The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  “It is I, Thomas,” Cal said.

  Even then Thomas did not move at once, but Cal caught the white gleam as his eyes slid sideways. After a moment he slowly turned his head—again reminding Cal of a bird tilting its poll—and, looking up sidelong, muttered:

  “You? What the devil are you doing here?” And, after a pause, irritably, “Leave my house!”

  “No,” Cal said. “It’s all up, Thomas. Your run of luck is over.”

  “What are you talking about? Get out, I say!”

  “Your jacket has been found. The one that you hid in the hay. And the sword—the sword that you used. Lord Egremont has them.”

  Thomas remained silent for so long after these words that Cal almost began to wonder whether he had grasped their import. But then he suddenly stood up. In the dusk he looked taller than his real height.

  “What have you come here for?” he demanded.

  “I have come—because I left with our business half-finished! Because, at that time, I dared not tell you what I thought of you, as I knew it would only rebound on her. I have to tell you what a detestably base, cruel, miserly wicked brute I think you are! You treated Fanny abominably—she was a thousand times too good for you! Only a monster like you could conceive the notion of killing your own child and attempting to pin the blame on her. But your plan has misfired, I am happy to say. The constables will be here soon to arrest you. But before that I have come to demand satisfaction for that cowardly blow you gave me—I will fight you in any way you choose!”

  “The constables,” Thomas muttered, more to himself than Cal.

  “Will you fight?” demanded Cal. “Come on, you cur, fight! I am not afraid of you—even though I have only one leg!”

  “Why, you stupid puppy!” growled Thomas. “What do I care for you? With your poetry and all your talk? I saw that you were in love with Frances, but you didn’t even have the guts to do anything about it! I hate you for that! All you were fit for was to write verses—”

  “Wait till I get my hands on your throat!” cried Cal in a passion, and he swung himself around the corner of the table.

  Thomas stepped swiftly back.

  “Oh no, you don’t! I am my own master—I do not choose to engage in fisticuffs with you.”

  Calmly, without haste, he picked up a pistol which had been lying on a chair beside him, out of Cal’s line of vision, and discharged it, at practically point-blank range. Cal staggered, and fell headlong on the floor.

  Mrs. Strudwick came running and screaming. As she entered at one door, Thomas, still without haste, made his way out of the other. Mrs. Strudwick took one look at Cal and flew out of the front door, shrieking for Jem to fetch the doctor.

  When Lord Egremont and the constables arrived, they met her in the lane.

  “Oh, sirs,” she cried distractedly, “mind what you’re about with the master, he’s dangerous. He’ve killed Master Cal, and now he’s outside somewhere!”

  The party of men stared cautiously around the dusk-filled garden.

  “How’ll we ever find the fellow in this light?” grunted one of them. “He might be lurking in any bush.”

  “More likely gone over the meadows and escaped,” said another.

  But they did not have very far to search for Thomas. He had pushed a wheelbarrow under the weeping ash, thrown a rope over one of its boughs, and, with a skill probably remembered from his naval days, made a couple of slip knots. Then he had thrust the barrow away.

  By the time they found him he had stopped kicking and was hanging motionless, almost directly over the spot where he had buried his son. His cousin Cal, who had succeeded in crawling out of the house before dying, lay beneath him, against the trunk of the tree.

  * * *

  “I still do not understand,” said Lady Mountague. “Why should he kill the child? And why bury it under the ash tree?”

  She focused her keen, nearsighted gray eyes on those of Fanny and repeated, “Now why should he do a thing like that!”

  In fact, Lady Mountague had a perfectly clear notion as to the motives behind Thomas’s actions, but she was not going to allow Fanny to brood in silence; let the child cry her heart out at night if she must, but in the daytime the history of the past few months was going to be thoroughly dealt with and disposed of, until it was completely aired, disinfected, and made harmless.

