Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  Priscilla saw these groups from her windows. The fatal cottage was at the foot of the hill in full view both of her bedroom and her parlour. Only by sitting in the bathroom would she be able to get away from it. When the news was brought her, breathlessly, pallidly, by Annalise in the early morning with her hot water, she refused to believe it. Annalise knew no English and must have got hold of a horrible wrong tale. The old lady was dead no doubt, had died quietly in her sleep as had been expected, but what folly was all this about a murder? Yet she sat up in bed and felt rather cold as she looked at Annalise, for Annalise was very pallid. And then at last she had to believe it. Annalise had had it told her from beginning to end, with the help of signs, by the charwoman. She had learned more English in those few crimson minutes than in the whole of the time she had been in England. The charwoman had begun her demonstration by slowly drawing her finger across her throat from one ear to the other, and Annalise repeated the action for Priscilla’s clearer comprehension. How Priscilla got up that day and dressed she never knew. Once at least during the process she stumbled back on to the bed and lay with her face on her arms, shaken by a most desperate weeping. That fatal charity; those fatal five-pound notes. Annalise, panic-stricken lest she who possessed so many should be the next victim, poured out the tale of the missing money, of the plain motive for the murder, with a convincingness, a naked truth, that stabbed Priscilla to the heart with each clinching word.

  “They say the old woman must have cried out — must have been awakened, or the man would have taken the money without—”

  “Oh don’t — oh leave me—” moaned Priscilla.

  She did not go downstairs that day. Every time Annalise tried to come in she sent her away. When she was talked to of food, she felt sick. Once she began to pace about the room, but the sight of those eager black knots of people down the street, of policemen and other important and official-looking persons going in and out of the cottage, drove her back to her bed and its sheltering, world-deadening pillow. Indeed the waters of life had gone over her head and swallowed her up in hopeless blackness. She acknowledged herself wrong. She gave in utterly. Every word Mrs. Morrison — a dreadful woman, yet dreadful as she was still a thousand times better than herself — every word she had said, every one of those bitter words at which she had been so indignant the morning before, was true, was justified. That day Priscilla tore the last shreds of self-satisfaction from her soul and sat staring at it with horrified eyes as at a thing wholly repulsive, dangerous, blighting. What was to become of her, and of poor Fritzing, dragged down by her to an equal misery? About one o’clock she heard Mrs. Morrison’s voice below, in altercation apparently with him. At this time she was crying again; bitter, burning tears; those scorching tears that follow in the wake of destroyed illusions, that drop, hot and withering, on to the fragments of what was once the guiding glory of an ideal. She was brought so low, was so humbled, so uncertain of herself, that she felt it would bring her peace if she might go down to Mrs. Morrison and acknowledge all her vileness; tell her how wrong she had been, ask her forgiveness for her rudeness, beg her for pity, for help, for counsel. She needed some kind older woman, — oh she needed some kind older woman to hold out cool hands of wisdom and show her the way. But then she would have to make a complete confession of everything she had done, and how would Mrs. Morrison or any other decent woman look upon her flight from her father’s home? Would they not turn away shuddering from what she now saw was a hideous selfishness and ingratitude? The altercation going on below rose rapidly in heat. Just at the end it grew so heated that even through the pillow Priscilla could hear its flaming conclusion.

  “Man, I tell you your niece is to all intents and purposes a murderess, a double murderess,” cried Mrs. Morrison. “Not only has she the woman’s murder to answer for, but the ruined soul of the murderer as well.”

  Upon which there was a loud shout of “Hence! Hence!” and a great slamming of the street door.

  For some time after this Priscilla heard fevered walking about in her parlour and sounds as of many and muffled imprecations; then, when they had grown a little more intermittent, careful footsteps came up her stairs, footsteps so careful, so determined not to disturb, that the stairs cracked and wheezed more than they had ever yet been known to do. Arrived at the top they paused outside her door, and Priscilla, checking her sobs, could hear how Fritzing stood there wrestling with his body’s determination to breathe too loud. He stood there listening for what seemed to her an eternity. She almost screamed at last as the minutes passed and she knew he was still there, motionless, listening. After a long while he went away again with the same anxious care to make no noise, and she, with a movement of utter abandonment to woe, turned over and cried herself sick.

  Till evening she lay there alone, and then the steps came up again, accompanied this time by the tinkle of china and spoons. Priscilla was sitting at the window looking on to the churchyard, staring into the dark with its swaying branches and few faint stars, and when she heard him outside the door listening again in anxious silence she got up and opened it.

  Fritzing held a plate of food in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. The expression on his face was absurdly like that of a mother yearning over a sick child. “Mein liebes Kind — mein liebes Kind,” he stammered when she came out, so woebegone, so crushed, so utterly unlike any Priscilla of any one of her moods that he had ever seen before. Her eyes were red, her eyelids heavy with tears, her face was pinched and narrower, the corners of her mouth had a most piteous droop, her very hair, pushed back off her forehead, seemed sad, and hung in spiritless masses about her neck and ears. “Mein liebes Kind,” stammered poor Fritzing; and his hand shook so that he upset some of the milk.

