The Black Fox A Novel Of The Seventies

by Gerald Heard

  in any of the coverts and ever there would be a fox round the house barking, calling at him, they would say."

  "Mrs, Binyon!" his voice was raised, "I will not have that kind of superstitious and insane nonsense spoken in a Protestant Christian household!"

  For a moment he felt ashamed at having used such a term and such a method. His shame was, however, instantly expunged by relief. Mrs. Binyon, accused of unchristian, unprotestant views recollected herself. Of course she could not deny to herself that she had picked up those theories and fancies over in Catholic Ireland where anything, as you might say, might take place. The gale of her conviction suddenly fell. But that, as might have been expected, by a better student of humanity than the Dean, permitted the deluge of her grief to break.

  "I am indeed sorry, Sir, that I should have repeated such things, but, Sir, with poor dear Miss Laetitia, lying as you might say "

  He was determined that nothing more should be said by her or him. He swung open the door and pointed to the stairs. Already the handkerchief had been mounted to mast-head so 'that Cook's mouth and nose were covered. Wiping her now pouring eyes Cook picked her way to her kitchen, her chair and a strong cup of tea.

  Still she had been right. And the Dean himself, with a suppressed bewilderment, realized that there was nothing now that he or his staff could do about it. The two nights before the funeral, he heard the rapid barks as though they were peremptory calls, repeated knocks summoning a doorkeeper to open or take the consequences.

  After the funeral there was silence. Indeed nothing happened till a February day which was calm, still and sunny. He took a turn in the garden. Half-way down against the south-looking wall was a fine Forsythia, the first thing to bloom. He had gone over to examine the hundreds of bright yellow blossoms, almost like small gold flames in the level sunlight. Then turning back to the long alley of mown grass that led up to the house, he glanced its whole length, for it ran from the house to the wrought-iron gate in the brick wall that terminated the formal garden. The design was finished off down at that end by a sundial set on an ample paved base. Evidently, on a day as mild as this, the few hours of sunlight had been sufficient to warm the stone pleasantly. For stretched on it lay a small dark fox. It certainly was not very shy for, though it looked wary, it did not make at once for the shrubbery, but watched him with its head on one side. He went quietly, slowly toward it until he could see that the thick hair of its coat was really a dark walnut tint. It rose then but stood its ground and when he paused not half a dozen yards from it, it stretched itself and actually took a step in his direction. Then it too paused. It turned its head even more on one side as it watched and held one of its fore-paws raised, as though wondering whether it might come closer. He could see the bright amber of its eyes.

  Suddenly he raised his arm. It darted across the strip of lawn and into the thick yew hedge. He did not cross the herbaceous border to look into the hedge. But after he had had his tea in the great parlor he went to the window, drew aside the curtain that the maid had already pulled to and looked out into the garden.

  A fox was standing some three yards outside.

  That night was as still as the day had been. But though he was awake several times he did not hear any barking. In the end he nearly overslept himself, waking with a start, not certain that the housemaid had not knocked at the door with his tea and shaving water. He sat up—no, he had not overslept —the room was still in dusk; outside the day could not have come fully. The house, too, was still. Then he was aware that someone might be, must be standing, just outside the bedroom door. He nearly caDed out "Come in."

  But a moment after he felt sharp relief that he had not done so, when down at the door threshold he heard a long breath being drawn. He bent toward the side of the bed nearer the door and listened. Perhaps a minute later he heard steps coming up the stairs. When they reached the landing they stopped for a moment and he was not sure that he did not catch a suppressed exclamation. Then they came on till they were at the door. There came a low tap.

  He answered with relief, Yes, now it was the maid. He thought that after her "Good morning" she might be about to add something. If so she thought better of it.

  He lay for a while sipping his tea and wondering whether in this case it was well or ill that the silence, which he had done so much to teach his household, had been observed. He could not make up his mind for his mind was not clear as to the matter of fact* To decide whether or not he would like to be informed it would be necessary surely that one should know whether there was information to be had?

