The Spring of the Tiger

by Victoria Holt

  He prepared to help me mount.

  "I don't really need help, you know," I said.

  "But I must be gallant and offer it."

  "I am surprised that you should feel that."

  "I thought I had to make a good impression after my conduct last night," he said as we rode out of the stables. "To force myself into a young lady's bedroom when I had only met her a few hours before was not what could be called conduct becoming."

  "So you really have learned that. It's a good beginning."

  "You see, from whence I come we do not have much dealing with well-brought-up English misses. It makes for a certain crudity. We do have the occasional ladies from home—wives of fellow planters, et cetera. There is a club in Kandy and another in Colombo so we mix with polite society now and then. We work hard though and there is not often the time to go into town. There is a dearth of young English ladies. That is why those of us who are interested in them have to come home to meet them."

  "And you are interested because of your search, of course."

  "I have an idea that it is at an end."

  "You have done well. Why, it was only yesterday that it had begun, I thought."

  "It could have begun much earlier. You see, when the ship leaves Colombo it carries with it people returning home. Travel-

  ing by ship through tropical waters is very pleasant. . . very conducive to romance."

  "I see. You found your wife on the voyage home."

  "Shall we say I have found the wife I want."

  "And shall I say congratulations, for I presume you had only to make your selection known and she fell at your feet in a swoon of gratitude."

  "A figure of speech, of course," he said lightly. "Grateful she will be. Swoon? No. She is not the swooning type. I am glad. I should have found that excessively boring."

  "Hartshorn is very good, you know. Perhaps I could give you some as a wedding present."

  "I shall want something better than that . . . from you." I spuned my horse slightly and went forward. I wanted a little respite from him and his innuendoes.

  He was soon beside me.

  "What do you do in the ancient Grange?"

  "Do? What do you mean? I live there."

  "What is life like with the estimable aunts?"

  "As it is in such places all over the country, I don't doubt. There are certain estate matters to look after. Aunt Martha is good at that. And there is a manager. Then there are the local good works. We have a church which, like all churches, is in constant need of repair and it is the mission of the village to preserve it."

  "I understand perfectly. I was brought up in a house just like that. I had three brothers and I am the youngest. So you can't tell me much about village life that I don't know."

  "I believe there must be little anyone could tell you which you don't know ... at least in your own opinion. Therefore it is rather a waste of time telling you anything."

  "There are some subjects on which I am not all-knowing and I should, of course, like to be put right on those. Yourself, for instance. Of course I know who you are. I even remember your mother very vaguely. I was out there visiting my uncle on the plantation which later I inherited. I went out finally when I was twenty. There was a certain amount of gossip among the servants

  when your mother left. I was about twelve then. One is quite aware at twelve."

  "I imagine you were bom . . . aware."

  ''Not quite, but I quickly achieved awareness. Listening at keyholes, trapping servants into betraying secrets . . ."

  'Very unpleasant traits."

  "But what could you expect, eh?"

  I did not answer and he went on: "You can imagine the talk. *I told you so!' That was the theme. They were all saying it from the secretary of the club to the humblest plucker. Your father had not always been the wisest of men. He was very sad after she left him and he let things slide. You can't afford to do that in tea. He was lucky to have my uncle close at hand and then afterwards, when I inherited, me. Well, it's an old story now. No point in looking back. It's what's to come that concerns us."

  "Tell me about his illness."

  "You have seen for yourself. They can't treat it as it should be treated out there. That's why he's come home. I don't know what the verdict is going to be but it's not going to be good. That much I gathered from the doctor in Ceylon."

  "We must wait and see. It was good of you to concern yourself," I said grudgingly.

  "We're neighbors. Besides . . ." Then he shrugged his shoulders and although I waited he did not pursue the subject.

  We rode side by side in silence for a few moments. We had come into the thicket. There was a mist which gave an atmosphere of mystery to the forest. It was like wispy cloud encircling the topmost branches of the trees, which now, denuded of their leaves, took on strange fantastic shapes. I think I liked the trees more in winter than summer even. I could weave all sorts of fantasies from their strange shapes.

  "This is pleasant," he said suddenly. "Do you know when I have sweltered in the heat and the rain has teemed down unceasingly I've dreamed of England. Mostly of the spring though. But now I don't think anything could be as pleasant as riding through the autumn woods."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "And there is no one I'd rather ride with than you. Are you glad to hear that too?"

  "I'm surprised more than glad.'*

  "Oh come, Sarah, you are asking for compliments."

  "I meant that I was surprised you should stoop to flattery. You had led me to believe that was quite outside your range."

  "It is. I meant it. I am very glad to find you, Sarah, just as I would have you be."

  We had come to a clearing which I knew well and I broke into a canter. He was quickly beside me. I had the advantage of him because I knew the forest well. I had a great desire to give him the slip. It would be rather amusing for him to be lost in the forest. I turned off on a path. I knew I should come right out into the open soon which would give me an opportunity to gallop.