  “Well—you see, he was jealous. He was so jealous of us, we were all so happy together. And he was especially jealous of Cal—because Cal had succeeded in all the ways that Thomas had failed. Cal was young, too—he could have a son in course of time—a proper son, not a poor b-backward baby—”

  “Now, child. Child! You have been told a hundred times over that if there was anything the matter with little Thomas it was not your fault. And that, in any case, most likely he would have grown up perfectly normal.”

  “That makes it all the worse!” wept Fanny. “Thomas just gave up—as if little Thomas were some undertaking that had turned out badly—not as if he were a person.”

  “Well, do not you be accusing yourself of giving up too soon, my dear, for your cousin has told me how patient you were, and how you endeavored to teach the child.”

  “But I didn’t love him.”

  “Very well!” said Lady Mountague. “Let that be a lesson to you! Take pains to love everything else that you come across! And now, put it behind you. That is enough of crying and moping for one day; I want you to put on your bonnet and come for a drive with me. We are going over to Petworth; I daresay you will like to see your cousin and Liz Wyndham.”

  “You are very good to bear with me, ma’am, the way you do.”

  “I am fond of you, child. It is a pleasure to have you staying with me.”

  * * *

  During the drive from Midhurst to Petworth, Fanny, gazing at the daffodils and tulips blazing in the cottage gardens, said wistfully:

  “Should you object, ma’am, if I were to go and look at the Hermitage garden? I—I promise not to mope or brood.”

  “Very well, my child. Do you wish me to accompany you?”

  Fanny said that must be as Lady Mountague pleased, and the latter, giving her a shrewd glance, observed that the place had rather disagreeable associations for her and she had as lief drop Fanny there and go on to Petworth House for a coze with that shatterbrained creature, Liz Wyndham, provided that Fanny would undertake not to fall into a melancholy, and not to spend more than twenty minutes there on her own. And she trusted Fanny not to do anything foolish.

  “Yes, you may trust me, ma’am,” Fanny said.

  * * *

  Left alone in the garden, she stared about her rather hesitantly, as if waiting for ghosts to come out and beckon. The wellhead, the stable, the orchard… But no ghosts moved, the sun shone warm on her back, birds scattered their songs like cascades of diamonds through the young-leaved trees.

  Fanny walked around to look at the weeping ash and found that somebody had been there before her. The wire and leather thongs which had tied down its branches were all cut away, and the branches hung free, vibrating gently in the mild spring wind.

  “Oh, I am glad for you!” breathed Fanny. “You poor thing!” And she laid a hand gently on the trunk. The tree would never be the same again; but at least it was free, now, to grow as best it could. Who had done that? she wondered.

  Emboldened, she went around the house and opened the front door. Nobody was living there at present; Mrs. Strudwick and Tess had left, the place was empty. Would it feel very drear, very deserted? She walked inside and stopped, amazed at the warmth of welcome the house seemed to be sending out to her. It was not just the lozenges of sunlight on the parlor floor, or the scent of lavender from the potpourri on the hall table—there was a strong positive emanation of love and friendliness, an unheard but most emphatically felt message of joy at her return.

>   She did not go far inside; she stood in the hallway, feeling and reciprocating the waves of welcome; then, silently promising: I will come back! Don’t grieve—wait for me! I will come back very soon! she walked outside again and turned the key in the lock.

  Lingering in front of the house, she saw to her astonishment that there was a total stranger striding along the yew-tree walk: a tall, auburn-haired man wearing some kind of uniform. Who could he possibly be, and what was he doing here? Unafraid, for her heart was filled now with grateful peace, Fanny crossed the grass toward the interloper.

  Could it be Count van Welcker? Juliana Paget’s husband?

  “Good day, sir,” she said politely when she was within speaking range. “Can I be of assistance to you?”

  “Good day, ma’am! I must ask your pardon for this intrusion. I did ring at the bell first, but nobody answered. I am looking for Miss Scylla Paget—”

  “Oh!” Fanny exclaimed in lively astonishment. “Is it possible—can you be—?”

