The Spring of the Tiger

by Victoria Holt

My mother was lying on the bed, the bedclothes pulled right back. I went to her. She was icily cold. Then I ran to the window and shut it. I pulled the bedclothes up about my mother. Her skin was deathly cold. She opened her eyes and said: "Where am I?"

  "You're all right now," I said. 'Tm here."

  Someone was outside the door. It moved slowly and I felt the coldness gripping my body. I was terrified in that split second. My mind was numb and I could not think what honor was about to confront me.

  I gasped with relief. Celia was standing there, her feet in slippers, a dressing gown obviously hastily wrapped about her.

  "Sarah!" she cried in astonishment.

  "Look!" I cried. "I found this."

  She shivered and stared at me in disbelief.

  "The window wide open," I said. "The clothes off the bed. I think even the fire was doused."

  She could only stare blankly at me. Then she said: "We must do something. Cover her up well. Use that fur rug. We must get her warm quickly. We need hot-water bottles. I'll go down to the kitchen and get them. Make up the fire. Oh, Sarah, we must get her warm . . . quickly."

  She ran to one of the cupboards in the corridor in which blankets were kept. She threw them into my arms and I went back to the bedroom and covered up my mother. I held her in my arms and as the warmth of my body passed to hers she ceased to shiver. Then I went to the fire and tried to stir it up, but it was too dead so I hastily threw on wood and coal and relit it. Celia came back with hot-water bottles and set them in the bed.

  Within half an hour the temperature of the room had risen and

  we took off the fur nig for my mother was then warm. She was murmuring in uneasy sleep.

  I tried to hear what she was saying. "Cold," I heard. "It is cold as charity. . . cold as death. . . ."

  I believed it was a line from one of her plays.

  Celia's face was nipped with the cold and I was sure mine was the same.

  "I can scarcely feel my hands/' I said.

  "Nor I."

  "Do you think she's all right now?"

  "She's sleeping quietly."

  "Celia . . . what did it mean?"

  "I'm trying to think what it could. Shall I make some tea on the spirit lamp? We need something to warm us up."

  We both knew that neither of us could sleep so it seemed a good idea. She made the tea and we wrapped ourselves in blankets and went into the schoolroom to drink it.

  "Celia," I said, "someone did that deliberately. Why?"

  I did not say Aunt Martha but it was of Aunt Martha that I was thinking. Aunt Martha wanted her out of the way. Had she killed Margaret too, that sister who had taken her lover? I could imagine her reasoning with God. It is better for this useless woman to die so that Ralph can remarry and get an heir. And in the case of Margaret? I will make him a better wife than she will. It is in a righteous cause.

  No, it was preposterous. Aunt Martha going to the family pew every Sunday, joining in the responses in her rather deep masculine voice, singing the hymns with gusto. "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Yes, that was Aunt Martha fighdng a just war for the good of mankind in general and the Ashingtons in particular. She must be mad.

  Yes, there was madness in the house this night.

  Celia said: "Thank God you came up when you did. What made you?"

  "I couldn't sleep. Some instinct perhaps. Then I thought I heard noises. So I came to look."

  "Thank God," murmured Celia again, softly. "Had it stayed like

  that. . . with t'ie window open and that fierce cold wind blowing in . . . that would have been the end of her."

  "It's murder!" I cried. "It's just as bad as taking a gun and shooting somebody or thrusting a knife into the heart."

  "Murder!" Celia set down her cup and stared at me. "Sarah, what do you mean?"

  "Someone opened the windows . . . someone doused the fire . . . someone uncovered her."

  "Someone . . . yes," whispered Celia.

  "As I came up the stairs I thought I saw the schoolroom door close. Whoever it was must have hidden in there . . . and then . . . slipped away. I should have gone there to see. But my first thought was of my mother and when I realized what was happen-mg. . .

  Celia's look was incredulous.

  "Sarah, but what. . . why . . . ? Who would have . . . ?"