  That point at least settled itself without undue delay. First he saw the intruder at the end of the entrance hall, a large almost empty space but not too well lit. Then a couple of evenings after he was sure it was in his study. He heard something move and looking up from the circle of bright light given by his reading lamp caught sight of two small bright eyes. They seemed to have been caught by his sudden movement of his head. The animal was not grooming itself. He and it regarded each other, his face as expressionless as its mask. Then it moved off into the shadow. He remained looking for some while at the spot. He did not get up to investigate. At dinner that night, when, as he liked, the dishes had been put on the table and he had been left, he was reading a book. Looking up over the top of it he saw the fire burning pleasantly and seated in front of it, not looking at him, sat this dark-haired fox. He could see the sheen of the flames on its thick glossy coat.

  "A fine little animal," he remarked in a low voice.

  It did not stir at the sound of his voice nor did he stir to come near it. He bent his eyes to go on reading. After a little while, when he put out his hand to touch the bell, he saw that the hearth rug was vacant.

  This absence continued for some three days. Then, though the snuffling did not come at his bedroom door again, he saw the creature in most of the other rooms and in fairly good light. It appeared last of all in his bedroom. He had gone to sleep but woke up, he judged, before long. The waking was of that sort that he felt not the slightest drowsiness left in him. On the contrary, he was restless and, acting on the impulse, got out of bed. The moonlight was coming through a chink left by the curtains not being close drawn. He went across and looked out at the night. The moon was still fairly high—a partial moon, the incomplete disk made by sections of two convex curves. He looked at it for some time, as though he were trying to recall something. Then he drew the curtains and turned back toward the bed.

  The room naturally now appeared to him completely dark. But knowing his position and that the dressing table was near him, he put out his hand. A box of matches was kept there to light the two candles which stood each side of the big mirror. His hand found it and he struck a light He saw himself looming in the long glass and behind his white figure the white glimmering surface of the bed with the sheets thrown back. On this vague whiteness there was a small dark body.

  He whirled round so fast that the match in the draft went out. He felt behind him—he did not dare to turn his back—found the matches again, succeeded in lighting one and this time looked directly at the bed. There was nothing there but the rumpled sheeting. Carefully he turned again and lit one of the candles, peering into the glass as soon as he had done so. Again the bed was obviously vacant. He did not dare, though, to go to it. He lit the other candle, went to the wardrobe, took out a heavy dressing gown and sat himself in an easy chair. The candles burnt down to the socket but at last the dawn came. He had not dozed for a moment. He drew the curtains and looked out at the grey morning. Then he looked in the mirror at a face far more grey and dismal, a face that became almost ghastly as he involuntarily looked over the mirror-image's shoulder and scanned the empty bed. He brought himself to go and look directly at the sheets. No, there was nothing there, no trace, imprint, not a hair. He sat down utterly exhausted after that, with his eyes closed.

  At last he said one word, "Laetitia!"

  THE DEAN LEFT HIS HOUSE AS SOON AS HE HAD MADE A PRETENCE
of breakfasting and conducting family prayers. Outside he started in the direction of the Palace but after a few steps he changed his course and went toward the town. He met Dr. Wilkes just leaving on an early round and asked him if he could spare him a minute. Still he needed the Doctor to begin the interview for him.

  "Mr. Dean, remember the old advice a stitch in time—to which I would tack on a later saw, Better a little now than nothing soon!"

  "You think I have become tired again so soon!"

  "This is to be expected. You have been through much." He added as complimentary enquiry, "Don't you find that those who can best show least must feel most? No one can practise the care and cure of bodies and not realize how the mind takes it out of the body."

  "But"—the, Dean disregarded the personal reference "—the Dean's task is not that of a rest-taker whether lying abed in the Deanery or 'lying abroad' as the old phrase was about ambassadors."

  The minimal joke eased a little their exchange. The Doctor was able to press his point.

  "I don't think you realize how tired you were last time and therefore how remarkable was your resilience and the benefit you won from such short change. If I may say so, sooner or later a man of flawless health is confronted with a problem weaker humanity is prepared for by a lifetime of intermittent ailing. There comes a day when the best of us discover that we must give ourselves more time, must wait while Nature makes necessary time-taking replacements. As I say, this knowledge tends to come suddenly on the outstandingly hale. An expected external shock precipitates—"

  He left the sentence uncompleted. He felt genuinely sorry for this stiff, fineminded, withered-hearted man, now left in that complete loneliness that in the end envelopes those who have only permitted as much intimacy and affection as they can use for their own convenience.

