by Gerald Biss
“I believe it has happened at last,” she said; “and do you know, Linc, I believe I should have been horribly jealous of any other girl?”
I nodded solemnly, preoccupied by my thoughts.
“What an old bear you are!” exclaimed the girl. “I must say I don’t envy any girl who gets you as her lot in life. You haven’t a spark of romance in your whole make-up. Yet, after all, I believe I should be frantically jealous of her somehow—in a purely platonic way—from force of habit and old association, I suppose.”
“My dear child,” I replied, recovering my gaiety, “I am a crusty curmudgeon who would certainly be fated to make any romantic young girl abysmally unhappy: so I shall forgo the doubtful pleasure of a personal dip into the matrimonial lucky-tub and play godfather to the lot of you—pantomimes, silver mugs, and all the rest of it.”
“Shut up,” said Ann, taking my arm, “and come and have a game of billiards.”
VI
The next morning Burgess had to go to the farthest corner of the estate to see about some repairs; and I cried off, pleading laziness and the fact that I had promised to drive into Crawley with Ann, who wanted to do some household shopping.
It was a glorious morning, and Ann looked radiant as I took my place beside her in her own special two-seater—a Rover similar to the one in which the poor Bolsovers, who in their newly married happiness and joy of life had always made a special appeal to my imagination, had met their ghastly fate, as I read it, growing more and more certain in my own mind every day of what really had happened.
Ann was in specially high spirits at the excellent news from the “hospital”: and the nurses had allowed her to peep round the screen at “her” patient while he lay there sleeping.
“So pale, Linc, and so frail,” she said, looking at me in her frank sisterly fashion, “but so nice-looking, bandages and all. My whole heart went out to the poor boy lying there: and I can’t tell you how it bucks me up—horrid word, isn’t it, but expressive—to get such good accounts of him. You see, it was I who found him and gave him ‘first aid’: so I was his first nurse, and he is really my patient, I consider, and I always tell the nurses so, whatever they may think! They only laugh and say that, as soon as Sir Humphrey will allow it, they will dress me up in uniform and send me in as the new nurse to take my turn.”
I laughed. It was so like Ann and what I loved about her. Besides that, it was one of God’s own mornings, when one wanted to sing, if it had not for a reservation at the back of one’s mind. The sun was high in the heavens: but was all well with the world? “Oh, Ann dear, you’re a perfect darling,” I cried. “If you weren’t you, I would never know whether you were ingenuous or ingenious! God bless your innocence and keep the ‘u’ where the ‘i’ is with most girls in this day and generation.”
“Whatever do you mean, Linc?” she asked, half-puzzled. “You always talk like a bad actor out of a worse play.”
“I mean I’d marry you myself, my one and only Ann,” I answered, “if I weren’t old enough to be your grandfather and so horribly fond of you—the absurdly mistaken reason for which so many futile folk face a parson in full uniform on a weekday, and agree to make each other mutually miserable for life.”
“It takes two, if not more, to a marriage, my good Linc,” she replied, making an eleven-yearold face at me, which recalled so many happy days. “And now here we are at the butcher’s, where all problems are practical and still-life is served out automatically by the pound and the ounce: so a truce to cynicism and love alike. What shall I get?"
“Devilled kidneys,” I replied, as I helped her out.
“You’ve got to catch your kidney first at a country butcher’s,” she called back over her shoulder, as she entered the shop.
I waited on the pavement, watching the butcher’s assistant cutting off a very large piece of topside, as I lit a cigarette.
“You’ve got a fine show of meat,” I said casually, by way of making conversation: “and that’s a healthy lump for a large family.”
It’s for a very small family, as it happens, sir,” the man replied. “It’s for that old German professor up at the Dower House. He eats a wonderful lot of meat, and very little else: and they do say he eats it mostly raw.”
I started involuntarily. Chance was bringing extraordinary little details to light—tiny corroborations all piecing into one big whole: and again I knew that, for all its bizarreness, that my weird theory was the correct solution, and I was determined to go ahead without allowing myself to be put off or diverted an inch either to the right hand or to the left.