  I said in what was almost a whisper: "My aunt. . ."

  "Your aunt!" Celia's voice was shrill with disbelief. "Oh, no, Sarah, you can't mean that. Of course it was your mother. She did it herself."

  "But why. . . why. . . ? She was shivering with cold."

  "It's her fever. Imagine her waking. She's burning hot. She would throw off the bedclothes . . . and then open the window and perhaps douse the fire. . . ."

  "She told me she saw a figure in the room . . . someone who crept in and looked at her. She was frightened, Celia, desperately frightened."

  "She dreamed it. Of course it was one of her fancies. She was half awake and half asleep and in a high fever."

  She was convincing me. Of course Aunt Martha would not have crept into the room and opened the window and then when I arrived have hidden in the schoolroom until she had an opportunity to slip downstairs. But why not? It would be a way to my mother's death, which would seem to have come about naturally. No, it was nonsense. I could see that everyone would say it was nonsense. Celia's solution was the logical one.

  She went on talking of my mother's illness. She had played many parts; she often imagined herself in those plays. We both

  knew that. Drama was in her blood and she was liable to act strangely when she was in a fever. It might not have been the first time she had done this.

  "I shall sleep in her room in future," I said.

  *'One of us should," replied Celia.

  I smiled at her gratefully. "You're a good friend to us, Celia," I said.

  "I'm grateful to you," she replied. "I don't forget that you have helped me through a difficult time. You may be sure I shall do everything to help your mother and you."

  There was, however, nothing she could do. That night my mother's hold on life loosened. She developed pneumonia, and as she was already weakening, she had little hope of surviving. Within a few days she was dead. She was laid to rest in that part of the graveyard set aside for the Ashingtons. Her grave was next to Margaret's.

  It was a sad house for me without my mother. I reproached myself for having been impatient with her dwelling on the past and deploring the future. Now I remembered only the successful actress whose life had been gay and glamorous.

  Change! I thought. First one thing happens and then another and in a short time the whole picture is different. There was no one left from my past now. Meg and Janet had sent us a card at Christmas in which they had written that their venture was working out well. "They're telling us how well they can get on without me," my mother had said. "Poor Meg, I'm sure she misses the theater."

  I doubted I should hear from them again. I was overcome by a strange sense of loneliness. Most of all I missed Toby. But I was young. I would be nineteen in November and a new life was stretching out before me.

  Neither of the aunts made any show of mourning for my mother. They did everything they considered right and proper in the circumstances and that finished the matter. Aunt Martha did, I must admit, have the air of a general who has won the first campaign and is preparing for the second. When I was with her I

  thought how preposterous my suspicions had been and how much more sensible Ceha's version of what had happened.

  Ceha and I rode and walked together. We attended church; we did our lessons and I was beginning to master arithmetic rather for her sake than because I had any interest in it, as I wanted her to think she was useful. But I could not take to needlework even for her. We met John Bonington, the new curate, who, as Aunt Martha rather cruelly said, was eaten alive by the Cannon girls. We decorated the church for Easter and attended the three-hour service on Good Friday; we worked for the fete which was held on E
aster Monday and once again Celia proved what a good church worker she was.

  As the weeks passed she was becoming more and more a member of the household. Aunt Martha was constantly talking to her of the past history and glory of the Ashingtons until she was as knowledgeable about the family as any of its members. The idea dawned on me slowly. Celia was pliable; she excelled in those pursuits which pleased Aunt Martha, and she was young enough to have children. Could it really be that Aunt Martha was training her, making her into a possible wife for my father! What a notion! I was being absurdly fanciful.

  Then it seemed to me that Celia was becoming more withdrawn. One day she said to me: "There is really no reason why I should stay here now. I am not educated enough to attempt to educate you. I think I should go."

  "Where would you go to?" I asked.

  "I should find other employment."

  "We like you to be here, Celia."

  She smiled, well pleased, and said no more.