  The forest, which had been made by William the Conqueror to provide him with good hunting ground, was in parts, just as it had been in the days of that monarch; but some places had been cleared over the centuries and little villages had sprung up like oases in the desert. The forest covered about fifty miles in all. "It is the easiest place to get lost in," Aunt Martha had warned me when I first came. I knew the part of it near the Grange fairly well but I had been surprised how easy it was on misty days to lose my way. To people unsure of their bearings each tree looks remarkably like another and they could be easily tricked into wandering around in circles.

  For him to be lost in the forest would be a first lesson in humility.

  I broke into a gallop. We reached the village—a maze of little byways. I turned a corner. Ahead of me was a dense patch of bushy firs tall enough to hide a rider. I slipped into it before he had turned the corner so he wouldn't have seen me. I hid my horse and myself among the trees. I was just in time, for a few seconds later I heard him go thundering by.

  I laughed inwardly. "Come on, Cherrybim," I said to my horse, "we've thrown him off."

  Quietly I rode back the way we had come.

  It was a short-lived triumph. I might have known he would not

  be so easily duped. He had quickly discovered my ruse and turned back. Before I could hide myself again he was beside me.

  "I always enjoyed a game of hide and seek," he said.

  "I went to look at the firs," I told him. "They are particularly green and glistening this year. I think it means a bad winter."

  He made no comment but there was a look about his mouth which told me I should be hard put to it to play tricks on him again.

  We rode through the forest for about an hour. Then I remarked that we should turn homeward. It would be dark before five and the mist would mean that it would be even earlier than usual.

  We came past the railway station, which was about a mile from the Grange, and I sugges
ted that we take the short cut through the forest.

  "It's not dark yet," he said, "and won't be for another hour. Let's go a little farther into the forest."

  Feeling rather foolish after having been so easily caught in my attempt to escape from him, which was rather mean since he was a guest and there was no need for me to be ill-mannered just because he was, I agreed.

  We had gone a little way when we came to the cottage. It was rather charming, set in the woods there.

  "Who lives here?" he asked.

  "It's empty just now," I replied. "It belongs to the estate. It's too far from the house to use for servants. It was let to some people for the summer. They plan to let it again next summer."

  "It's rather charming. Let's have a look at it."

  It was a pretty little cottage. Virginia creeper grew over the walls and the leaves were now their rich autumn red.

  "How quiet it is!" he said. "Listen!"

  We stood together and I felt a sudden excitement. I was enjoying this. I was a little apprehensive. I wanted to know what he would do next.

  "Shall we see if it's occupied?" he asked.

  "It isn't. I remember Aunt Martha's mentioning it. It's called Parrot Cottage. Someone who lived here long ago had a parrot.

  He was an old seafaring man and the parrot used to call out strange things which echoed through the woods."

  He was peering through the window. "Yes, it's empty," he said. He walked around the house. "Sarah," he called, "there's an open window here. I'm going to get through. Come on."

  Surprising myself, I went, though resenting his peremptory command.

  "Shall I open the front door for you, my discreet and proper young lady? Then you won't have to climb through."

  "Yes," I said, "open the front door."

  "Your wishes shall be respected," he replied mockingly.

  I went around to the front of the cottage and a few moments later was inside. It was very small. There were two rooms downstairs with a sort of small kitchen from which rose a staircase to a room upstairs which ran from one end of the cottage to the other. The roof sloped and there were two small lattice windows at either end.

  "I believe the old salt and his parrot were very happy here," said Clinton Shaw.

  I started down the stairs. I had the feeling that I did not want to stay here with him. The cottage was too confined. It seemed to bring us too close together.

  "Be careful," he said, "those stairs could be dangerous."

  He had caught my arm and my uneasiness increased. I disengaged myself as we reached the lower floor.

  "I think the staircase is sound enough," I said. "In any case before it is let again I suppose it will be overhauled."

  "Naturally," he replied. "I am enjoying this. Quite an adventure, isn't it?"

  "Adventure? Hardly as stirring as that implies."

  "I find it stirring," he insisted. "Imagine all that has happened within these walls. How long has it stood here? Two hundred years, I'll guess. Think of all that could have happened in two hundred years." He came closer to me. "Think of all that will happen in the years to come."

  "The same applies to every house."

  "I feel something special about this one, do you?"

  "No."

  "That's not true. Your eyes tell me. I know what it is. You and I are looking at the house together. Doesn't that seem significant to you?"

  "Not in the least. What it means to me is that you and I were riding in the forest, saw an empty cottage and decided to look at it." I turned to the door.

  He laid a hand on my arm. "One quick look. There's a wood-house just outside. Just a peep . . . then we'll go."

  He unbolted the back door and went to the wood-house. There were logs there, evidently stored by the last occupant and not worthy of being taken away.

  "Prudent people," commented Clinton Shaw. "Determined to be warm. Snug though here. Protected from the wind by all those trees. But damp . . . decidedly damp."

  I started to laugh. "You sound like a prospective tenant."

  He laughed with me. "Do you know I've taken quite a fancy to the place."

  "It's getting darker," I said. I felt a sudden need to get away. Suddenly the cottage had become sinister. He was standing between me and the door, watching me. I could have almost panicked in those moments.

