The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “That’s not toiling. That’s fun.”

  “It’s meant...” Alice paused and said with effort: “figuratively.”

  “People who make shirts get very little money,” said Alice. “They work by candlelight all day and all night and they die of consumption because they don’t get enough fresh air and food.”

  “How horrible!”

  “It’s life. Thomas Hood wrote a wonderful poem about it.”

  Alice began to quote in a deep sepulchral voice:

  “Stitch, stitch, stitch,

  In poverty hunger and dirt.

  Stitching at once with a double thread

  A shroud as well as a shirt.”

  “Shroud,” screeched Allegra. “These aren’t shrouds; they’re pillowcases.”

  “Well,” said Alice coolly, “they didn’t think they were stitching shrouds. They thought they were shirts.”

  I interrupted them and said what a ghoulish conversation. Wasn’t it time Alice put her pillowcase-cum-shroud away and came to the piano?

  Neatly she folded her work, threw back her hair and rose obediently.

  Lovat Stacy was indeed haunted—by the gypsy Serena Smith. I often saw her near the house, and once or twice strolling across the garden. She did not do this furtively but as if by right and I was becoming more and more convinced that she was Allegra’s mother. That would account for her proprietary air and her insolence.

  Coming into the house one day I heard her voice—shrill and carrying.

  “You’d better, hadn’t you?” she was saying. “You wouldn’t want to go against me, would you? Ha. There’s people here that wouldn’t like me telling things about them but you more than anyone, I reckon. That’s the way I see it. So there’ll be none of this talk about ‘Get the gypsies off.’ The gypsies are here to stay ... see!”

  There was silence and I thought sick at heart: Napier, oh Napier. What trouble you have brought on yourself. How could you become involved with a woman like this!

  Then the voice again. “Oh yes, Amy Lincroft ... Amy Lincroft. I could let out some secrets about you and your precious daughter, couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t want that.”

  “Amy Lincroft.” Not Napier!

  I was about to turn away when Serena Smith came out. She was running and her face was flushed and her eyes sparkling. How like Allegra she looked—Allegra in a mischievous mood!

  “Why,” she cried, “if it’s not the music lady! Ear to the ground, eh, lady ... or to the keyhole?” She burst out laughing, and I could do nothing but walk into the hall.

  No one was there and I wondered whether Mrs. Lincroft had heard her remarks. She must have. But I expected she was too embarrassed to talk to me.

  At dinner Mrs. Lincroft was as cool and calm as ever. “I hope you like the way I’ve cooked this beef, Mrs. Verlaine. Alice, take this beef tea up to Sir William, will you? And when you come down I’ll be ready to serve.”

  Alice carried the dainty tray out of the room and I said what an obedient child she was.

  “It’s a great comfort to me that she should be so,” said Mrs. Lincroft. My thoughts immediately went to the words of the gypsy; and I wondered once again whether there ever had been a Mr. Lincroft or whether Alice was the result of a youthful indiscretion. This could be likely for I had never heard Mr. Lincroft mentioned.

  Mrs. Lincroft seemed to read my thoughts for she said: “I do wish Mrs. Rendall would not interfere with the gypsies. They’re doing no harm.”

  “She certainly seems determined to drive them away.”

  “If only she were as gentle and peace-loving as her husband how much more comfortable life would be for us.”

  “And for the vicar and Sylvia particularly.”

  Mrs. Lincroft nodded.

  “I expect you’ve guessed who this Serena Smith is. You’ve heard some of the family history.”

  “You mean she’s Allegra’s mother.”

  Mrs. Lincroft nodded. “It’s all so unfortunate. Why ever she was allowed to come here in the first place I can’t imagine. She worked in the kitchen ... though she did little work. And then of course she became embroiled with Napier ... and Allegra was the result. It all came out immediately after Beaumont’s death when Napier was preparing to leave. She stayed here till the child was born and then she went.”

  “Poor Allegra!”

