thought I’d ever be sick of them?’
‘You still have some old friends,’ Mrs. Prothero replied, taking his hand and squeezing it. ‘But tell me, how long have you been in the country?’
‘I arrived last night, and came straight down here.’
‘Ah. So you haven’t seen any of the family?’
‘No— no. I can’t face them yet. They won’t be as kind to me as you are— and there’s no reason they should be. I know I’ve been a fool, Mrs. P— and selfish above all. But as time passed after—.’ He stopped, and began again. ‘With every week I got worse and worse, and doing the right thing became more and more daunting. So I put it off, I ran away. I couldn’t explain myself then, and I’m not ready now. Not for them.’
‘I see— but you have come back, Silas. That’s a beginning.’
‘I want to make an end first. I’ve come to see her.’
‘Her? Bianca? What do you mean?’
‘Yes, Bianca. I heard she’s here— that you brought her remains to Belmont to be buried in the park, where she used to be so happy. I want to see the place. I need to.’
‘Oh, Silas.’ Mrs. Prothero took a large sip and shook her head. ‘There was nothing to bury. I know this must be hard for you, but it’s no less true. There were no remains after that fire, nothing at all. I put up a monument to her— a memorial urn— but it’s quite empty.’
He blinked. ‘Her ashes, then.’
‘You can see the urn, of course,’ she evaded, unwilling to refute his assumption twice. ‘But that’s all the grave she has. I think she would like to be here, where she first met you, and spent so many merry days.’
He stood again and walked to the window. ‘Will you show me the place?’
‘Gladly, my dear, but can you wait until tomorrow? Stay here tonight, and we’ll drive there in the morning. I’ve a hundred things to do today, and a whole houseful to put up by the weekend.’
‘I’ll walk there now,’ he insisted. ‘Just point out the path.’
‘What, do you think I put her monument at the end of the garden, to remind me every day that my poor Bianca’s gone? Sorry, your poor Bianca. I’m afraid I couldn’t bear that.’
‘Where is it, then?’
‘Up on the hill near Bowertor— you must remember the place. She loved the view from there, over the moors.’
‘But that’s miles away! Even if we drove we’d need to hike across country! Talk about out of sight and out of mind, Mrs. P!’
‘That remark could be as easily levelled at you, Silas,’ Mrs. Prothero returned dryly. ‘When you see the spot, you’ll understand. It’s full of her memory.’
‘Is it?’ He paused. ‘I suppose that’s what matters. I will walk up there now. The trek may help— it’s like a pilgrimage to me in any case. And I’d rather be alone.’
‘You can’t go now, Silas! It’ll be dusk by the time you get there, and pitch dark all the way back!’
‘I don’t care. I’ll camp out, like we used to do. The weather’s clear enough. I don’t need anything— I’ve got all my worldly goods with me.’ He gestured to a small haversack beside the hearth.
‘You’re determined to be a penitent, then. I can run together a sackcloth shirt if you like, and rub some ashes in your hair?’
‘Don’t make me smile when I mean to be sad,’ he rebuked affectionately. ‘I have to do something.’
He would not be diverted from his resolution, and dared all Mrs. Prothero’s efforts to dissuade him from setting out immediately. However, she was successful in pressing him to stay for a bite to eat before embarking, and he felt better for it once on his way.
Beyond the thick woodland of the park, a narrow lane wound out of the valley into the hills above, and Silas followed this until a track branched away across the fields, which he pursued. A series of stiles beyond led him onto high, open ground, pathless and barren, save for the occasional low stone wall dividing the heath. Straggling bushes of gorse, flowering their acrid yellow, and forlorn granite boulders became the only other landmarks to distinguish his direction, but he had traversed this landscape often enough to guess his way without too much difficulty. The real labour was due to the terrain itself: steep and uneven, and alternately harsh with rock and deceptive with marsh. Cold, rapid streams often streaked across his route, and sent him on long detours to ford them, so that he lost more time than he had anticipated. As the light began to dwindle, he tried to quicken his pace in order to reach the monument before sundown, well aware that negotiating the moor would be impossibly dangerous at night.