  She studied him, liking what she saw. Those absurd, luxuriant russet mustaches and beard—nobody in England wore hair like that anymore—yet they suited him, he had a decidedly buccaneering look. The red hair, equally thick, under his turban-cap, the tartan uniform, the blue eyes that met hers in keen, friendly appraisal—

  “Are you Colonel Cameron?”

  “That I am!”

  “Oh, she will be so happy to see you!” Fanny cried out. “I cannot tell you how she has longed for you. Since her brother died—”

  “Yes, that was a bad business—a shocking business.” His face clouded. “I heard about it in London—and your husband too, ma’am—am I right in thinking that you are Mrs. Paget?” He glanced at her black dress.

  “Yes, I am,” she said absently. “You have just come from London, Colonel Cameron? Not from the East?”

  “I returned from Acre in the same sloop as Lieutenant Paget,” he explained. “He had sent me a letter from Minorca, and by good fortune it found me in Baghdad, about to leave for Acre. So I was able to meet him there, and we returned to England together. I had concluded some business in Afghanistan. Since America went to war with France,” he explained with a slight smile, “I have been acting as a kind of courier, both for this country and my own, and I had some intelligence for the British government regarding the movements of Tippoo Sahib’s forces and the campaign being conducted against him by General Arthur Wellesley. My affairs in London being completed, I heard this dreadful news just as I was about to post down here—for Lieutenant Paget had told me on the voyage back that his sister might—might be prepared to reconsider an answer she had once given me—”

  “Reconsider!” cried Fanny. “Oh, what are you waiting here for? Go up to Petworth House directly. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes, I observed the entrance while making my way here.”

  “Then go!” She almost pushed him.

  “Will you not come with me, ma’am?”

  “No—no. I will follow you—very soon. But do you go now!”

  “You are a woman of decision, Mrs. Paget. I can see we shall be friends,” he said, and walked off up the lane.

  * * *

  A footman at Petworth House told Colonel Cameron that Miss Paget was walked out in the park, as she mostly did at this time of day; the gentleman would very likely find her by the lake. Did he wish to see Mrs. Wyndham or Lady Mountague first? No, he wished only to see Miss Paget.

  He was directed out into the pleasure garden, where an ornamental iron gate gave entrance into the park proper. Crossing the ha-ha by a wooden bridge, he looked across the great sweep of grass.

  Far away by the lake he saw a tiny figure in black, slowly strolling. He recognized the silvery dot of Scylla’s hair, and a splash of blue over the shoulder must be a parasol. The figure’s slow, dejected gait went to his heart—when had he ever seen her walk at such a dawdling pace, as if she hardly cared whether she moved or stood still?

  He began walking briskly in her direction, taking large strides. She had not noticed him; she was watching the waterfowl on the lake. But when he had covered about three quarters of the distance she heard his step and turned her head.

  By now he could distinguish her features—her pale, startled face. She looked completely incredulous—frozen in disbelief. As he came closer he took off his cap and waved it. Then a kind of tremor went through her; she became galvanized. Dropping her parasol, she started to run toward him, fast—faster. Two more gigantic strides and he came up with her and caught her in his arms.

  “Scylla! My love, my dear love!”

  “Oh, Rob! Is it you? Is it really you? How did you find me? How did you know I was here? Where in the world have you come from?”

  “All that is a long story. It can wait.” He held her tightly and buried his face in her hair. “The main thing is that I have found you.”

  “Rob—you have heard about Cal?”

  “Yes, I have heard,” he said gravely. “And I am inexpressibly sorry—for the dreadful waste—and for you. We will talk later about Cal—we will be talking many times.”

  “But he was right about his poetry!” she said with pride. “He has left a name behind him.”

  “Yes, he was right. He will not be forgotten. And now, my love,” said Cameron firmly, “we are going to talk about us.” He glanced about him. “I feel there ought to be a tiger lurking in those rhododendrons.”

  “And Therbah—dear Therbah—waiting to shoot it!”

  “Therbah sends his salaams to the sahiba and hopes to see her again in Baghdad. We shall have to travel by way of Turkey,” he added thoughtfully. “Acre is going to be too hot for comfort during the next few months. Fortunately I am on excellent terms with the Porte.”

