The Spring of the Tiger

by Victoria Holt

  "Do you enjoy it?"

  He nodded. "But it's good to be back in England."

  I thought of Clinton's coming home to look for a wife and I said: "Toby, are you married?"

  "No."

  "You're old enough to be."

  "I was always a little retarded, I fear."

  I smiled. I loved that half-apologetic look of his. There was nothing arrogant about Toby. I noticed that particularly; subconsciously I was comparing him with Clinton.

  "When are you going back?"

  "I intended to stay for about two months. I might extend my stay a bit."

  There was a shine in his dark-blue eyes. "I've thought about you a great deal," he went on. "I wondered what was happening. It was a shock to hear that your mother had died."

  "You heard that then."

  "Yes, it came out when I was dining with a friend. They were talking of the stage and someone said Irene Rushton had retired after the Herringford affair and went to the country and died. I was so shocked and kept wondering what had happened to you."

  "I was with my aunts as you see."

  "You . . . here ... in this ancient setting. Somehow it seems strange to me, Sarah. I put up at the inn last night—the Foresters, do you know it?"

  "Yes," I replied.

  "I shall stay there for a while. Now I've found you there'll be lots to talk about."

  "A great deal has happened since we last met, Toby," I told him. "A few weeks ago I was married."

  I was unprepared for the stricken look on his face. He stared at me blankly, unbelievingly. It was a reflection of my own feelings. I understood exactly how he was feeling because I felt it too.

  "It all happened rather suddenly," I said quickly. "My father came home from Ceylon and Clinton Shaw was with him. I'm going back to Ceylon with Clinton soon . . ." What was I saying, babbling on? What had I done? Here was Toby coming home, looking for me, and I was married to Clinton Shaw!

  "Well," said Toby, "I wish you happiness. When . . . will you be going to Ceylon?"

  "Very soon. We did not leave before because of my father. He has been very ill for a long time. We knew he was going to die."

  The look of misery on Toby's face was unnerving me. *Td like to see you again . . . before I go/' he said. "There is so much to hear."

  "Tomorrow," I replied. "We'll walk in the forest."

  I knew that Clinton would leave early next morning for London. He was pressing on with arrangements for our departure.

  Later that day the family solicitor came to read my father's wHl. We all assembled in the library—my aunts, Clinton and L

  It was a simple will. There were a few legacies to his manager and some of his workers on the plantation. The two principal beneficiaries were my sister, Clytie, and myself. The Ashington Pearls would be in Clytie's possession until they were passed on to her son's wife. He had left her his house in Ceylon and certain other assets, but the plantation itself he had left to me.

  I looked at the aunts. I saw the color in Aunt Martha's face, which implied suppressed wrath. But what had she expected would happen to the pearls? The tradition was that they should go to the son but if there was no son naturally they would be in the temporary possession of the eldest daughter. She had a son and they would in due course be for that son's wife.

  I was too overwhelmed by my own inheritance to think very much about Clytie's.

  The plantation. Mine!

  CUnton was watching me closely. There was a warm glow in his eyes.

  Clinton was undoubtedly gratified. He was full of plans. "We could join up the plantations," he said, "and they could be run as

  one."

  "It seems absurd that I should own a plantation when I know

  nothing of such things," I said.

  "My dear, you have a husband who knows a great deal."

  There was no doubt of his satisfaction. I felt bemused because

  of all this and the overwhelming sorrow of my father's death and

  because of another remote feeling which I did not want to exam-

  ine too closely. It was due to Toby's return and the emotions that had aroused in me. When I had seen him I had recaptured the pleasure I used to have when he came to the house, when we did our so-called lessons, when we slipped out on our jaunts. It was a joyous excitement, an intense pleasure.

  Why did he have to come back now? I asked myself.

  I looked ahead to the future yet I was filled with apprehension.

  We went in the forest. He was very sober. I had never seen him like that before.

  He said: "Tell me about it, Sarah. Tell me everything."

  So I told him about Everard and what had happened and how my mother had been unable to get the work she wanted, how Meg had at length been persuaded to go to the country and how there was no alternative for us but to come to the Grange.

  "She hated it, Toby. It was sad really. I don't think I realized how she must have felt until after. The aunts employed a governess for me. Ceha Hansen. She left after my mother died. She came into money and went abroad with a cousin. I haven't seen her since although we became good friends."

  It was so easy to talk to Toby. I told him how my mother had died and of that awful night when we had found her in a high fever with the windows open to the bitter cold. It was a sad end to her glamorous life.

  "She was very beautiful," he said.

  "You adored her. But you were diflferent from the others . . . content to adore her from afar and to serve her by taking her nuisance of a daughter off her shoulders."

  "That was one of the greatest pleasures I have ever known," he said solemnly. "Remember the fun we had?"

  We remembered, recalling little incidents, the jokes and the laughter.

  "Happy days," he said. "I didn't realize how much they meant until I went away."

  "How is vour business, Tobv?"

  *'Not bad at all. I seem to have discovered an aptitude. My father is agreeably surprised."