“People talk a parlous lot of nonsense in the country,” I said as lightly as I could, “especially about foreigners.”
And I turned the talk on to other things, wondering, incidentally, that the vagaries of yokel public opinion had not fastened upon the strange old Teuton recluse in connexion with the Brighton Road mysteries for lack of anything more definite.
And then out came Ann triumphant, with the butcher’s boy following with kidneys and a basket-full of other things, and took me off to give the grocer a turn.
VII
After lunch and a game of billiards we started off on our projected visit to the Dower House, walking through the gardens to the wood, and examining the progress of Ann’s pet bulbs, just as Burgess and she had done exactly a fortnight before on the memorable day on which they had chanced upon young Bullingdon: and, as on that day, Whiskers trotted along gaily beside us with a terrier’s joy of living on a fine afternoon.
“What’s that parcel you’ve got there, Linc?” asked Ann. “Something for the Professor?”
“No, my curious child,” I replied, “only a box of chocolates for your blue-eyed Dorothy. It was really intended for you one day when you were good or looked hungry, or tumbled down and hurt your knee—that is, if you still have such things, though we don’t see so much of them as we used to: but I thought it would be nice to take it to Miss Wolff instead, as I don’t suppose down in your out-of-the-way old Dower House very many come her way.”
“Very thoughtful of you, dear Linc—at my expense!” laughed Ann. “What a good thing I’m not so greedy as you used to make me!”
We turned into the dense wood: and, when we came to the place where young Bullingdon had been found, Whiskers showed signs of eagerness to explore, and had to be called to heel.
“He always gets excited now when we get near here,” said Burgess, patting him. “He doesn’t seem to he able to get over his discovery, and is inordinately proud of the big part he played. Good dog, good dog.”
The last to Whiskers, who looked up and wagged his tail frantically, coming on after us with a wistful look back from time to time.
Then we struck off to the right where the path forked, and began to descend between the dense trees. These had been to an extent cleared round the house itself, which was officially approached by a drive through the wood on the other side, and lay in a gloomy garden, disproportionately small for its importance, with only patches of sun-light amidst the prevailing shadow.
The whole atmosphere was one of dampness amongst the trees, and there were one or two big pools to the side of the track as we drew near to the little slip-gate into the woods; and I noticed Whiskers, who trotted up and sniffed one, shake his head and run off, whining as though frightened. I purposely made no remark, but went across, as though casually, and examined it. The water had a strange, unpleasant appearance—turgid, with a strange lurid sparkle of its own out of keeping with the shadow around, as though the water itself held some strange individual life within it: and it had a peculiar, though not very strong odour, which was quite distinctive.
At the gate I rejoined Ann and Burgess, bending down to pat Whiskers reassuringly, knowing how susceptible a dog is—in fact most, if not all, animals are—to the human touch when frightened: and he looked up into my face and began again to cock his tail and wag it.
“No wonder your Georgian ancestor sacrificed architecture
to hygiene and sunshine, Burge,” I said, glad that neither of them appeared to have noticed anything strange about either the clog or myself: “and you ought to be grateful to him for risking the accusation of vandalism or swank, and building for his descendants a fine airy hill-top abode in the sun. And he certainly wasn’t a vandal either, as the house he built is the perfection of the period,” I added lightly—the atmosphere I wanted to preserve at all costs. “I wonder that you don’t scrap some of your personal artistic instincts, and at least clear off all the trees for a good distance round and give the sun a chance, even in such a hollow, of burning out the dampness.”
Burgess laughed.
“I have often thought of it, but somehow hated the idea—silly prejudice in these days, I suppose: but I must admit that it seems to have grown worse of late, more oppressive somehow and a trifle mouldy. I’ll talk to the Professor about it.”
