits, briefly raised by the baronet's unexpected pleasure in the wretched business, had collapsed when the full enormity of it struck home. By tomorrow his only son would be either a murderer or a corpse. This was the reality.

“And yet it serves me right,” he whispered to his wife in the privacy of their room, which they were preparing to vacate for Sir Walter to sleep there that night. “It serves me right for being so meek and gentle. Believe me, my dear—oh, believe me—when the meek inherit the earth, I fear it's only six feet of it. Oh God, if only I'd listened to that well-meaning, honorable fellow Alexander and got rid of Brett days ago!”

“But—but is it too late?” murmured Mrs. Bunnion, an unworthy hope stirring.

“How can I dismiss him when everyone knows it was he who fetched Sorley back?”

“And—and if he stays there's really no hope of saving our son?”

“I couldn't approach Alexander again. The man has a fanatical sense of honor. He won't budge an inch, and then it will be all over the town . . . his wretched daughter . . . no!”

“Perhaps you could put it to Mister Brett? Surely he'll be human enough to listen? I'm sure he's a good man at heart. There is a kindness about him . . .”

Mrs. Bunnion was a deeply honest woman. She was doing her very best for Mr. Brett, and short of owning up directly to her own unfortunate treachery which had not yet been discovered, it was hard to see how she could have acted more generously. Had anyone suggested she was deceiving herself she would have been rightly indignant.

“The man is a viper! He is furtive, underhanded, sly! Never forget it was he who brought Sir Walter here! Never forget it was he who has ruined us!”

“Until he is proven guilty, my dear, I shall continue to believe in his innocence.”

“You are too good and trusting, my love.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Mrs. Bunnion uneasily. “But I am a mother and have a mother's heart. I'm more inclined to forgive than you are, my dear. Whatever Mister Brett may have done, I still believe in the goodness of his heart. If you choose to think the
worst of him, I cannot prevent you. It is because you are a man and look at the world more sternly. To you, everything is either right or wrong. But to me there is no real wrong, only sadness and mistakes and things done for the best. All I can do is to try to soften you . . .”

“My love! If only I had such a heart as yours!”

“You have—you have!” whispered Mrs. Bunnion with a wistful smile. “I will go to Mister Brett myself. I will plead with him for Ralph's sake. He will listen—I know he will listen.”

“Be careful—be careful! I fear you are no match for him!”

A steely glint came into Mrs. Bunnion's eyes as if the very thought of Mr. Brett's being too much for her was insulting. “My dear,” she said firmly, “even Mister Brett has a mother, and it is as a mother I shall plead.”

WHEN MRS. BUNNION
left her husband she had no fixed idea of what she should do. All she knew was that Mr. Brett must leave and somehow or other she must bring it about. She was prepared to go to any lengths to achieve this, as she had by now fully persuaded herself that any sacrifice on her part was to save her son. Mothers throughout the ages had performed prodigies of heroism for their children, and she would not lag behind. Nature and custom sanctified her, and love lent a dignity to her intentions. She would exploit the full range of a woman's means to gain her ends, and no woman so prepared has ever failed. From the soft warmth of her mature charms to the icy force of her contempt, from anguished pleading to cataracts of
reason, she would use all the weapons at her command. The prospect both excited and inspired her. She felt herself to be everywoman, all things to all men: lover and flail, mother and bride . . . Such was the concern of this woman for her child.

At no time at all was she ever directly moved by the consideration that if she succeeded in getting rid of Mr. Brett, the blame for having written the unlucky letter might go with him as an uncustomed item in a general baggage of guilt.

While Mrs. Bunnion was thus troubled with thoughts of her child, the other mother in the distracted household was similarly occupied in this, the deepest business of nature. Mrs. Alexander, having at last finished her sewing, was attempting to guide the gentle torrent of Tizzy's black hair.

“Up, Ma. I like it up.”

“A vooman's peauty is in her hair,
liebchen
. So vy make it look like a puddink? Ma knows best vat suits her child. Ah—like silk . . .”

And so it was. Tizzy couldn't help smiling in the glass.

“Look up,
liebchen
. Keep still.”

“Oh, Ma, I can't see a thing when you put them drops in my eyes.”

“A vooman don't need to see, but only to be seen,
liebchen
. Ach, it makes your eyes look as deep and vide as the River Elbe at Hamburg.”

“Really, Ma?”

“A man might fall in and lose his heart forever,
liebchen
. Ach! Vy vear your bodice so high? It will choke you!”

“But Ma, it won't be decent if it's any lower!”

“Decent? Decent? Vat's decent?
Liebchen
, I made your bodice, but Gott made vat's under it. So vy talk of decent? Ain't Gott's vork better than your ma's?”

“Oh Ma!”

“So pink your cheeks! Like flowers!”

“I'm blushing, Ma.”

“And how, else should a man know ven he's kindled a fire? Gott is kind. Make a kiss with the lips,
liebchen
, and ve turn them into a rose.”

“Not with lip rouge, Ma! It tastes like physic.”

“And so it is,
liebchen
, but not for you! Now look in the glass and see how your ma knows best!”

Tizzy looked, but her eyes were misty from the belladonna, so she took her mother's word.

“And now,
liebchen
, it's time for the lesson. And may both of you learn.”

As Tizzy rustled out of the room, Mrs. Alexander stared after her with tears in her worn blue eyes. They were tears of pride and hope, of memories and regrets. Then she turned back to the glass and gazed at her large, sad self. But her eyes were misty, too, and it seemed to her that the mirror still held Tizzy's reflection. “Gott is kind,” she whispered. “Something sveet has come out of it all!”

