"You're going to get well," I said firmly, "and I shall take you back to Ceylon. I shall be too busy nursing you to think of marrying. . . ."
He shook his head. "We know the facts, Sarah. Let's look them in the face. I shall never go back to Ceylon. You must go though ... go with Clinton."
Clinton came to the nursing home. He was going back to the Grange for a day or so, he said. He was lucky to be able to stay with good friends in the country for a respite after strenuous meetings with the agents.
'"They are as hard as ever, I suppose," said my father.
''Harder! They are trying to grab all the profit that comes from tea for themselves."
When we were alone in the railway carriage he came, sat beside me and put an arm about my shoulders.
"I've missed you," he said. "Shall we make the announcement when we get to the Grange?"
I did not answer. I could not because he had caught me to him and was giving me those savage kisses which made speech impossible.
"It will be wonderful," he said at last. "I promise you, and it will be legal. . . just think of that!"
"I haven't agreed."
"You're going to . . . tonight."
"When one marries shouldn't one be in love?"
"It depends on what you mean by love."
"I should have thought the definition was clear enough."
"Love!" he mused. "The most alluring project in the world. Love of the body . . . love of the soul. . . . Profane and sacred love. My body you know and love, dear Sarah. My soul is a mystery and that is something you will discover gradually. There is little more exciting than a voyage of discovery . . . unless it is love such as we knew . . . you and I together."
"You took advantage of an unusual situation."
"That's the way to live, Sarah. Always take advantage of unusual situations. What is it going to be . . . that enthralling life with me, that voyage of discovery ... or shall you stay here? The Misses Cannon will find you very useful, I am sure, and the church roof will undoubtedly profit. You might even find someone to marry you. You will have to keep it secret that you spent the most exciting night of your life with your true love in Parrot Cottage."
"I refuse to listen to such nonsense."
"And I shall tell Aunt Martha that we are going to be married
and I shall go this very evening to see the Reverend Cannon about the banns."
I did not answer. I withdrew farther from him and sat clasping my hands. I was trembling with excitement. I listened to the motion of the train: Going to marry him. Going to marry him. Yes, yes, yes, going to marry him.
I thought: I am. Yes, I am. It's wrong, I know, but I am going to marry him.
I think Aunt Martha was rather relieved. Aunt Mabel certainly was. In her eyes it was the only proper solution and Aunt Martha was deluding herself that she would be able to persuade him to change his name to Ashington. Before the year was out I would have a son and before the aunts passed away they would see that son with a wife and her portrait could be painted wearing the Ashington Pearls. Then the aunts, mission completed, could say nunc dimittis and depart in peace. They ignored the fact that my father's elder daughter, Clytie, had a son who would come before mine. But his name was not Ashington and Aunt Martha clearly believed she could sweep aside that obstacle.
I wondered about the fabulous heirloom. In the excitement of all that had happened I had not mentioned the pearls to my father. I presumed they were in Ceylon as my mother had been painted there wearing the necklace.
The banns were read and I am sure there was a sigh of relief in the vicarage because the rather unsavory matter of my night in the forest had come to the most suitable conclusion. Effie Cannon, herself to be a bride before long, was to be my bridesmaid and the doctor was to give me away. It was to be a simple ceremony and I was glad because I was filled with misgivings as the day drew nearer. There were times when I asked myself what I thought I was doing. It was as though my senses and my good sense were fighting a battle together. On the night before my wedding I was really afraid.
What do you know of him? I asked myself. The answer was very little. Then why, why?
I only knew that he overwhelmed me, that he aroused passions within me which overcame everything else. That was when he was
with me; it was when he was not there that I could not understand myself. Just because of that night in the cottage! Well, it had taught me something and that was that if he went back to Ceylon without me I should be filled with regrets and longings for the rest of my life. Did I want to stay here and become like one of the Cannon girls? Perhaps I was as conventional as my aunts and deep down in my heart I believed that because of what happened between us I belonged to him in some way and that event must affect the rest of my life. He made me feel that too. It was part of his strategy.
And so I had come as far as this.
My wedding day arrived. Even as I stood at the altar I seemed to hear a warning voice inside me. "Wilt thou take this man to be thy wedded husband . . . ?" asked the Reverend Peter Cannon, and I wanted to shout: No. It's a mistake. Let me get out of here and think again.
And yet had it been possible to stop the ceremony I would not have done so.
We were signing the register; we were walking down the aisle, I on his arm. I was aware of the faces in the pews. Everyone in the neighborhood had come out to see me married. The servants were at the back of the church. I caught sight of Mrs. Lamb with Ellen beside her and I could imagine what they were saying: "Well, 'twas only right and proper after what happened. . . ."
Somewhere at the back of my mind was the same thought Right and proper.
There was a reception at the Grange. He had arranged that. "You are too good to us," he had told Aunt Martha. "Pray leave this to me."