VIII
And so we passed into the garden: and somehow I could appreciate his feeling with the true American’s love of the tradition we so largely lack in our own lives and surroundings, as I looked upon the low, mullion-windowed house with its stone court and big old stone barn to the right, the sole remnant the original Clymping Castle with its historic memories. Beyond the barn was a glimpse of old red wall, such as folk can’t grow nowadays—and Americans envy— concealing the kitchen garden beyond, which lay to the right of the front garden and got more sum, but not much withal.
The whole place wore an air of neglect, quite different from the last time I had seen it; and did not tend to cheer one, especially in my particular mood.
“Damned bad tenant you’ve got anyhow, Burge,” I said a trifle caustically. “The place looks and smells horribly neglected.”
Burgess laughed a little awkwardly, if not apologetically.
“The Professor does not keep a gardener,” he said. “I suppose he doesn’t understand our ways. I must send one of the men down to tidy up a bit, and suggest to him to get someone.”
I made no further comment, realizing the psychology of the situation and knowing how much more it must irk tidy, methodical, agricultural old Burgess than my casual self. But obviously he did not want to quarrel with his tenant’s shortcomings for private reasons.
We made our way round the house and found Dorothy at the front, ostensibly gardening, but in reality waiting for our arrival.
She advanced a trifle flushed and more beautiful than ever, taking off a pair of muddy gloves as she held out her hands to Ann and kissed her.
“This is indeed kind of you all,” she said, greeting Burgess and myself more discreetly. “I am tidying up a bit and admiring all the bulbs, not only the ones that are in bloom, but those coming on. I love tulips—great tall Darwin tulips, like regiments of Guards with all sorts of wonderful coloured head-dresses. One begins to get tired of white and yellow as the spring goes on and summer approaches.”
“You will find plenty of them here, Miss Wolff,” said Burgess eagerly; “and I will tell you where all the different sorts are and what colours to expect. Ann and I love them, too; and it is a hobby of ours to work out designs and colour schemes. Next month you will find them a picture; and you will love ours up at the Manor, I’m sure.”
I gave the pair a little moment of their own, the old prelude to the love song—without words; or with words used to disguise intention, which Talleyrand diagnosed to be their proper use in this wicked world.
Then I broke in, greeting my hostess: “From the sublime to the succulent, Miss Wolff! I have brought you a box of chocolates, and shall be so glad if you’ll relieve me of them my arm is getting tired with carrying them.”
“It is kind of you, Mr. Osgood,” said the girl, turning to me: “and what a big box! It will last me weeks and weeks. A year ago I would have eaten them in a day or two: but somehow, in my old age, I am not nearly so fond of sweet things as I used to be.”
Again I started, mentally more than physically. Strange ideas surged up, one confirming another: and this one was fraught with a strange mixture of disturbance, touched with a certain assurance.
“Ann will always help,” I said, laughing nevertheless.
Another thing I had noticed which gave me an unpleasant qualm—almost a feeling of nausea. At her breast Dorothy Wolff was wearing a weird orange flower covered with hideous black protruding spots, which suggested more than anything else some particularly noxious disease—a flower the like of which I would dare have bet had never been seen in England before.
The beastly thing, fraught with ill omen, irritated my nerves beyond all words: and I felt that I must take some action to relieve my feelings, as I could not spend the whole afternoon with its offensiveness under my nose.
Meanwhile, the conversation had become general; and we began to stroll round the garden, Burgess telling Dorothy about the bulbs and pointing out the different names and colours that were due to reveal themselves the following month. I was silent, wondering how I could get the girl alone for a moment, when chance, as so often in fact as well as in fiction, came to my rescue.
“Oh, look there, Burge,” cried Ann, pointing to the hedge that divided the garden to the left of the house from a field, “some big animal has made a hole in the hedge—a cow, I suppose. It will want seeing to; or they will be straying into the garden and doing damage to the beds. It’s just by dear old granny’s favourite herbaceous border, too.”
And with proprietorial instinct they both moved off to examine the damage.
I seized the opportunity without beating about the bush.