At length, however, he spied a mass of thicket crowding a ridge ahead, and recognised his destination. Weary and relieved, he attained it. A bower of wind-stunted but resilient trees clothed the side and brow of the hill, and at the summit was a clearing, which fell abruptly away on one side into a gorge. The view was spectacular on bright days, but now it was lost in the obscurity of evening. Hills after hills stretched below, receding into shadow, and the horizon fused with the darkening sky. No lights from the house or park were visible, and Silas felt painfully alone.
He had been here once or twice with Bianca, and she had spoken of it many times, so that the very atmosphere was saturated with her presence, as Mrs. Prothero had suggested; but because of it, Bianca seemed all the more thoroughly gone. All that remained was the monument, a square grey block in the ground, topped by a modest pedestal and urn. There was an inscription on the pedestal, but beyond the name ‘Bianca Doliver’ and a sense of pressing, desperate remembrance, there was nothing of her left. He sat down on the edge of the block and shivered.
As night drew in, Mrs. Prothero pulled her curtains and shivered slightly as well, to think of her godson all alone in that remote place. She consoled herself that the weather, at least, would favour him: the mists would not rise so high, and though the air was cold, and the wind rising, there was no hint of rain. She hoped he would come down from the hillside a calmer, more settled man; but she did not expect it, and went to bed with a resigned sigh.
III
The next morning she took her first cup of coffee— ‘life-giving’ as she called it— and went to sit in her parlour to skim over the newspaper before starting the day. As she passed the window she noticed a figure outside, and soon identified Silas, striding across the lawn with great purpose.
‘Goodness, he must have started early,’ she said, and was soon offering him a steaming cup of his own as he entered.
Silas took no notice, however. He was much too agitated. Without any preface he clasped his godmother by the shoulders and demanded urgently: ‘Sing that song to me, the one you used to sing when I was little!’
Mrs. Prothero blinked. ‘You’re a bit old for nursery rhymes now, Silas. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Not a nursery rhyme, a song. You must remember— about the grave, and the man who sits waiting on it until the ghost of his lover appears— you know the one?’
‘Well, what if I do or don’t?’
‘It happened, I really think it did! “Twelve months and a day” —that’s how the song went, I’m sure: “When twelve months and a day had passed, the ghost began to speak” —isn’t that it?’
‘What “happened”, Silas? I mean to you, not in the song?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I saw her, Mrs. P. I really saw her.’ He released her arms, strode around the room two or three times, and drank his coffee in a single swig.
Mrs. Prothero sat down gingerly, scrutinising his antics with concern. ‘You saw—? Who?’
‘I’ve been trying to remember that song all the way here,’ he said. ‘It’s been buzzing in my head— “When twelve months and a day had passed” —it’s incredible. Incredible.’ He murmured the last word, and finally sank into a chair, lost in thought.
She did not interrupt his silence, and at length he looked up at her and began to explain.
‘It was cold and uncomfortable up there, as you can imagine,’ he began, ‘but you were right abou
t the place, Mrs. P— it’s just perfect for her. I stood leaning against the urn for hours, listening to the wind, remembering. Sometimes I caught myself laughing out loud at the good times— there were good times between us, you know. I thought I’d forgotten all about them. It isn’t easy to think— well— this isn’t what I wanted to tell you. I pulled out that old sleeping bag you gave me and huddled down underneath the plinth, but it was hours before I dozed off— every inch of ground seemed covered in sharp stones, jabbing in my ribs. But I did sleep eventually, because I woke up. I couldn’t tell what woke me— maybe the quiet. It was perfectly still and calm— not a single sound of any kind, but I felt startled for some reason, so I opened my eyes. It was just before dawn. The sky overhead was fading into all kinds of colours, but it wasn’t quite light yet, because the stars were brilliantly clear— millions and millions of them, sparkling in every part of the air. It was because I was so besotted with gazing at them that I turned my head to see more— I turned towards the monument— and there she was. Gliding slowly past me, just— just that moment turning her face away as she went. Oh, but she was beautiful! So beautiful, Mrs. P! Dazzling! And she was wearing this long gown, with wide, billowing skirts exactly the colour of the stars beyond her— the colour of the stars, can you imagine? It was wonderful— everything about her was— transfigured— I can’t explain it. I wanted to call out, draw her
The Burning Bride Page 2