The Spring of the Tiger

by Victoria Holt

  "Placed?" asked my mother.

  "! presume you can no longer . . . er . . . follow your profession."

  "But why should you presume that?"

  "People must be horrified, and your involvement with this er . . . politician . . ."

  "People love to be horrified, Miss Ashington."

  "I am sure that would apply to very few. You are our brother's wife." It sounded as though that were a major calamity. "And Sarah is our niece. We have come to offer her a home. We shall see that she is educated as our brother's daughter should be and she will be brought up in a fitting manner."

  I wanted to cry out my protest. I looked at my mother ap-pealingly.

  "My daughter and I have always been together," she said, "and we shall remain so . . . until death do us part."

  Not quite the right line for this role, I thought, and wanted to giggle. I thought of her walking out of that dark house in the steamy jungle clutching me in her arms. I could hear Meg's voice: "It wasn't going to do her career any good, but she brought you with her."

  "What can you offer the child here?" asked Aunt Martha.

  "A mother's love," said my mother affectingly.

  "It was a pity you did not think of that before . . . before . . ." began Aunt Mabel but Aunt Martha silenced her with a look.

  "You should think about it," she said. "This is Ralph's daughter. We have some responsibilities."

  "I should have thought they were his and mine rather than yours."

  "It may be that you are not in a position to carry them out," said the redoubtable Martha. "And Ralph himself was inclined to be feckless. And he is so far away. His daughter should be brought up in England in any case. What is happening to her education? She should go to school. Has she a governess? If so, we should like to see her."

  "She has been taught by. . .a tutor."

  "A tutor! A man! Not very suitable for a young girl, but perhaps in a household . . ." That was Mabel, who seemed to have a

  habit of leaving sentences unfinished when she caught Martha's eye.

  "We are in the process of engaging a governess/* said my mother with more conviction than truth.

  "Governesses are ver}' well in some households but in a situation like this I would recommend school. That is if Sarah remains here."

  "Remains here! But this is her home!"

  "Yes, yes, but in the circumstances. . ." Mabel began.

  "A governess might well serve the purpose in Ashington Grange," Martha firmly interrupted. "A well-ordered household among an orderly society is what a young girl needs."

  "Ours is a well-ordered household," said my mother.

  Aunt Martha sighed. "There has been a great deal in the papers. I put it to you, Irene, that it is not good for the child to remain here."

  "I shall stay with my mother," I said.

  Both aunts were looking at me. Aunt Martha nodded. "Commendable," she said, "but unwise. We have come to do our duty. I do not know what your financial position is, Irene, but I imagine it is not good. Ralph cannot help you. He is always in financial straits. I believe you are not playing ... if that is what you call it ... at the moment, and even an establishment like this can be expensive to run. You have those two women . . . the whole of your staff, I presume. Very small and inadequate, but expensive if the income is not large."

  "I shall be working soon," said my mother, looking a little depressed, I thought, as she stepped out of the role to reality. She turned to me. "Sarah, come here, my child."

  I went to her and she took my hand.

  "Your aunts are offering you a home in Ashington Grange—a fine old place in the heart of the forest. There you could live as a daughter of your father should." We were in the play again. I could see that. This was the renunciation scene when the child is handed over to the rich relations for the child's good and the young and beautiful mother makes the big sacrifice of her life. "There, my darling. It will be better for you. You will have a life of respectability; you will be educated as a member of the Ashing-

  ton family should be. All you have to do now is say good-bye to me."

  She wanted me to throw my arms about her neck and cry: "Mother, dearest Mother, I will never leave you." She was posing there already. The aunts were looking at me and I was looking across the footlights at the audience. I could almost hear the word "Curtain!"

  I said in a cool matter-of-fact voice: "It is kind of you. Aunt Martha and Aunt Mabel, to offer me a home, but I could not leave my mother."

  My mother stirred a little impatiently. The aunts went on drinking their tea.

  "You should think about it," said Aunt Martha. "We shall be at Browns' Hotel until the end of the week."

  When they had left we talked for a long time.

  My mother said: "I was proud of you, so proud of you. The way you told them to keep their respectability was wonderful."

  "Of course I'd never leave you," I retorted.

  She patted my hand.

  "There they were just like two old crows . . .'*

  "And you were a bird of paradise," I added, "and since we are in an aviary, what was I? A little peahen perhaps—such modest birds, always following in the wake of a glorious husband. But perhaps that's not appropriate. A wren more likely."

  "They would find a husband for you, Fm sure. Some scion of the gentry, perhaps a pillar of the Church. Oh, you'd hate their way of life, Siddons, and yet . . . and yet . . ." Her frivolity seemed to drop from her for a moment. "It might be best."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that you would have the sort of upbringing your father's daughter should have. You'd be well educated, fit to enter into society and you'd escape from this . . . smear. . . ."

  I stared at her. She was really serious. "I'm thinking of you," she went on. "What's best for you." Suddenly she gripped my hands tightly. "Tom," she went on, "is not very optimistic about the future."