  “I came back and looked after her in time ... It suited me well as I was able to bring Alice with me.”

  “Yes,” I said sympathetically.

  “And now here she is again ... ready to make trouble unless we allow the gypsies to stay. That would be all right. They would never stay long. But that dreadful interfering woman has to try to make an issue of it Do you know I believe she likes to make trouble.”

  At that moment Mrs. Lincroft really looked troubled; there was a frown between her eyes and she bit her lips, lowering her eyes as she did so.

  Alice came back; she was a little flushed and her eyes were dancing.

  “He’s taking it, Mamma. He said it was very good and that no one knew how to make it just like you.”

  “Then he is a little better.”

  “And it is all thanks to you, Mamma,” said Alice.

  “Come to the table, my dear,” said Mrs. Lincroft, “and I’ll serve.”

  I thought how pleasant it was to see the affection between those two.

  Sir William was a little better, for the next day Mrs. Lincroft joyfully told me that he had expressed a desire to hear me play. He had not been told about the fire. There was no need to upset him, said Mrs. Lincroft and I agreed with her. Since that unfortunate occasion when I had played Dame Macabre I had not been to the room next to his. I could quite imagine why not. Any reminder of that day would be most distressing to him. However, it was clearly a good sign that he had asked for me to play.

  “Something light and quiet that you have played before,” said Mrs. Lincroft. “He hasn’t chosen. He’s not really well enough. But you will know.”

  “Schumann, I should think,” I said.

  “I am sure you’re right. And not too long...”

  I was a little nervous remembering that other occasion; but as soon as I played I felt better. After half-an-hour I stopped playing and as I turned from the piano I was startled to see someone in the room—a woman with her back to me wearing a hat of black lace trimmed with pink roses. She was looking up at the picture of Beau and for a moment I thought that this was indeed the dead Isabella. Then there was a laugh and Sybil turned to face me.

  “I startled you,” she whispered.

  I admitted. “If Sir William had seen you,” I said, “he might have...”

  She shook her head. “He couldn’t leave his chair. And it was your playing that shocked him.”

  “I played only what was put out for me.”

  “Oh, I know. I know. I’m not blaming you, Mrs. Verlaine.” She laughed. “So you thought you really had lured my sister-in-law from the grave by your playing? Confess it.”

  “You intended me to think that, did you?”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t want to frighten you. I just didn’t think of it. I put on my hat because I thought of going into the garden. And I came in here instead. You didn’t hear me. You were so absorbed in your music. You are all right now. I don’t frighten you, do I? You are very calm, you know, even now after what happened in that cottage. You’re like Mrs. Lincroft. She has to be cool, doesn’t she, for fear of betraying herself. Do you have to be calm for the same reason?”

  “I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

  “Don’t you? William is asleep now, so he is perfectly safe. Your music soothed him. ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.’ He’s not savage now, but he has been. Come up to my studio. I want to show you something. I’ve started on my portrait of you.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Kind. I’m not kind. I’m not doing it for kindness. It’s because you’re becoming involved
... part of the house. I’ve watched.”

  “I came here to play for Sir William.”

  “But he’s asleep. Go and look.”

  I went to the door and looked into his room. She was right. He was fast sleep.

  “You might wake him if you played on.”

  She laid her hand on my arm ... that little hand with the long tapering artist’s fingers which had once worn the ring she had thrown into the sea.

  “Come on,” she coaxed. So I went.

  In the studio I at once recognized the picture as a portrait of myself, although it shocked me a little. Did I really look as cool and worldly as she had depicted me? The features were mine—the slightly tiptilted nose, the large eyes and the heavy dark hair. There was even a touch in the eyes of that romanticism on account of which Pietro had teased me. But I felt that a veneer of sophistication was there which I did not believe I possessed.

  She watched my vague discomfiture with a faintly malicious delight.

  “You recognize it,” she accused me.

  “Oh, yes, of course. There can be no doubt who it is.”