Tizzy heard from somewhere the murmur of voices, then the loud laughter of Sir Walter Sorley. She bit her lip, tasted the lip rouge, made a face and attempted to hurry down the stairs. But cautiously. She could not see very well, and light made matters
worse. Even a glimpse of the dull afternoon sky through a window provoked a rush of tears and turned the academy into a house under the sea where stairs swam and walls were drifting and vague.

“Oh, Ma,” she muttered as she stumbled and all but fell on the bottom stair, “a woman ought to be able to see where she's going!”

At last she found the classroom door. Will it be ancient history all over again, she wondered with a quickly beating heart? Or will he see at last that there's something wonderful in the world today? She knocked.

“Come in.”

Mr. Brett was standing. Little points of light seemed to be all over him. Tizzy could hardly bear to look at him, he was so splendid.

“Sit down,” he said, and Tizzy thought she heard a tremble in his voice. She lowered her eyes and found her place in the front row where Bostock sat during the day.

The seat and desk were on the small side and her yellow muslin gown overflowed and streamed to the floor like a pool of dappled sunshine. She tried to arrange it becomingly, and knocked down a book. Mr. Brett moved to pick it up but Tizzy inadvertently forestalled him. She looked up, and his face glimmered large. She wasn't sure whether he was looking at the book or at her. She blushed and didn't know whether to bless or blame her ma. But either way there was something about Mr. Brett that had never been before, and for a moment Tizzy really fancied he was drowning in her eyes.

“Where were we?” he said, resuming his place. Tizzy's heart misgave her. Was it really to be ancient history again? She braved the light and turned her eyes to where she dimly saw his face.

Just then a corner of the sun broke through the thick sky and sent a dusty golden shaft down into the room. The flies danced like tiny jewels and Mr. Brett dissolved in glory.

“Did I tell you of how Jupiter loved Io?” asked Mr. Brett softly.

“And turned her into a cow,” said Tizzy, thinking of many marriages and with tears welling helplessly out of her eyes.

“Did I tell you how Leander loved Hero?” murmured Mr. Brett.

“And was drowned for it,” said Tizzy, smiling sadly at Mr. Brett through her salty veils.

“Did I tell you how Antony loved Cleopatra?” whispered Mr. Brett, moved powerfully by Tizzy's emotion.

“And killed himself,” nodded Tizzy. “And then she did too and they were buried in the same grave.”

She tried to make out how Mr. Brett was looking—if he was smiling or serious. But she could not be sure. Her drugged eyes had changed him into something dreamlike. His wig seemed turned to a silver helmet with a nodding plume, and the face beneath seemed carved out of the softer parts of sleep.

“Did I tell you of how Romeo loved Juliet?” breathed Mr. Brett.

“And did himself in like Antony before him?”
whispered Tizzy. “Poor Juliet, poor Cleopatra, poor Hero! Is love always such a widowing thing?”

“Did I ever tell you,” sighed Mr. Brett, now fathoms deep in Tizzy's eyes, “that your eyes are like mysterious, twilit pools, and your lips are a pair of kissing cherries?”

“No,” whispered Tizzy. “You never did.”

Then his face grew perfectly enormous and she stood up to meet him and hoped he could see better than she the nearest way to a kiss.

For an instant she wondered if the lip rouge would put him off, but it didn't—not in the smallest degree. Oh, Ma, thought Tizzy through a gap in her joy, you was right after all!

“I've loved you for so long, Tizzy Alexander!” murmured Mr. Brett, drawing breath for another kiss. “With all my heart and strength!”

“Then why didn't you say so before?” said Tizzy. “Because I've loved you, James Brett, for at least as long as you've loved me!”

Then they kissed again while the classroom flies danced in the shaft of sunlight and the world spun idly like a child's toy, a million miles below.

“
Mister Brett!
” The voice came like a sword between them, and severed, they fell apart.

“For God's sake, Mister Brett—and you, girl—have you no shame?”

Mrs. Bunnion stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing and her fine bosom heaving. “And in a
classroom, too!” Fully prepared to sacrifice herself, she had come gently to Mr. Brett. Thus her sense of outrage at the scene that confronted her was quite sincere. She was appalled. “I don't blame you, sir. I blame that—that Miss Alexander. First my own son—now you. But you must understand, sir, I—we cannot have it! Not in the school. You must leave, Mister Brett. At once!”

In every way Mrs. Bunnion was an exceptional woman. Her sense of justice never deserted her. She could still defend Mr. Brett's character even though, at the same time, she was able to urge his departure for the good of all. No one could have said that the thought of private advantage had moved her in the least.

“And as for you, miss,” she said, staring bitterly at the tearful and disheveled Tizzy, “I shall spare your mother and father what I have just seen. Not for your sake, but for theirs. They have suffered enough on your account. I trust that you, Mister Brett, will also be discreet. Please go quietly. Leave a note. Say you have been called away on family affairs. I will support you, sir, and also respect you for sparing us all any further unpleasantness.”

Here the quality of Mrs. Bunnion's virtue proved more than its own reward. If Mr. Brett did oblige and leave as discreetly as she proposed, then her own somewhat high-handed dismissal of him would never come out. Being human, she couldn't help feeling a distinct sense of satisfaction at the convenience of it all.