  “Turkey—?”

  “We shall have to be married first, of course,” he mentioned as an afterthought. “Therbah would not approve of our traveling together in the single state. And this time I am not taking no for an answer. Oh, how monstrous you were to me! A repugnant alliance! Not if I were the last man on earth! Good God, what a setdown you gave me! I crept away feeling as if I had been blasted by one of my own cannon at point-blank range. It took me days—weeks—to recover.”

  “But you did recover in the end?” suavely suggested his love, from the security of an almost throttling embrace.

  “Not at all. I am still in a shattered condition. Why do you think I had to take the trouble to travel all the way to England but to seek you out, you—you infernal baggage?”

  “But how was I supposed to guess that you—that you really entertained such feelings? When you were such a martinet? When you shouted at me and ordered me about and snapped my head off at the least word of disagreement? Why were you always so severe? How could I help but assume that you thought me the greatest bore in the world?”

  “My darling simpleton.” He held her at arm’s length a moment, then snatched her close again. “What do you take me for? I am only human! I was dying of love for you from—from about the second time I saw you—”

  “Oh? Not the first? I think I am ahead of you there, Colonel Cameron!”

  “Quiet, you! If I had relaxed my guard for a moment—”

  “Oh, you men, with your notions of honor and propriety! We should then have been saved a great, great deal of trouble. However I daresay I had better give you this—” She was struggling with a wool-wrapped ring on her finger.

  “Have you been to Almack’s yet, my love?” inquired the colonel.

  “No, I have not, but what is that to the purpose?”

  “Then I fear,” said Colonel Cameron, possessing himself of her hand in order to kiss the two small cross-shaped scars on her palm and wrist, “I fear that you have lost your chance of going there during this present visit to England. But I assure you, it is a dismally dull place!”

  * * *


  Fanny glanced across the Hermitage garden at the church clock. She still had five minutes left of the twenty allotted her by Lady Mountague. Smiling at the thought of Colonel Cameron—what a forthright, unexpected man, how different from what she had imagined, but she could see that he was just what Scylla needed—she moved slowly along the yew-tree walk, then paused to lean on the wall looking out over the valley.

  She carried with her—as always, just now—Cal’s last batch of poems; and presently she took them out and read them. They were so beautiful and mysterious! They created a whole scene, in words on the paper—the valley, the house—and herself, part of it all yet a spectator, sharing, yet observing. How curious it is to be a human, she thought—born of the natural world, growing from it, yet containing something more; a spirit that endures, that transcends. Could some part of Cal be here, now, still? Or did he exist only in the lines that he had left? “‘Odin, transfixed, above the whispering sea,’” she murmured, looking down at the brook among the alder trees. “‘Mimir’s dark waters, flowing to eternity.’” And, with her chin propped on her hands, she sank into a kind of waking dream. How strange it had been—Cal, Scylla, the weeping ash, the feeling that it had all been predestined. Even poor Thomas—poor, poor Thomas!—in course of time the pain she felt when she thought of him would abate, or she would somehow turn it to account; pain was a harvest like any other, it must be used, not allowed to go to waste.

  How long Fanny had remained there, leaning on the wall, she could not have said. It seemed like an immensity of time. She came back slowly to a full waking state with the feeling that all this had happened before… Only, on the former occasion, she had been in London, had found herself in the thoroughfare called the Strand, with gulls calling and carriages passing; and the water on the other side of the wall had been the river Thames.

  But now, as then, she had a feeling of guardianship, of loving company; as if somebody to whom she was inexpressibly dear, somebody she had always known, and always would know, waited close at hand.

  The church clock said three o’clock; time to be going. Yet still she lingered. And now she saw somebody climbing up the steep side of the valley toward her; approaching the rector’s empty hay barn, out of sight where the path bent around the building, then reappearing, coming closer a young man, black-haired. He looked up, saw her, and raised a hand in serious greeting, walking on steadily in her direction.