  I felt a coldness in my heart. Was she suggesting that there

  would be no play for her, that those audiences who had recently been clamoring for her were turning their backs on her.

  She said slowly: "I'd get some parts . . . but they wouldn't be the right sort. You see what happened was all against my ... my image."

  "Actresses should surely forget about images and act," I said.

  "Ah, words of wisdom," she replied. She seemed a different person. Yes, those were lines at the side of her mouth. I hadn't noticed them before. Everard's death had done something to her. He had paid his price and she believed she must pay hers.

  She went on: "I'm extravagant perhaps. I have saved very little. I had gifts from Everard now and then and they were carefully invested. It's something. I have to have clothes . . . good clothes. I have to keep up this house. Costs are high and there are Janet and Meg. You see, when one isn't earning . . ."

  I was staggered. I had thought little about money before this.

  "So you see," she said slowly, "one mustn't dismiss the aunts."

  I put my arms about her and hugged her tightly. She seemed to derive some comfort from that. "As if I would leave youl" I said.

  I felt we were very close then.

  She went to see Tom the next day and walked back. I think the interview must have been depressing and she wanted to think about the future. She was caught in a downpour of rain and was soaked when she returned. In a few days' time she had the first of those heavy colds which were to become frequent with her. She was in a low state of health because Everard's death had affected her more deeply than we had at first thought.

  The aunts called again and this time my mother was in bed and seemed quite ill, so they talked to me alone in the drawing room and pointed out to me that while they applauded my affection and loyalty to my mother, I was being rather foolish in refusing to live with them.

  I thanked them but insisted my place was with my mother.

  "We have written to your father and told him what has been happening here," said Aunt Martha. "No doubt he wi
ll give his opinion and we are sure that he would wish you to come to us."

  "I know so little of my father," I replied. "I cannot remember a thing about him."

  "It is all so distressing and disgraceful when it is considered how. . ." began Aunt Mabel.

  "When such events occur," interrupted Aunt Martha, "it is always best to put them behind us and convince ourselves by our exemplary conduct that we will try to correct the havoc they have caused."

  As I could not in any way hold myself responsible for my mother's desertion of my father and for what happened between her and Everard, I felt mildly resentful; but I was very anxious, for what, a few days ago, had seemed quite impossible was now appearing to be faintly probable.

  Aunt Martha said: "We shall be leaving at the end of the week. You can get in touch if you need us at Ashington Grange. Mabel, give her our card." Mabel handed me one which she took from a bag she carried. "Moreover," went on Aunt Martha, "we shall be coming to London again in a month or two. Perhaps by then you can give us an answer. We shall be at Browns'. But if before that you wish to get in touch with us you can do so at the Grange."

  When they came again the position had not changed very much except that there was talk of my mother's being in a lavish production—one of her old roles. She was naturally elated about this, and although nothing could ever be quite the same it looked as though we were passing out of that dreary depression when it had seemed that fate was against us.

  I assured the aunts once more that I would never leave my mother. They were very disapproving and demanded to know what was being done about my education. My mother was evasive and Aunt Martha said it was a matter of some concern to them for it was unthinkable that an Ashington should be illiterate. My mother pointed out that I had taught myself to read at the age of four and had had my nose in a book ever since. She beHeved it would be hard to find a girl of my age who was so well versed in English literature.

  "There are other subjects," murmured Aunt Mabel, and Aunt Martha agreed with her.

  They went, rather disconsolately, I thought.

  "I believe they really want to have me with them," I said.

  *'They want to mold you into the pattern they consider suitable/' said my mother. "They want to make you into a little Ash-ington, which means just like themselves. They were always telling Ralph that he should do this and that. It was one of the reasons why he was glad to get away."

  A few weeks later she said to me: "They're right, you know, about your education. We have neglected it. You're going away to school."

  I was astonished.

  "Yes," she said, "it's necessary. This is a very good school near York. Ashington girls always went there. It's a sort of tradition in the family."

  "You're making that up."

  "You're to leave in September."

  "But the money. Won't it be expensive?"

  "Nest eggs," she murmured. "And the new production. It'll be a wild success. I'm back, Siddons. Nothing to worry about now."

  I gradually grew accustomed to the idea of school and when I eventually went I became absorbed by it. Backward as I was in some subjects, I was a long way ahead in others and I had a great desire to learn, which pleased my teachers. At the same time I was always ready for excitement and fun so I was not unpopular with my fellow students. It was a novelty for me to be with people of my own age and I was delighted with my new life. It was a complete escape from the tragic events which lingered on in Denton Square. So absorbed was I in school that I forgot Denton Square for days. I was caught up in the drama of how many marks I should get for my essay and how I should fare in the coming hockey match.

  There was one very old mistress who remembered my aunts and was pleased to have another Ashington at the school. "They were very conscientious hard-working girls and have lived worthwhile lives," she commented. "Let us hope and pray, Sarah, that you will be like them." It was the last thing I had in my mind for the future.

  I went home at Christmas. It was not a very happy household.

  The play had run for a month—a financial disaster for the backers.