“Wherever did you get that flower?” I asked abruptly.
“My father gave it to me,” she answered. “With his peculiar scientific tastes he seems rather to admire them, though he treats all flowers as mere specimens, so far as that goes.”
“Wherever did he get it from?” I asked, with something deeper than idle curiosity.
“Oh, he brought some roots from the Balkans with him to see if they would grow in this country,” she replied without any reserve: “and this is one of the first results—small but satisfactory, he says.”
“Where are they?” I asked; and she led me across to a damp corner of the garden under some tall trees.
There was a small hollow; and in it a small puddle of the same queer water. Whiskers, who had stuck close to me as though for protection since I had patted him, again began to whine and grow restive; and I had to pat him reassuringly once more. Then he turned tail and ran across to Burgess.
Round the banks of the hollow were growing other flowers like the one at the girl’s breast, though not so far out in bloom—not only this hideous orange variety with its black spots, but vivid white and some red ones as well.
“May I examine yours?” I said, holding out my hand.
She took it from her breast and handed it to me without demur: and I took it and examined its orange and black hideousness carefully. It had a faint and sickly smell, subtly suggestive of death, and from its stalk oozed a sticky white sap.
“Of the snapdragon family,” I said quietly.
Then I threw it, apparently impulsively, upon the ground and crushed it under my heel. “Ugh, what a damnable thing! It makes me positively sick.”
Then I made as though to recover myself, as I saw a half-look of fear in her eyes.
“Oh, I am sorry, Miss Wolff,” I apologized. “Can you forgive my rudeness?”
“Yes,” she answered, taking no offence and speaking with more truth than she knew, “you meant no harm: but my father…”
“Your father? Yes, please don’t tell him I destroyed one of his botanical experiments: he would never forgive me. For my sake you must pretend you lost it: you needn’t say how.”
We heard Ann and Burgess coming up from behind to join us, and we turned to meet them before she could reply: but I had gathered the fact from the sudden look in her eyes that she was afraid of the saturnine old Professor, and my heart went out to her with a redoubled determination to shield
her, if not too late, from the horrible doom that was hanging so closely over her head. But it was a heart doubly heavy for Burgess’s sake.
“Yes, some animal has broken through,” called out Burgess, as we walked forward to meet them, leaving the ill-omened hollow behind us. “I must speak to Hedges or Reece about it, and have it fixed up some time; but at present there are no beasts of any sort in the field.”
“What wonderfully quick eyes you have got, Ann,” I said, again getting on to the lighter tack essential to the salvation of the situation. “Thank the Lord I’m not your husband; or I should be afraid to come into the house with my boots on the country, or to go out for the evening on my own in town.”
“My dear Linc,” she answered, in a tone of assumed haughtiness, “if you laid your face and your fortune—and your face is certainly not your fortune, I may add—at my feet, wild automobiles would never drag me like a lamb to the altar. People soon get tired of chocolates; and they are your only excuse or saving grace in my life.”
“Did you ever hear such a couple for nagging at other?” laughed Burgess to Dorothy. “They really ought to be married; and I believe that old Solomon would refuse a decree nisi from his appreciation of the fitness of things, and his wonderfully sardonic sense of humour.”
IX
We were approaching the house; and my eyes ran over it with a sense of deep affection, half-love of architecture and half-sympathy with Burgess—a masterpiece in miniature, an epitome of tradition. But I think what had always fascinated me most was the wide, massive, rather squat front door of fifteenth-century oak, windswept by Sussex sou’-westers for close on four hundred years, and studded with great nails of iron. Round it was a weather-beaten stone arch, surmounted by the old Clympynge arms over the door upon a stone shield, almost erased by the tooth of time—a bend with three escallops charged upon it, between six bulls’ heads cabossed, with the motto “Ascendo” underneath—supposed to be an example of heraldic word-play, falsely connecting the name of Sir Burgess de Clympynge, the Norman founder of the family, with the word “climbing.”