  Priscilla leaned against the door-post. She was feeling sick and giddy. “How dreadful this is,” she murmured, looking at him with weary, woeful eyes.

  “No, no — all will be well,” said Fritzing, striving to be brisk. “Drink some milk, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I have been wicked.”

  “Wicked?”

  Fritzing hastily put the plate and glass down on the floor, and catching up the hand hanging limply by her side passionately kissed it. “You are the noblest woman on earth,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Priscilla, turning away her head and shutting her eyes for very weariness of such futile phrases.

  “Ma’am, you are. I would swear it. But you are also a child, and so you are ready at the first reverse to suppose you have done with happiness for ever. Who knows,” said Fritzing with a great show of bright belief in his own prophecy, the while his heart was a stone, “who knows but what you are now on the very threshold of it?”

  “Oh,” murmured Priscilla, too beaten to do anything but droop her head.

  “It is insisting on the commonplace to remind you, ma’am, that the darkest hour comes before dawn. Yet it is a well-known natural phenomenon.”

  Priscilla leaned her head against the door-post. She stood there motionless, her hands hanging by her side, her eyes shut, her mouth slightly open, the very picture of one who has given up.

  “Drink some milk, ma’am. At least endeavour to.”

  She took no heed of him.

  “For God’s sake, ma’am, do not approach these slight misadventures in so tragic a spirit. You have done nothing wrong whatever. I know you accuse yourself. It is madness to do so. I, who have so often scolded you, who have never spared the lash of my tongue when in past years I saw fair reason to apply it, I tell you now with the same reliable candour that your actions in this village and the motives that prompted them have been in each single case of a stainless nobility.”

  She took no heed of him.

  He stooped down and picked up the glass. “Drink some milk, ma’am. A few mouthfuls, perhaps even one, will help to clear the muddied vision of your mind. I cannot understand,” he went on, half despairing, half exasperated, “what reasons you can possibly have for refusing to drink some milk. It is
a feat most easily accomplished.”

  She did not move.

  “Do you perchance imagine that a starved and badly treated body can ever harbour that most precious gift of the gods, a clear, sane mind?”

  She did not move.

  He looked at her in silence for a moment, then put down the glass. “This is all my fault,” he said slowly. “The whole responsibility for this unhappiness is on my shoulders, and I frankly confess it is a burden so grievous that I know not how to bear it.”

  He paused, but she took no notice.

  “Ma’am, I have loved you.”

  She took no notice.

  “And the property of love, I have observed, is often to mangle and kill the soul of its object.”

  She might have been asleep.

  “Ma’am, I have brought you to a sorry pass. I was old, and you were young. I experienced, you ignorant. I deliberate, you impulsive. I a man, you a woman. Instead of restraining you, guiding you, shielding you from yourself, I was most vile, and fired you with desires for freedom that under the peculiar circumstances were wicked, set a ball rolling that I might have foreseen could never afterwards be stopped, put thoughts into your head that never without me would have entered it, embarked you on an enterprise in which the happiness of your whole life was doomed to shipwreck.”

  She stirred a little, and sighed a faint protest.

  “This is very terrible to me — of a crushing, killing weight. Let it not also have to be said that I mangled your very soul, dimmed your reason, impaired the sweet sanity, the nice adjustment of what I know was once a fair and balanced mind.”

  She raised her head slowly and looked at him. “What?” she said. “Do you think — do you think I’m going mad?”

  “I think it very likely, ma’am,” said Fritzing with conviction.

  A startled expression crept into her eyes.

  “So much morbid introspection,” he went on, “followed by hours of weeping and fasting, if indulged in long enough will certainly have that result. A person who fasts a sufficient length of time invariably parts piecemeal with valuable portions of his wits.”

  She stretched out her hand.

  He mistook the action and bent down and kissed it.

  “No,” said Priscilla, “I want the milk.”

  He snatched it up and gave it to her, watching her drink with all the relief, the thankfulness of a mother whose child’s sickness takes a turn for the better. When she had finished she gave him back the glass. “Fritzi,” she said, looking at him with eyes wide open now and dark with anxious questioning, “we won’t reproach ourselves then if we can help it—”

  “Certainly not, ma’am — a most futile thing to do.”

  “I’ll try to believe what you say about me, if you promise to believe what I say about you.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll believe anything if only you will be reasonable.”

  “You’ve been everything to me — that’s what I want to say. Always, ever since I can remember.”

  “And you, ma’am? What have you not been to me?”

  “And there’s nothing, nothing you can blame yourself for.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “You’ve been too good, too unselfish, and I’ve dragged you down.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Well, we won’t begin again. But tell me one thing — and tell me the truth — oh Fritzi tell me the truth as you value your soul — do you anywhere see the least light on our future? Do you anywhere see even a bit, a smallest bit of hope?”

  He took her hand again and kissed it; then lifted his head and looked at her very solemnly. “No, ma’am,” he said with the decision of an unshakable conviction, “upon my immortal soul I do not see a shred.”