  It was stupid of me for when I stepped toward the door he made no effort to detain me. I stepped out into the forest. He bolted the door from the inside and came out by way of the window.

  "We leave everything just as we found it," he commented.

  "Shouldn't you shut the window too?"

  "The bolt's broken. That's why it was open. Besides, I might want to have another look. You never know."

  "You are taken with the place."

  "I see its possibilities. Yes, I have taken a liking to it. . . . The garden's overgrown," he went on. He was in no hurry to leave. He walked around the cottage. There was about a quarter of an acre of overgrown shrubs at the back before it merged into the forest.

  "Foxgloves everywhere," he said. "Look!" He stopped and picked a spray of leaves. "So pretty when the flowers come. Pretty and deadly. Did you know they were called Dead Men's Bells?"

  "No. But I did know they contain poison."

  "They are used medicinally and have been of great use to doctors. Odd that they should give life . . . and death. But then, my dear Sarah, you will agree with me that nothing in this life is all bad ... or all good for that matter. Look at those yews over there. I reckon they have stood there for hundreds of years. Rather beautiful, don't you think? Yet I wonder how many deaths they have been responsible for. Did you know that the leaves and the seeds contain taxine, which is about as deadly a poison as you could find anywhere?"

  "You seem to have made a study of poisons."

  "In a manner of speaking, yes. When I was very young I had a tutor and it was a passion with him. We did more botany than anything else. I learned that the most beautiful plants were the most deadly. Larkspur for instance—what a beautiful flower! But the seeds and the foliage can kill. They contain delphine—another deadly poison."

  "Very useful knowledge."

  "Very. In Ceylon, of course, there are different plants . . . equally deadly. Perhaps more so. The old Kandyan kings were experts at mixing the most deadly poisons. They had the variety which could impregnate gloves, boots. . . garments of any sort. A little prick of the skin and that was the end. It's all very interesting I assure you."

  "But not the kind of knowledge one can put to use in the ordinary way of life, except of course . . ."

  We were standing in the garden rather close and I was deeply aware of the stillness all about us. I had a sudden feeling of apprehension. Later I began to think it was a premonition.

  I shivered almost imperceptibly, but not quite, for he noticed.

  "You're cold," he said. His voice had changed. It was almost tender and for some reason he moved me in a strange way. It was as though he were casting some spell over me.

  "Come on," he said. "We'll go. It'll soon be dark. Do you want to be lost in the forest?"

  "It could hardly happen to me," I said. "I know my way."

  "It's always a good thing to know your way," he replied. He put an arm about me and as I moved away from him he laughed.

  I quickened my pace and we reached the horses. We mounted and rode back to the house.

  The next day the brougham took us to the station and we went by train to Liverpool Street station, from where we took a cab to Harley Street.

  Chnton Shaw and I sat in the waiting room for two hours. I thought my father was never coming out. We did not talk much. At least he realized that I did not want that. In fact he seemed to have changed from that brash and arrogant man who had made such a deep impression on me that I could not get him out of my mind.

  At length we were summoned to the consulting room.

  My father was not there.

  "He is lying in the next room,"
said the doctor. "The examination has been exhausting for him."

  The doctor knew Clinton Shaw, for he, it seemed, had ananged this consultation, and it was he who had introduced me as the patient's daughter.

  "I have grave news for you, Fm afraid," said the specialist. "His lungs are in a bad state. He can't live for more than six weeks . . . two months at the most."

  I caught my breath. Misery overwhelmed me. So I had found my father only to lose him.

  Clinton Shaw, who was sitting very close to me, took my hand and pressed it. For the first time I was grateful to him for being there.

  "He is going to need very special treatment which it is impossible for him to have in a private home," went on the doctor. "I am therefore having him sent to my own nursing home, where I can keep him under observation. I think you should know that there is small hope of improvement. But we shall do our best and there have been discoveries lately. Who knows . . . But I think you should reconcile yourself. Miss Ashington, that there is very little we can do for him except see that he does not endure great pain and that his last days are as comfortable as we can make them."

  I bowed my head. "Shall we be able to see him . . . ?"

  "As often as you wish. The nursing home is not far from here. I

  assure you it is the best possible place for him and he could not have better attention anywhere than he will get there. He is philosophical. I think he has known for some time that he cannot live long."

  I stood up. Clinton Shaw was beside me. He took my arm and together we went to my father.

  It was not as difficult as I had feared and I believe it had something to do with Clinton Shaw's being there. I had to show some courage in front of him. My grief had made me vulnerable and I did not want him to see that.

  My father was smiling. He was going to the nursing home, he knew. In fact, I had an idea that he had expected something like this to happen.

  "I shall come often," I said.

  "Dear Sarah, that will make me very happy."

  It was not long before the carriage came to take him. We accompanied him and saw him comfortably settled in a pleasant room. Clinton Shaw left us together for a while and we talked as brightly as we could. He was, I think, more intent on cheering me than worried about himself. Clinton Shaw came back with books and papers which he had bought, and then it was time for us to leave.