Aunt Martha protested that it was for the bride's family to provide the reception.
"You are too worldly to be governed by what others have done in the past, I am sure," was his comment.
She had turned away with that twitching of the lips which indicated pleasure.
So there was champagne and delicious foods which he had had sent down from Fortnum & Masons. The servants wouldn't like
that, I knew. "So we're not good enough!" I could imagine their saying. "It has to come from London, does it?"
Soon I would be free of all that.
When the guests had gone he and I walked in the forest. I was quiet and so was he. He had changed; he had become tender and loving. He told me I was never going to regret having married him. So convincing was he that for a time I believed him.
We went back to the Grange. Aunt Martha had given us what she called the bridal suite, which had been occupied by Ashington brides and grooms for two hundred years.
I remembered my mother's telling me about it. "A great gloomy room," she said, "full of ghosts. Brides who had been forced to marry most likely. There was a story of one who jumped out of the window to her death the moment the bridegroom entered the bedroom."
Clinton shut the door and turned to me. Then he lifted me in his arms and sat me on the bed.
"More to your taste, my love, than the hard floor of Parrot Cottage."
"And yours, no doubt?"
"Parrot Cottage was a paradise on that night."
"You are not a stranger to that kind of paradise, I imagine."
He put his face close to mine and laughed at me. "Dear Sarah, you will not be a jealous wife, will you?"
"Jealous... of you! Of course not."
"That's good. Jealous women are such a bore."
"Men, too, I suppose."
He kissed me. "You mustn't change, Sarah. You must always chastise me with your tongue. You must go on hating and loving me. I can take the mixture all the time."
He started to undo my dress.
"I will do that," I said.
"Hurry then or I shall feel bound to assist."
There was no doubt of my feeling for him. When I lay in his arms he told me he loved me,
that I pleased him beyond all women, and if it struck me that it was not quite fitting for a husband to compare his bride with other women on their wedding
night, I did not say so. I accepted it. I accepted him. I could forget everything when we were together like this.
I could almost delude myself into believing that I loved him.
The next day we went to see my father. He was delighted that we were manied.
"Now," he said, "I shan't worry about you anymore, Sarah."
"Were you worried?"
"I can imagine what life was like with your aunts. Not much fun for a young girl. Clinton will take you to Ceylon. How I wish I could be there!"
We drank champagne in his room. I was worried that it might not be good for him and when I was told by the sister that it could do him no harm, I was saddened because I knew she meant that nothing could harm or do him any good now.
We sat by his bed and talked a great deal; then Clinton and I went back to the Grange.
The next day we went riding in the woods and Clinton wanted to take another look at Parrot Cottage.
We tethered the horses and he went in by way of the window. He opened the door for me to enter. As I stepped inside he picked me up in his arms and swung me around.
"Dear dear Parrot Cottage," he said. "A night to remember, eh, Sarah?"
"It certainly had its effect on our lives."
"You are thinking that if that had not happened here you would never have agreed to marry me. It was like the kiss of the prince to the sleeping beauty. He awakened her to life, remember. A lot of fairy stories are symbolic, you know."
"I remember you once said you would tell me the story of the Babes in the Wood. Isn't your taste in literature a little infantile?"
"My taste is catholic in all things." He went to the fire. "The ashes are still here. Did it occur to you how fortunate we were. Logs in the wood-house, candles, lantern, blankets . . ." He burst out laughing. "You are looking puzzled, my dearest. Did it occur to you that we were the darlings of the gods that night?"
"It certainly seemed fortuitous."
*"rhere's a saying that God helps those who help themselves. I suppose that applies to the gods ot chance as well."
*'What are you hinting?"
"You have told me I am resourceful. I take my opportunities. I wonder if you realize how resourceful I am, how I make my opportunities. It's no use relying on fate, you know. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad goes to the mountain."
"You like to talk in parables," I said. "You couldn't have arranged the snow. That I imagine would be beyond even you."
He grinned. "The snow was real enough. What a night that was! The weather had been bad for a while, you remember, and had been growing worse. I liked Parrot Cottage from the moment I saw it. I thought what fun it would be to spend a little time there, the two of us alone."
I stared at him incredulously.
"I want you to realize what a resourceful husband you have. Do you remember how misty it was when we first saw it? It occurred to me then how easy it could be to lose one's way in the forest. You and I . . . lost, wandering around hand in hand in circles. . . . We come to Parrot Cottage. We are tired. We decide to rest there. It is dark and cold outside. Logs in the wood-house and, miracle of miracles, warm rugs. You see how my romantic mind was working."
"I see it clearly. The logs were there."
"Yes, they gave me the idea."
"The rugs, the lantern?"
"Thoughtfully provided by me for the occasion."
"But how could you know. . ."