  XXII

  Let the reader now picture Priscilla coming downstairs the next morning, a golden Sunday morning full of Sabbath calm, and a Priscilla leaden-eyed and leaden-souled, her shabby garments worn out to a symbol of her worn out zeals, her face the face of one who has forgotten peace, her eyes the eyes of one at strife with the future, of one for ever asking “What next?” and shrinking with a shuddering “Oh please not that,” from the bald reply.

  Out of doors Nature wore her mildest, most beneficent aspect. She very evidently cared nothing for the squalid tragedies of human fate. Her hills were bathed in gentle light. Her sunshine lay warm along the cottage fronts. In the gardens her hopeful bees, cheated into thoughts of summer, droned round the pale mauves and purples of what was left of starworts. The grass in the churchyard sparkled with the fairy film of gossamers. Sparrows chirped. Robins whistled. And humanity gave the last touch to the picture by ringing the church bells melodiously to prayer.

  Without doubt it was a day of blessing, supposing any one could be found willing to be blest. Let the reader, then, imagine this outward serenity, this divine calmness, this fair and light-flooded world, and within the musty walls of Creeper Cottage Priscilla coming down to breakfast, despair in her eyes and heart.

  They breakfasted late; so late that it was done to the accompaniment, strangely purified and beautified by the intervening church walls and graveyard, of Mrs. Morrison’s organ playing and the chanting of the village choir. Their door stood wide open, for the street was empty. Everybody was in church. The service was, as Mrs. Morrison afterwards remarked, unusually well attended. The voluntaries she played that day were Dead Marches, and the vicar preached a conscience-shattering sermon upon the text “Lord, who is it?”

  He thought that Mrs. Jones’s murderer must be one of his parishioners. It was a painful thought, but it had to be faced. He had lived so long shut out from gossip, so deaf to the ever-clicking tongue of rumour, that he had forgotten how far even small scraps can travel, and that the news of Mrs. Jones’s bolster being a hiding-place for her money should have spread beyond the village never occurred to him. He was moved on this occasion as much as a man who has long ago given up being moved can be, for he had had a really dreadful two days with Mrs. Morrison, dating from the moment she came in with the news of the boxing of their only son’s ears. He had, as the reader will have gathered, nothing of it having been recorded, refused to visit and reprimand Priscilla for this. He had found excuses for her. He had sided with her against his son. He had been as wholly, maddeningly obstinate as the extremely good sometimes are. Then came Mrs. Jones’s murder. He was greatly shaken, but still refused to call upon Priscilla in connection with it, and pooh-poohed the notion of her being responsible for the crime as definitely as an aged saint of habitually grave speech can be expected to pooh-pooh at all. He said she was not responsible. He said, when his wife with all the emphasis apparently inseparable from the conversation of those who feel strongly, told him that he owed it to himself, to his parish, to his country, to go and accuse her, that he owed no man anything but to love one another. There was nothing to be done with the vicar. Still these scenes had not left him scathless, and it was a vicar moved to the utmost limits of his capacity in that direction who went into the pulpit that day repeating the question “Who is it?” so insistently, so appealingly, with such searching glances along the rows of faces in the pews, that the congregation, shuffling and uncomfortable, looked furtively at each other with an ever growing suspicion and dislike. The vicar as he went on waxing warmer, more insistent, observed at least a dozen persons with guilt on every feature. It darted out like a toad from the hiding-place of some private ooze at the bottom of each soul into one face after the other; and there was a certain youth who grew so visibly in guilt, who had so many beads of an obviously guilty perspiration on his forehead, and eyes so guiltily starting from their sockets, that only by a violent effort of self-control could the vicar stop himself from pointing at him and shouting out then and there “Thou art the man!”

  Meanwhile the real murderer had hired a waggonette and was taking his wife for a pleasant country drive.

  It was to pacify Fritzing that Priscilla came down to breakfast. Left to herself she would by preference
never have breakfasted again. She even drank more milk to please him; but though it might please him, no amount of milk could wash out the utter blackness of her spirit. He, seeing her droop behind the jug, seeing her gazing drearily at nothing in particular, jumped up and took a book from the shelves and without more ado began to read aloud. “It is better, ma’am,” he explained briefly, glancing at her over his spectacles, “than that you should give yourself over to gloom.”

  Priscilla turned vague eyes on to him. “How can I help gloom?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes, that may be. But nobody should be gloomy at breakfast. The entire day is very apt, in consequence, to be curdled.”

  “It will be curdled anyhow,” said Priscilla, her head sinking on to her chest.

  “Ma’am, listen to this.”

  And with a piece of bread and butter in one hand, from which he took occasional hurried bites, and the other raised in appropriate varying gesticulation, Fritzing read portions of the Persae of Æschylus to her, first in Greek for the joy of his own ear and then translating it into English for the edification of hers. He, at least, was off after the first line, sailing golden seas remote and glorious, places where words were lovely and deeds heroic, places most beautiful and brave, most admirably, most restfully unlike Creeper Cottage. He rolled out the sentences, turning them on his tongue, savouring them, reluctant to let them go. She sat looking at him, wondering how he could possibly even for an instant forget the actual and the present.