I was silent during the journey; he sat opposite me, watching me compassionately.
We had the carriage to ourselves and I was glad of it. Just as we came into Epleigh station he leaned forward and touched my hand.
"You were wonderful," he said.
I felt my lips trembling and turned away.
It is amazing how quickly one accepts a situation and how a change of routine soon becomes the normal one.
I traveled frequently to London to see my father—almost every other day. Now and then one of the aunts—or both of them— came, and sometimes Clinton Shaw traveled with me. He was not staying at the Grange all the time, although his room was kept for him when he wished to come down. He had taken rooms in a hotel in London where he conducted his business. Sometimes I
met him, after I had visited my father, and we traveled back together.
The aunts had been shaken by my father's illness. To Aunt Martha it seemed a personal affront that she should have made such plans for him and been frustrated.
She had dreamed of entertaining lavishly, inviting local families with eligible daughters. Everything went wrong with her plans. My mother had died conveniently and left the way clear; then Celia had acted in a very unpredictable manner and gone away. She had written from a hotel in Southampton to say she was going abroad for a while with a cousin and she would write again when she returned to England giving us an address. Our friendship had been too close for us to lose touch like ships that pass in the night. But Aunt Martha was disappointed in her. My father home at last ... in her power, and since Celia had defected she was determined to find a marriageable girl for him. And what happened! He became ill—so ill that it was clear he could not marry again, much less beget a son whose wife would wear the Ashing-ton Pearls. It sounded rather like the House that Jack Built, and I could have laughed had I been in a laughing mood.
My plans, no less than Aunt Martha's, had gone awry. I had made up my mind as soon as I heard that my father was coming home that I would go back to Ceylon with him when he went. And now it seemed as though he never would go back.
Yet how could one think beyond that terrible doom which was gradually overtaking us.
But for Clinton Shaw I should have been deeply distressed and unhappy, but there was something in my very animosity towards him which made me take an interest in life. I couldn't help it, but when I scored over him in our battles of words I would feel a certain elation. He took my mind off the misery of seeing my father slowly fade away.
Sometimes I traveled up to London alone—although Aunt Martha did not think this was quite right, but the journey by train was not long and the brougham was always waiting when I arrived at Epleigh. She was pleased, however, when Chnton Shaw accompanied me.
"He is a friend of your father's and therefore suitable to escort
you," she said. I wondered what her verdict would be if she really knew what he was like.
Whenever he did appear I managed to look faintly displeased. I would not admit that if he did not join me I felt faintly disappointed. I rather suspect he saw through my deception.
This brings me to that fateful day which was to change my life. It was December. The snow had come early this year. It was going to be a hard winter, everyone said. Mrs. Lamb pointed out that there were three times the number of berries on the bushes this year. Nature's way of providing for the birds through a long hard winter.
When I left in my strong boots and sealskin jacket with muff and hat to match. Aunt Mabel was in the hall, where a big fire was crackling away.
"I should leave London a little earlier than usual," she said. "Martha was saying that she thought you ought not to go till the weather's better."
"I'll be all right," I replied quickly. "He'd be so disappointed if I didn't go. It's not snowing now. The thaw will set in, you see."
I hurried off. I did not want a tussle with Aunt Martha as to whether I should or should not go.
The weather was better in London, as it always is. The pavements had been swept clear of the snow and the traffic seemed to dispose of that in the roads. There were little heaps of it on the edge of the pavements and that was all.
I saw my father, who seemed slightly better, and my spirits rose. The doctor might be wrong and he had admitted that there might be some discovery which would cure him.
My father was delighted to see me. He had feared the weather might keep me away, but I said—not very truthfully—that it was not so bad in Epleigh.
"The trees provide a barrier to the wind," he said.
Clinton Shaw came to the nursing home that afternoon.
"I thought I should travel back with you," he said, "to make sure you're safe and sound. I'm surprised that your aunts let you come out on a day like this."
"Aunt Mabel tried to prevent me. I slipped away before Aunt Martha appeared."
"Wise strategy. It's going to be a wild night. You should be thankful that you have me to look after you."
"The brougham will be waiting for me at the station."
"If it can get there."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh nothing. . . just that it's going to be a rough night."
Owing to the weather, the train was late on leaving and as we puffed out of London the snow was falling fast. Darkness had long descended for it was now nearly seven o'clock. We were going to be very late back. I wondered whether the aunts would be anxious. They would understand about the bad weather, of course, and they would think that I had stayed at the nursing home, which I could have done if it was thought too bad to come back.
"Seems to be quite a blizzard," said Clinton Shaw. He seemed very little perturbed. In fact, he might have been rather pleased about it.
The train came to a standstill after we had been going for half an hour.
"Evidently a blockage on the line," said Clinton Shaw. He opened the window intending to look out but the snow immediately came into the carriage so he shut the window quickly and resumed his seat.
"We are going to be very late," he said. "What will the aunts think?"