  "As you were, I suppose/*

  "I never thought I'd make a businessman.'*

  "It must have been an enthralling discovery to find you were so good."

  "Quite good," he said, with a laugh.

  *'And this is your first trip to England since you went away."

  "It's a long way to come, you know, and there was always so much to do out there."

  "Have you come home ... as men do ... to find a wife?"

  It was a foolish thing to have said and I realized that as soon as I had spoken. There was a stricken look on his face, and he said suddenly as though taken off his guard: "Why did you have to be so young, Sarah, when I went away?"

  I was silent. Those few words had told me so much. I ought to have known.

  We walked on in silence for a while. I smelt the pungent odors of the forest which I believed would remind me of this moment forever—the damp earth, moss, the pines: among the grass, wood anemones were beginning to show themselves. The herald of the swallow, Celia had told me they were called. "Woodland fairies sleep in the flowers at night. That is why they curl up their petals, to make the fairies cozy." What strange thoughts at such a time!

  I said: "You didn't write to me, Toby."

  "I was never much of a letter writer. I did write twice though and received no answers."

  "Those letters must have gone to the house in Denton Square."

  He nodded. "Are you happy?" he asked.

  I hesitated and then said: "Why. . . yes."

  "He looks. . . distinguished," he said.

  "I suppose you could call him that. He owns the plantation next to my father's . . . and that is mine now."

  "What a different hfe it must have been here from the old days."

  We passed the path which led to Parrot Cottage. I avoided it. I didn't want to see it. I was thinking how different Toby would have behaved in such circumstances. Chivalrous, unselfish, reliable . . . that was Toby.

  I said: "I think we should go back to the house."

/>   He did not dispute that and we turned back.

  lyo The Spring of the Tiger

  "We shall not be very far from each other," he said, when we came in sight of the Grange. "I shall be in India. You will be in Ceylon."

  "It looks near... on the map."

  "Be happy, Sarah."

  "I shall try to. And you, too, Toby."

  He did not come into the Grange. He took my hand and held it as we parted and he just said my name twice. I felt a sudden anger against Fate and I cried out: "Why did you have to wait so long before coming? It was my mother you loved. I was just the child."

  "It was you," he answered. "I learned that. It was you . . . then and always. Good-bye, Sarah." He kissed my hand lingeringly.

  I felt a mad urge to tell him that I was afraid, that I did not love this man whom I had married. It was simply that he overwhelmed me and aroused a certain passion in me which I had found irresistible.

  I don't love him, I wanted to cry. It's you Toby, you. I see it now. Having been his wife, I know it more clearly. I want lodng kindness, tenderness, not this wild madness which he arouses in me.

  Toby seemed to understand. He said: "We shall not be far from each other. If you needed me at any time . . ."

  I went to my room. I shut myself in. And I said to myself: "Toby, oh Toby, why did you have to come back too late!"

  TTIHI

  ISESIPLEKIIOEKnr

  Tike Fs'ia

  I prepared to leave England with feverish intensity. I must accept the life I had chosen. I must learn to love my husband, to merge my sensuous desires with more noble feeling. There was a great deal to admire in Clinton Shaw. My father had been delighted that he was my husband and believed it was the best thing that could have happened to me. There was a power about him, a force-fulness which was the essence of manliness and surely to be admired. I had noticed that he won the admiration of women effortlessly. He was capable. He had a way of looking after one, which should be comforting. He was frank in the extreme and never tried to pretend he was other than he was—except when he was practicing some great deception as when he had lured me to Parrot Cottage.

  I must shut my eyes to his faults and dwell on his virtues. The impression that Toby had made on me when he came back into my life had brought home how vulnerable I was. I had fallen straight into Clinton's arms and discovered certain depths in my nature which I would have preferred to be without. I must be honest and add: except when those senses were being gratified. My warm nature would set me open to temptation and I could see that I had given way too readily in Parrot Cottage. Toby had said I was only a child when he left. I think I had remained so too long. I had lived a somewhat artificial life in Denton Square and been surrounded by a spurious sophistication. Then I had been plunged into a life which was in direct contrast—the quiet country life dominated by two middle-aged aunts. I had only begun to grow up when Clinton came and I was still doing so. I became a

  wife before I was prepared for life. I could see that I must tread warily and should try by falling in love with my husband. I was physically in love with him already but I was wise enough to know that if I was going to make a success of marriage I needed something more than that.

  So I flung myself into preparations. I asked questions about the plantation and there was nothing Clinton liked to talk about more. He was pleased to be going back, I knew. He did mourn my father in a way, but Clinton would always be a man who was more concerned with the future than the past.

  At last the day for our departure came. We boarded the Are-methea at Tilbury, and to myself, who had never traveled before, except as a child when I knew nothing about it, everything was of the utmost interest, and, as Clinton said, the best thing to help me get over the loss of my father. "When you suffer a tragedy," he said, "the best remedy is a complete change of scene. That's what you are going to get."