  Meg told me about it. "They blamed your mother. They've always got to blame someone. It was a bad play. I could have told them that from the start. Then there was that wicked man . . . calls himself a critic. He said something about the star of the Her-ringford case not having quite the aplomb or the talent to carry off the innocence of this production. Beast! You see, they're not going to let that be forgotten if they can help it."

  "And how did she take it?"

  "Badly. It affected her performance, I reckon. Someone threw an egg at her as she came out of the stage door. Spoilt her velvet wrap. I'll never get that mess off. It's there to stay. I'll have to get rid of the wrap for I never will the egg stain. And it cost a pretty penny, that wrap did."

  "Meg," I said seriously, "what's going to happen?"

  "That's something I can't tell you no more than you can tell

  me.

  My mother tried to be bright. Next time she would be more careful in her choice of plays, she promised herself.

  I was home for a month. We decorated the drawing room as we always had. In the past there had been crowds of people coming in and out. A few friends did call over the days of Christmas, Tom Mellor among them, but the relationship had considerably cooled between him and my mother. She blamed him for the failure and he blamed her.

  I was glad to escape to school and once more so absorbed into the life did I become that I was content with the occasional letter I received from my mother. I had to write to her weekly of course. It was a school exercise. I often wondered afterwards what she thought of accounts of the hockey team, tennis, netball and the high marks I had received in English.

  By the summer the household had changed a good deal. My mother had aged. I gathered there had been one or two small parts. One had been quite a success, she told me. Janet was more tight-lipped than ever and yet at the same time she betrayed an inner satisfaction. Meg and my mother quarreled all the time. I

  was glad when those holidays were over and I could escape to school.

  By the next Christmas I knew that something was seriously wrong. My mother had the part of the good fairy in a pantomime.

  "Pantomime!" said Janet with a grin of contempt.

  Meg said little.

  It was a quiet Christmas because my mother had to start work on Boxing Day. She had a cold and was feeling limp. I took her breakfast in as I sometimes did in the old days.

  She pretended to be merry but being away so long I was able to see the great change in her. She looked ten years older; there were lines of discontent about her mouth. It was while she was playing in the pantomime that the scandal revived in a half-hearted sort of way. Lady Herringford, wife of Everard, had been found dead in a stream on the Herringford estate. It was a shallow stream and Lady Herringford had been found lying face downward. She had been ill for a long time and there was no suggestion of foul play. "Her death recalls the tragic Sir Everard, who ended his career and life when he was involved in a scandal with an actress. . . ."

  My mother read the paragraph—not on the front page—and was upset because she was referred to merely as "an actress."

  "Well, you didn't want your name mentioned," I soothed her.

  She was fierce suddenly. "Don't you see what it means? They don't mention it because it's no longer important! An actress! As though I were playing in repertory or . . . or"—she laughed hysterically—"pantomime!"

  It was a miserable holiday and I was once more glad to return to school, but it took me a week or so to get the memory out of my mind.

  Summer came. I had passed my sixteenth birthday and would be seventeen before the year was out. I had not been in the house for more than an hour when I realized that the life I had enjoyed at Blessington Academy for Young Ladies was at an end.

  My mother had changed still more. There were dark shadows under her eyes.

  Meg told me first. "I'm leavin
g. I was just waiting for you to come home to go. I've had enough. Her tantrums are something I can't put up with no more."

  Janet was there. "We're leaving for Ethel's place in two weeks," she said triumphantly. "She"—pointing to her sister—"wanted to give you time to work something out."

  "And my mother. . . ?" I asked. "She doesn't look well."

  "It's her chest. She just gets cold after cold. And she don't take care of them."

  "They come on when she's down in the dumps," commented Janet.

  "Yes," agreed Meg. "If only she could get a real chance, I reckon she'd make her comeback."

  She was talking for Janet, who was triumphant because of my mother's failure. When we were alone together Meg said to me: "Her type of actress often has only a limited spell. I know. I've seen it. It's a sort of charm they have. It's being young and pretty in a certain sort of way. They're like butterflies. They fly across the stage and people love them . . . but it don't last. Youth don't last, does it? What's best for that sort is a brilliant marriage. They leave the stage and settle down to be wives and mothers. But with her it went wrong from the start. She should never have married and gone out to Ceylon. That was stepping out of hne, you might say, and that's something you have to pay for."

  "And so you're leaving her, Meg," I said reproachfully.

  "There's no help for it. She can't pay us . . . not me nor Janet. The parts will get less and less. She'll soon be grateful for a walk-

  on.

  "All this because of that affair. . . ."

  "Oh no, it's not that really. If she'd been a great actress she would have weathered the storm, easy as wink your eye. But she's not a great actress. In any case what she had wouldn't have outlasted her youth. It's just that all this has brought on age quicker than it would have come otherwise. I told her at the time that she was a fool to marry when she did . . . but she wouldn't listen. Oh, no. She knew all the answers. Well, she got her sums wrong, that's all. I'm going to Ethel's. That'll shut Janet up. Somehow I've had enough of the theater after all this."