  Every Sunday she and I used to put flowers on my mother's grave. Celia was as anxious to do this as I was and indeed suggested it.

  My father wrote to me again:

  You promised to write to me. Please do. I know your mother did not want us to be in touch. But she has gone now and families should be together. It is my hope that I shall see you one day soon. Perhaps I shall come to England or it may be that you will come and visit me here. This is a very beautiful country. It has

  become home to me. The ancient Sanskrit name for it is Sri Lanka, which means the Resplendent Land and resplendent it is. I have a pleasant house on the plantation with a good garden. You know the English will always have gardens wherever they find themselves. Well, perhaps one day I shall show it to you. Write to me please, Sarah.

  Ralph Ashington

  P.S. You should also know your sister, Clytie. She is excited at the prospect of meeting you.

  I was so pleased with that letter that I answered it immediately, and during the weeks that followed there was a regular correspondence between us.

  I learned a great deal about Ceylon. I used to study it on the maps—a pear-shaped island lying off the coast of India. I found the spot where the plantation was situated somewhere between the capital, Colombo, and Kandy. I could picture it from what I gleaned from my father. The hot sun, the heavy rainfall, which, my father told me, was three times that of London. "It's why we're here," he wrote, "right in the path of two monsoons. The rain gives us our tea . . . that and the hot sun."

  It was becoming clear in my mind.

  Coconuts along the coast, rubber on the ridges and on the higher land the most important of all, tea. It's the lifeblood of the land, Sarah. It has brought work and prosperity and the country needed that after the coffee disaster when leaf disease destroyed the crops and could not be overcome. Of course we have our troubles with tea, but thank God we have been able to overcome them so far. We have other industries too. Our pearl fisheries for one. Some of the most beautiful pearls in the world are found in our waters. I have no doubt you have heard of the Ashington Pearls! Your aunts will have told you of them. They came from Ceylon. We also have emeralds and sapphires and they too are some of the best in the world. But the prosperity of the country hangs on Tea. . . .

  Either my father enjoyed letter writing or he was delighted to have made contact with his daughter at last. He really made me see the country of which he wrote so enthusiastically. I pictured

  the coastal plains, the beaches with their palms, the central mass of mountains which culminated in the awe-inspiring Adam's Peak to which in the past pilgrims had traveled to perform religious rites.

  It is these mountains which are blessed by the people for they have brought fertility to Ceylon. From the mountains the streams come tumbling down to irrigate the land and the rain gives us the precious water. All our fertility is in the western zone because we are in the path of the rains. The rest of the country— the lowlands of the north and east—gets the full force of a merciless sun while we are reveling in the teeming rain. Strange, is it not, in such a small country—only two hundred and seventy miles long and one hundred and forty across. You see, smaller than England. But my dear child, all this you can learn from your geography books. What I am trying to do is to get you to come to Ceylon. . . .

  I learned from him that my sister, Clytie, was married and the mother of a boy of three. As she was only a year older than I she must have been married when she was very young. My father told me that she had married his manager, Seth Blandford, and the little boy was called Ralph after his grandfather.

  "Do you know," I said to Celia, "I'm an aunt. It is astonishing how my family grows about me."

  It was May by now. We were riding through one of the forest paths and it was beautiful. Now and then we came upon clumps of bluebells which seemed to dance in the wind as it ruffled them and changed the sheen of that deep and lovely blue. The trees were ready to burst into leaf and every now and then the cuckoo called as though to remind us that spring was upon us.

  "Sarah," said Celia suddenly. "I can't stay here any longer. It's wrong. I'm not earning my keep. I tried to tell your aunt only yesterday and she wouldn't listen."

  "Stop worrying. Why should you go?"

  She hesitated. Then she said: "There is a possibility that I am going to inherit some money. Oh, not a great deal, but enough for me to live on in comfort."

  "That's wonderful. And when you do, you will want to go."

  "It seems wrong to have used you. When I needed a home . . ."

  "What nonsense. You came to work here. You satisfied us all. Oh, Celia, we shall miss you."