"I didn't know. It might have come to nothing. But if ever the occasion should arise the stage was set. That's the first lesson in the road to success. You make your opportunities and when the time comes—i/ the time comes—you are prepared. Mind you, the time may never come. I was taking the long chance. And then the blessed snow . . . the visit to London ... no brougham at the station. You see, that was luck. That was God helping those who had helped themselves."
"So you arranged . . . thatl"
"Come. Congratulate me. I was rather clever, wasn't I?"
"But we lost our way in the forest."
"I did not lose my way. Dear Sarah, you see I longed for you. I knew that beneath that fierce antagonism was a passionate young woman, a woman who needed to love and be loved. It was my duty to prove to you who you were ... to save you before you became like the aunts or the Misses Cannon. ... Oh very commendable, I agree, but not you, Sarah. Oh definitely not you. You were meant for love and you know it. I made sure when the fates were kind and provided the snow, the delay in the trains, no brougham . . . well, the least I could do was play my part. I made sure I knew the way to the cottage. I could have gone there blindfolded. You see, Sarah, I outwitted you in your own forest. That's the sort of man I am."
'Tou're diabolical!" I said.
"Confess that you like me that way."
I said nothing. I was thinking of all he had done in taking the rugs there . . . making sure that he could light a fire. I found I was laughing with him.
"There's a magic about the forest," he said. "The trees take on the guise of monsters when it grows dark. The old gods are in the forest. Odin, Thor and the rest. Can you sense them? They are on the side of adventurers. They come to the aid of those who help themselves."
"Then they are undoubtedly on your side."
"What do you think of me for that little bit of stage management?'*
"I repeat that you are diabolical. You played your part well. Not for one moment did I guess. . ."
"If you had guessed, the play would have been ruined. I'm too good a player to let that happen."
"I wonder how good you are. I wonder what you are like when you cease to act and are simply yourself."
"That will be a pleasant little conundrum to occupy you through the years to come."
"How shall I know when to trust you?"
He took my face in his hands and kissed me. 'Tour heart will tell you," he said.
I shook myself free impatiently. "When you are romantic and sentimental I know you are false."
"Don't be too sure of that, Sarah. With me you must not be sure of anything."
He laughed and turned away. He was going through to the back door.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To get the rugs," he replied.
"No," I cried.
But he came back with them. He spread them on the floor and then seized me in his arms.
During the weeks that followed I was constantly with my father. It was clear now that the end was near. I had little time to think of myself or the future. Clinton had said that we could not leave England while my father lived and when he was dead we would leave immediately for Ceylon.
February had come and the crocuses were beginning to make an appearance—mauve, white and gold—with their message that though winter was still with us spring was on the way. Near the pond yellow flowers of the coltsfoot had begun to show alongside the purple butterbur. There were even yellow celandines in sheltered places and green shoots on the elders and the yellow tassels we called lambs' tails on the hazel. The great oaks of the forest still wore their winter look and it would be a few more weeks before the change was visible. I listened to the lapwings mating. It was Celia who had taught me to recognize the songs of birds. It was a melancholy cry . . . pee-wit . . . peet. . . will 0 wit. That was what it sounded like. Theirs was not a very joyous wooing.
Spring has been called the "Gateway of the Year." That spring was certainly the gateway of my new life.
My thoughts did not stray for long away from my father. He was going to die soon and my new life would begin in earnest.
Ceylon! That country of which I had heard so much. I had dreamed of going there and had never thought I should go with a husband.
My father died peacefully at the beginning of March, and his
body was brought to the Grange that he might be buried among his ancestors.
It was a cold and blustery day, but sunny. The funeral would be carried out in the traditional manner, and the mourners would return to the Grange for sherry and ham sandwiches.
It was a moving ceremony and as I looked down on his cofEn from my place around the grave I thought of my mother, who lay close by, and of the sadness of their lives, the incompatibility of their temperaments. Yet I had loved them both. I tried to imagine what it would have been like if they had lived together like a normal married pair.
Life was strange. Theirs had been stormy. What of my own? How would that be?
Clinton was beside me, holding my arm as we walked back to the Grange.
Refreshments were served to the mourners in the hall, and when suddenly I saw Toby I thought I was dreaming. He was standing before me, looking a little older than when I had last seen him in London but definitely Toby. I was overwhelmed with pleasure at the sight of him.
"Toby!" I cried.
He took both my hands in his. "Sarah . . . you've grown upl"
"It's a long time since we met."
"Oh, it's good to see you. I went to Denton Square looking for you. No one knew where you'd gone. I went to Tom Mellor. He said your mother had left the stage and gone to her husband's people. I saw the notice of your father's death and came on down at once. I met your aunt and told her I was an old friend, so I was invited back to the house."
I felt weak with emotion. I wanted to cling to him and cry. He brought it all back so clearly . . . lunch at the Caf' Royal ... a conspiracy between us against my mother, whom we had both adored.
"What are you doing in England?"
"I've been here for a month. I shall be going back to Delhi shortly."
The Spring of the Tiger Page 17