  She put her head on one side and regarded me shrewdly. “You know,” she said, “you are beginning to change. The house is doing that to you. It does something to everyone. A house is a living thing, don’t you agree, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  I said that as it was made of bricks and mortar I did not see how it could be.

  “You are being deliberately obtuse, I know. Houses are alive. Think what they’ve seen. Joys, tragedies...” Her face crumpled. “These walls have seen me weep and weep until I had no tears left ... and then they saw me rise like the phoenix and find a reason to be happy again with my painting. That’s what happens to great artists sometimes, Mrs. Verlaine. And I’m an artist ... not only in paint. Sybil! That’s what my parents christened me. Did you know it meant a wise woman?”

  I said I did.

  “Well, I watch and learn ... so I grow wise. That Mrs. Rendall ... I should paint her, I suppose. But she’s too obvious, isn’t she? Everyone can see what she is like. They don’t need to be told. Other people are less obvious. Amy Lincroft for instance. Ah, there’s a deep one. And she’s worried now ... I sense it. She thinks I don’t. But she betrays it in her hands. They pick up things and put them down. She’s practiced keeping her face in order ... she’s practiced very hard at that. But everyone has some special thing which betrays them. With Amy Lincroft it’s her hands. She’s afraid. She lives in fear. She has a secret ... a black black secret, and she’s a frightened woman. But she’s lived with fear and thinks she knows how to hold it in check. But I wasn’t called Sybil for nothing, so I know it.”

  “Poor Mrs. Lincroft. I’m sure she’s a very good woman.”

  “You see what’s on the surface. You’re not a painter. You’re only a musician. But we didn’t come here to talk about Mrs. Lincroft, did we? Lincroft! Ha! Ha! We came to talk about you. Do you like this picture?”

  “I’m sure it has great merit.”

  She laughed again. “You amuse me, Mrs. Verlaine. Now you know I didn’t ask you whether it had merit. I said: ‘Do you like it?’ ”

  “I ... I’m not sure.”

  “It’s perhaps not you today ... but you tomorrow.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m painting you as you’re becoming, Mrs. Verlaine. Very sure of yourself ... very much the lady of the vicarage ... who is learning to be the bishop’s wife. Very successful ... she will help the bishop in every way possible and everyone will say: The dear bishop is so fortunate. What a lot he owes to that efficient wife of his.’ ”

  “I think you must have been taking a few lessons from the gypsies.”

  “ ‘Clever conversationalist! Never at a loss! That’s such an asset to the dear bishop, you know.’ ” She pouted. “I don’t much like the bishop’s wife, Mrs. Verlaine. But that won’t matter because I shan’t have to see her, shall I? I can see her at the breakfast table smiling across the napery at her husband. Oh this is years and years ahead and she is saying: ‘And what was the name of that place where we met? Lovat Something? Such odd people! I wonder what became of them all.’ And the bishop will wrinkle his brow and try to recall and he won’t be able to. But she will. She will go to her bedroom alone and think and think and there’ll be a pain because ... because ... But you don’t want me to go on.”

  She laughed aloud and whipped the canvas from the easel exposing that of the three girls.

  “Poor poor Edith! What does she look like now, I wonder. But it is nice to remember them as they were together. One moment. I have another picture of you.”

  “Of me? What a quick worker you are.”

  “Only when my hands are guided.”

  “Who guides them?”

  “If I told you I was guided by Inspiration, Intuitiveness, and Genius you wouldn’t believe me, would you? So I won’t mention it. But here you are again. There.”

  She had put a picture on the easel which was recognizable as myself though it was quite different from the one it had replaced. My hair was flowing loose; there was an expression of rapture on the painted face; my shoulders rose bare from a sea green smock. It was beautiful. I gasped and could not take my eyes from it.

  She crowed with delight and pressing her palms together stood on one foot like a child.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s a wonderful picture. But I don’t look like that.”

  “You don’t look like the woman in the other ... yet.”