  "Your aunt almost forbade me to speak of it. It was almost as though she had plans for me!"

  I looked at her quizzically. Did she think what I thought?

  "Aunt Martha has plans for everyone," I said. "The trouble with her is that she thinks she can manage everything better than anyone else . . . even when it comes to people's own concems."

  I called her attention to the bluebells and said how I should hke to gather them but they never lasted long and they seemed so much more beautiful growing than they ever could in any other way.

  She agreed and we rode on in silence for a while. I was wondering what it would be like when she left. Perhaps I should go out to Ceylon to see my father. I could not resist talking of him to Celia. I repeated what he had written in his letters and she listened avidly.

  When we returned to the house there was a letter waiting for me and I at once took it to my room to read.

  He was delighted, he told me, because I was so interested in the plantation. His sisters wanted me to finish my education before I came out to him. "They are urging me to come home, which I might well do." I was excited at the prospect.

  It could be arranged. Seth could manage and Clinton Shaw would always help in a crisis. I must have mentioned Clinton Shaw. [He had not.] He owns the plantation neighboring on mine. It's a small country and the fertile section is in one area, so we have to make the most of the rich land. We help each other in an emergency. Clinton is quite a character. Some people call him the King of Kandy. It is people such as he who really set an industry like this working. He's ruthless, of course. He's got his critics, but he and I have an understanding. I really am thinking of coming home for a while. They tell me out here that I should . . . to see a doctor. But my main purpose would be to meet my daughter. I expect you have changed a lot since you were twol

  I was excited. I wanted to talk about this possibility and naturally it was to Celia.

  I couldn't find her in the house and I went out down the drive

  > >*

  Footsteps in the Dark 109

  and through the gates. I paused by the lych-gate and went into the graveyard. Celia was kneehng by my mother's grave.

  I went to her swiftly and quietly. She looked up at me with surprise. She had a small pair of scissors in her hand and had snipped a sprig from the bush she had planted.

  "What is tha
t?" I asked.

  She turned her expressionless eyes on me and said: "Don't you know? You're very ignorant about plants, Sarah. Perhaps that's something I could have taught you. It's rosemary.''

  " 'Rosemary,'" I quoted, " 'that's for remembrance.

  She smiled. "Trust you to know your poetry better than your botany." She slipped the scissors into her pocket and stood up clutching the rosemary.

  Together we walked to the house.

  *Tou were very fond of my mother," I said.

  "She was important to me," she answered. "I shall never forget her."

  A shock awaited us next morning.

  Celia did not appear for breakfast. Breakfast was the one meal for which there was no set time. One helped oneself from the sideboard from seven-thirty until nine. The aunts usually breakfasted together at eight o'clock. Celia and I had made a habit of taking ours half an hour earlier. Celia, I was sure, would not diverge from this custom unless something unusual happened. I ate some toast, drank some coffee and went to her room.

  Her bed was neatly made and I realized it had not been slept in and that her case was missing. I opened the cupboard door. Empty. Then I saw the notes propped up on the table. One was addressed to me, the other to Aunt Martha.

  I slit the envelope.

  Dear Sarah,

  I am leaving, I thought it best to do it this way as I know you will all so kindly try to persuade me to stay. I cannot do that. You have all been so good to me when I needed help. I no longer do, so I am leaving. Thank you for your forbearance. When I have a permanent address I will send it to you in case you want to keep in touch.

  Affectionately, Celia

  I could not believe it. To go like that! But why? I knew that Aunt Martha was insisting that she must stay, but even Aunt Martha could not have made her do so if she didn't want to. Celia was the sort of girl who hated to deny people uhat they wanted. She would find it hard to say no, so she had chosen this way.

  I remembered how she had knelt by my mother's grave. She had really cared about her and in my mother's last days had brought to her that adulation for which she had craved. Of course it was for her sake that she had wanted to stay and now she was dead there was no point in remaining.