  He was known to the captain and officers of the ship and a certain deference was given him, which I was sure he relished. He was considerate to me and initiated me into the mysteries of sea travel as efficiently as he had into the ways of love. There was one thing he greatly enjoyed and that was taking on the role of tutor. When I pointed this out to him he said it was true but only because he had such an interest in the pupil. I was more gentle. I think, because of Toby I felt a little guilty. I had made my vows and must try to carry them out. That was how I saw it. It was amazing to see the effect my changed attitude had on him. He became almost tender; we sparred less and he gave the impression that he was overjoyed because we were married.

  There was much to see on the journey. Together we visited the wonders of Pompeii, the souks of Port Said and sailed through the Canal past the lakes and those golden sands where shepherds walked with their sheep, and it was like watching scenes from the Bible passing before our eyes. We sat side by side on the deck and I told myself I would forget Toby and what might have been. It was up to me. As Janet would have said: I had made my bed and I must lie on it.

  We spent a day in Mombasa, where we bought bright-colored

  cloth, ornaments and a cow's horn carved in a beautiful pattern. Our long passage was nearing its end. Very soon now we should be in Ceylon.

  We arrived during the morning and as soon as the island was sighted I was on deck with Clinton. It was a beautiful sight—this green and fertile island rising out of the Indian Ocean.

  Clinton pointed out Adam's Peak, the most prominent of the mountains of the interior. It dominated the hills that surrounded it.

  "It was a landmark to the old-time navigators," he said. "People used to make pilgrimages to it. It has always been greatly revered. The people of Ceylon owe their livelihood to the mountains and they don't forget it. When the monsoon comes—that is in the middle of May and the end of October—the clouds are driven against those mountains and it rains and rains . . . but only on one side of the range. On the other it is arid and a desert. So the population crowded onto this side of the mountains and here we have reaped our rewards from cofifee, coconut, cinnamon, rubber and now in the last years the most profitable of all. . . tea!"

  I stared in wonder at the beauty of the scene. Groves of palm trees looked as though they were growing out of the sea, and everywhere was lush and green.

  "Soon," said Clinton, "we shall see the city."

  I stood entranced as we came nearer and nearer to the island. Clinton gripped my hand.

  "At last," he said, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.

  The dock was alive with activity. Men in wide trousers—mostiy white and grubby—and with loose jackets made of the same cotton material were running about seeing to baggage and other matters, shouting and gesticulating. The heat was intense.

  Chnton called out something in Singhalese and he was immediately surrounded. Smiles of welcome lightened their brown faces. He was clearly well known here and of great importance. I listened to the exchanges, overcome by curiosity and a desire to see everything at once.

  In a short time we were seated in a kind of cart drawn by

  horses.

  "We are going to the station," Clinton said. "That surprises you. Yes, we have a railway from Colombo to Kandy. We shall not go all the way. We're some sixty miles out from Colombo and some twelve from Kandy. Don't worry about baggage. That will be brought to us."

  I climbed into the cart and we went rattiing through streets which were so colorful that I was constantly turning from left to right for fear of missing something. Clinton smiled at me. "Anyone would guess you were a newcomer," he said.

  It was so different from everything I had ever known. The roads were crowded with vehicles of all descriptions—carriages, carts drawn by oxen and rickshaws pulled by men whose bare dirty feet and thin bodies moved me to pity. The people con-stantiy shouted to each other and the air was full of noise. They ran across the road right in front of the horses and I was afraid many times that someone would be run over, but with much shouting and consummate skill, the drivers of the various
conveyances avoided disaster.

  One or two called a greeting to Clinton.

  "They seem to like you," I said.

  "Not so surprising," he answered with characteristic cynicism. "I'm their living."

  I took off my coat. I was far too warmly clad.

  "You must be careful to protect your skin," Clinton told me. "It's not made for this fierce sun. And don't forget, even when the sun is not shining, too much sun can be dangerous. It's there even though you can't see it."

  I put my coat around my shoulders. At least it was not so hot worn that way.

  We reached the railway station where there were crowds similar to those on the dock. I was most conscious of noise and heat.

  "We'll soon be at the plantations," Chnton told me. 'Tours and mine."

  We boarded the train. It lacked the comfort of trains at home, but I was too enthralled by the countryside through which we passed to take much notice of that. Its beauty was breath-taking.

  During that short Journey we passed forests of trees—ebony, satin-wood and, most common of all, the tree of the cashew nut; we passed paddy fields where the rice—the country's staple food—was growing. I saw sluggish rivers and boats pulling logs and naked children leaping in the water that washed the banks. I caught my breath with wonder when I saw my first elephant. A man was seated on it and the great beast was drawing a load of logs. Then I saw more and more.

  Clinton was amused. "We have more elephants in Ceylon than any other animal," he told me. "We make use of them, as 3'ou see. They are the best possible workers—strong and full of good sense. Admirable qualities in a helpmeet, as you'll agree. Moreover, they are docile. What more could you ask?"

  ''It seems strange that they who are so strong should allow themselves to be pressed into service."

  "It is the mastery of man, my dear Sarah. We tame them. Why, when they're wild they can do enormous damage. They would break into plantations and trample down the crops creating havoc. But catch them, train them, and they'll be your good servants."