  I looked from one picture to the other and she whispered: “I told you ... I told you...” Then she went on: “This woman is happy and she is sad ... and she lives. The other is calm and grows more and more contented as the years pass by. Cows are contented chewing the cud. Did you know that, Mrs. Verlaine? They put their heads down and see the rich verdant grass. It is all they ask because they do not see anything else.”

  “Well, which is myself? They can’t both be.”

  “But none of us is one person. I could have been a wife and mother if Harry had not deceived me and if he had not met a richer girl he would still have deceived me but I should not have known it, should I? It isn’t so much what we know as what we believe. I wonder if you agree with me. If you don’t now, you will some day. Two paths are opening for you, Mrs. Verlaine. You will choose. You chose once before. Oh Mrs. Verlaine, you are not as wise as you pretend to be. Once you had a big decision to make ... and you didn’t choose your music. Were you right ... or wrong? Only you can say because it is what you believe to be right which will be right for you. Perhaps you believe you have been unwise once. You are lucky. Second chances are not given to us all. This time you must make the right choice. I never had a second chance...” Her face puckered. “I wept and wept...” She came dose to me. “I think you’ll choose safety this time, Mrs. Verlaine. Yes, I think you will.”

  She disturbed me, I was sure she was mad, and yet ... She seemed to have an uncanny gift for reading my thoughts for she said: “Of course I’m mad, Mrs. Verlaine. My misfortunes drove me mad, but there are always compensations. Blind people find them. They become philosophical. So why shouldn’t the mad find them? Some are given special powers, special insight. They sometimes see what others fail to. That’s a pleasant thought, isn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine? There are always compensations.”

  “I think it’s a comforting philosophy.”

  She laughed aloud. “So diplomatic. Yes, I think it will be the bishop’s wife. But it shows you have changed doesn’t it? The bishop’s wife would have chosen music.”

  Her expression changed again; it became sly, malevolent.

  “But,” she said, “it may be that you won’t be either if you meddle. You are a meddler.” She was her childish self again, lifting an admonishing finger. “Admit it. You know what happens to those who try to find out too much when there are wicked people about.” She laughed. “You ought to know. It nearly happened to you, didn’t it?”

  She stood in the c
enter of the room nodding like a mandarin, an incongruous figure, her flowery, feminine hat shading her wrinkled face, a shrewd wisdom looking out of her mad eyes.

  I pictured her writing that note, creeping into my room with it, hiding herself in the outhouse, waiting, sprinkling the floor with the paraffin oil that was left in the drum.

  But why?

  How could I know what secrets this old house was hiding, and how each member of this household was concerned in them?

  Roma, I thought, what did you discover?

  Sybil had disturbed me more than I cared to admit

  Everyone seemed to have decided that an understanding was growing between myself and Godfrey Wilmot, and in a way it was true. I could dream if I wanted to of a peaceful future and I did; but when I dreamed of it, it was not Godfrey I saw but my children. It’s natural, I told myself. Every woman wants children; and when she is of a mature age and never expected to have them, then the prospect is very desirable indeed. Yet ... But why should there be any doubts? I was lucky, as Sybil said. I had a second chance. Or I could have—if I took care not to meddle.

  When I was with Godfrey the time passed quickly and pleasantly but there were occasions when I did not want his company. I liked to be alone with my thoughts and one of my favorite spots was the little walled garden. Perhaps because she was such an observant little person Alice knew this. She came into the walled garden on this afternoon and asked in a demure voice whether she was disturbing me.

  “Of course not, Alice,” I said. “Have you done your practice?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Verlaine, and I came to talk to you.”

  “That was nice of you. Sit down for a moment. It’s very pleasant in this garden.”

  “You love it, don’t you, Mrs. Verlaine? I’ve often seen you here. So quiet and peaceful, isn’t it? I expect you will make a garden like this in your new home.”

  “My new home?”

  “When you’re married.”

  “My dear Alice, I have been married once and I am not engaged to do so again.”