"In the first place Aunt Mabel will say 'I told you so.' She did say I shouldn't have gone today. Then they will presume that I am spending the night at the nursing home."
"Being sensible ladies they will accept the inevitable without fuss."
"I daresay they will."
"How fortunate that I decided to accompany you."
"I daresay I could have managed by myself. After all there is nothing to do but sit here and wait. When I get to the station the brougham will be waiting for me . . . late as I am. So all will be well."
"Still, you must admit that at times like this a little company is pleasant."
He was smiling a little secretively. I could almost believe that he had arranged the snov''. My thoughts went on in ridiculous imaginings. Witches were said to arouse storms at sea. He was perhaps a sorcerer who could create a snowstorm. Why? What was the point? He certainly looked like a sorcerer.
He was watching me intently. I had an idea that he was trying to read my thoughts. He began to talk about Ceylon and the life there and how exciting it was to be caught in a snowstorm. He would take back memories of it when he went. I asked how long he intended to stay.
"Until my business is accomplished," he said enigmatically.
*'Did you plan to marry here?" I asked.
*'Oh yes, I shall take my wife back with me."
"Is she happy about leaving England?"
"I rather think she is anxious to."
"Do you think she will settle there happily?"
"Of course. She will be with me."
"That should make up for anything she has left behind, I am sure."
"How clearly you see it. I am glad you do."
"I suppose you see a great deal of her."
He nodded, smiling.
"Is she in London?"
"Frequently."
"Perhaps I shall meet her."
He nodded again. The tr
ain gave a jerk. "We're off," he said.
It must have been nearly nine o'clock when we came into Ep-leigh station. It was no longer snowing.
We were the only two who alighted from the train. The porter, Jack Wall, was on the platform. He looked surprised to see us.
"Why, Miss Ashington," he said. "They wasn't expecting you."
"Not expecting me!"
"No. This is the only train running and it'll be the last tonight. I'm just off home. Good thing I live nearby."
"The brougham . . ."
"Couldn't get here, miss. The roads are something shocking. The coachman from the Grange walked down to ask about the trains. I told him many of them had been canceled and he said:
'Reckon Miss Ashington will stay at the nursing home.' Even a dog wouldn't go out on a day like this, miss, unless he had to."
I was aware of Clinton Shaw beside me and I had to admit that I really was glad that he was there.
'"What can we do?" I asked.
''We can get to the house," he said. "It's not all that far."
*' 'Tis the only thing, miss," said the porter. "I'm off now. I was just waiting to see the train in. It'll go into a siding now ... till things get better."
"Come," said Clinton Shaw, "we'll get started."
We said good night to Jack Wall.
"Be careful of the road," he warned us. "It's freezing some places. And mind the drifts."
Clinton Shaw took my arm. "We'll take the short cut through the forest," he said. "It'll be easier that way. More sheltered from the wind and the path will be less treacherous. Good thing I have my walking stick. It's useful at times like this."
It was long and sturdy-looking, quite thick, and I could see useful. It had a silver band around the top and he used it a good deal when walking.
The cold air was invigorating and the scene was quite beautiful for there was a half-moon which was visible every now and then as the wind sent the snow clouds scurrying across the sky. We went toward the forest and as we reached it the snow started to fall again.
My sealskin coat was a good protection against the wind and my hands were warm in my muff. CHnton Shaw held my arm firmly and we plowed on.
There was stillness in the forest, in spite of the intermittent gusts of wind. It was eerie in that intense whiteness occasionally hghted by the glow of the moon.
It was a different place from the forest I knew so well—quite unfamiliar. It had been a good idea to seek the shelter of the trees for not only were we protected from the biting wind but we had no drifts to contend with.
Struggling from tree to tree watching with the utmost care where we trod was a slow process. Even so we seemed to be a long time in coming to the house.
Suddenly Clinton Shaw stood still. "Where are we?" he asked.
I looked about. I really could not say. It had not occurred to me that I could be lost in that part of the forest which was so near the Grange. I wondered how long we had been walking but I could not get at the watch which was pinned on my bodice. I looked about me helplessly.
"Everything looks so diflFerent/' I said. "We must be quite near the Grange though."
"Let's go this way," said Clinton Shaw. "The trees are thinning a bit."
I stumbled and he caught me, holding me tightly for a moment.
"I thank God," he said, "that I decided to come with you today. What would you have done without me?"
"I should have gone to the house by myself. Or I could have sent Jack Wall to tell them I was there."
"I am sure you would have been resourceful. Still, I'm glad. Now this should be the Grange through here."
It was not the Grange, but there was a familiarity about it. There was a path. We took it, and before us, its roof covered in snow, was Parrot Cottage.
Clinton Shaw laughed triumphantly. "At least we know where
we are."
"We're some way from the Grange."
"I think we should stay here."
"Stay here!"
"For a rest. To get our bearings. We've been going around in circles. Do you realize that we're farther away from the Grange than when we entered the forest? At least we'll have shelter here. I'll get through the window."
I knew there was sense in what he was saying and yet it was as though there was a warning in the icy air. If I entered Parrot Cottage something was going to happen. Fate was at my elbow urging me to make a choice.
I admonished myself for my folly. What harm could there be in resting for a while? I was cold and tired . . . more so than I had realized.
He was at the door of the cottage drawing me in. The decision
had been made for me. He shut the door with a bang and shook the snow off himself.
"A Httle warmer in here. What a walk! You all right?" He put a hand on my cheek. "You're frozen! I tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to bring in some of those logs from outside and hght a fire."
"Light a fire! We shall only be here until we've rested. We mustn't stay too long. We shall be so late."
"My dear Sarah," he said, "do you realize that there's a blizzard blowing outside? Do you realize that we could not find our way through the forest? We've kept going—but we've had enough. We've found shelter. We'd be mad not to make use of it. If we leave here and go stumbling through the forest we'll be lost. We'd have to rest. We'd get covered with snow and be frozen to death. There's a touching stor)' called Babes in the Wood. Remind me to tell you it when we have more time. Now, a fire. Just think how marvelous that would be. There are logs out there. We saw them, didn't we? Who knows, there might be candles. I'm going to look."
I followed him to the wood-house. The logs were still there.
"Look!" he cried. "The gods are on our side. That's a lantern. It's got a candle in it." He took a box of matches from his pocket and we had a light. "Good! There's a box here. I wonder what's inside. Eureka! Rugs, Several of them. My dear Sarah, this is an adventure. Don't pick them up. You'll make them wet. Let's get a fire lighted and dry ourselves off."
He carried in the logs and I was surprised how quickly he got a fire going. I was caught up in the excitement. It was wonderful to see the flames leaping in the old grate and I began to feel warmer. Now I realized how exhausting our walk had been and that he was right about the folly of attempting to reach the Grange. We needed a rest.
We sat on the floor by the fire. He was close to me and I noticed how his eyes gleamed in the firelight and that there was a deepened color in his usually brown skin.
I took off my woolen gloves and held my hands out to the fire. He did the same. I looked at our four hands; his were large, square
capable hands. He was decidedly capable. He knew just how to handle a situation like this.
*'When we're drier we'll get the rugs in/' he said. "I wonder how many there are. Seemed quite a few there."
"I wonder why they were left behind. They must be damp."
"Perhaps not. The box seemed quite strong and weatherproof. Ready? Let's go and get them."
There were four woolen rugs rolled up tightly. We brought them in.
"They're dry," he said. "Take off your coat and boots because they must be saturated."
I obeyed and wrapped myself in one of the rugs. He was right about my boots. They were very wet and, strong as they were, the snow had penetrated.
I took off my stockings for my feet were wet. He had removed his coat and boots and had taken one of the rugs and we sat squatting on the floor.
"Like two Red Indians," he said. "This must have been how it felt round the campfire. Are you hungry?"
"No," I answered. "Food's the last thing I'm thinking of. I had tea and fruitcake at the nursing home before I left as well as a big luncheon."
"Good. Food is one thing I can't offer. But I do have something." He reached for the walking stick, which was lying on the floor nearby. I watched him with interest as he unscrewed the top. He held it out to me. It was like a small cup. He tipped up the stick and gold-colored liquid t
rickled out.
"This will warm you," he said.
"What is it?"
"Whiskey. This stick is hollow. It makes a good container. Very useful in emergencies."
"Thank you. I don't care for whiskey."
"You need it. It'll warm you. It'll stave off that chill which you will very likely get if you don't take some precaution against it."
I took the cup and swallowed the draught. It burned my throat. He looked at me steadily. "There," he said. "You feel better."
I coughed a little. "It burns," I said.
"Come along. You must have another. This vessel holds scarcely more than one swallow."
'Thank you, but I'd rather not."
*'Now, Sarah, this is purely medicinal." He held out the full cup to me. "It'll warm you. You must be warmed. What you should have is a hot bath and get into a warm bed. I'm afraid Parrot Cottage cannot oflFer such amenities. Never mind. This is the next best thing."
Almost as though mesmerized I took the cup. I did feel the warmth flooding over me. It was good after the cold. I drank the second cup.
He was smiling at me, I watched him drink several cups of the liquid.
"That's better," he said. "You feel better, Sarah?"
*'I feel a little strange."
"Of course," he said soothingly. "What a night it has been and it is only just beginning."
"What!" I cried. My voice sounded strange, far away. Something was telling me that now I was warmer I ought to go. I stood up. The room seemed to be slowly circling round. For a moment I thought I was going to fall. Then he was there. He caught me and held me against him. He was laughing at me.
"It's the whiskey," I said.
He gripped me tightly; my head was bent back and his lips were on mine, kissing me as I had never realized people kissed before. I tried to escape but I couldn't. Then I was still and that seemed to please him.
The Spring of the Tiger Page 15