  'Well, that's my advice. And I'm making it for the Close as much as for yourself."

  He felt a certain pleasure in being able to advise one so aloof, the genial patronage of the expert called in to speak as a special witness.

  'We're proud of you, Mr. Dean, and we want our scholar who gives this quiet little place its prestige, to live out finely his full allotment of years. I think you will agree with me that scholarship is a fruit which, like the fig, depends on a late warm summer."

  A friendliness which certainly had in it an assumption of at least temporary equality, and would certainly at any other time have been resented, now seemed almost welcome.

  "Well"—and the Dean tried to keep his tone at the same officially unanxious level—"today you of the lancet and the bottle speak with the authority once possessed by the pastoral staff and the mitre. I'll think it over."

  "He d better," Dr. Wilkes said aloud as he watched the tall black figure stride back toward the Cathedral gate. 'That walk is too rigid. He's brittle. If he wasn't a Dean you'd think that masked nervous hurry showed a bad conscience. Well he may blame himself for his sister s death and maybe has some right Steady selfishness probably accounts for more murders—by causing a kind of anaemia of the spirit in the kindly—than does arsenic."

  The Dean, however, at that moment was thinking what he would say to the Bishop. Arriving at the Palace he was shown up at once. Bishop Bendwell was at work at his desk with young Halliwell who withdrew. The Bishop rose and put his hand on his visitor's shoulder.

  "Sit down, sit down."

  Then having done so himself he looked with his head on one side at the figure which certainly showed a slackness that was as uncharacteristic as it was significant. And with a snap-judgment speed that was as uncharacteristic of himself the Bishop found himself saying, "Easter will give us time this year. Do you know, just before we get into Lent, it strikes me it would be wise for you to run off and have a week at Cambridge or Brighton if it suits you better. Cambridge did you so much good last year, and now with this sorrow—yes, I advise it as your spiritual physician."

  "Well." There was a faint relief in the voice. "Do you know that was the very question on which I came to consult you. The man of the body has just pressed the same counsel on me."

  "Out of the mouth of two witnesses shall everything be established." The Bishop quoted with kindly unction, then rose. Tm as busy as a banker at a quarter day. You get off as soon as you can and be back as fresh as you were on your last return so we

  can get through Lent and Easter all right. You know there can be no help from me once the Confirmations begin!"

  Halliwell, hearing the visitor go, returned.

  "Well," remarked his master, not looking up as the assistant resumed his place, "at least I didn't waste any time with the inevitable and on the irrelevant. It's nerves of course. He's obviously physically as strong, and probably as temperamentally touchy, as one of his Arab horses. A good deal of remorse, no doubt, and aperture of expression atrophied. My oculist told me if the tear duct is blocked and you want to weep it may be quite painful. You have no comment? Well discretion, Anglicanism, pet virtue, has been called the silent hyphen between Charity and Truth."

  He smiled now, looking across at his reseated Chaplain. The smile, however, was reflected only as far as the mouth's courtesy-contour. It did not rise to the eyes. They were questioning. The Bishop did not wish to disturb his deeper doubts with questions of obscure motive. He turned to some patronage requests—the psychology there was simple enough.

  The Dean went back to the Deanery, not comforted, but (the penultimate word the Bishop had used came sounding aptly into his mind) confirmed. The mail was now laid out. He had forgotten to look at it before he had left after breakfast. He ran it through his hands as he stood in the hall—it was composed of local messages, most of them no doubt conventional condolences. Ah, there was one with the Cambridge postmark. He looked round the hall for a moment before tearing it open. No, he was quite alone in the empty stone place. He glanced again at the handwriting. Of course! How absent-minded he was becoming: it was McPhail's. It ran:

  MY DEAR DEAN:

  I should have written to you before. But, as I was able, after those days last summer, to judge to some extent the degree of your

  bereavement, I felt I should wait until, as the Scriptures say, the days of mourning were accomplished. Please do not think that I am suggesting that a sorrow such as yours will disappear with time. My intention only is to say that it will as we know clarify into an acceptance. And, though in the first days there is a numbing shock, after that—if I may put it so—the voice of a friend and his company need not prove that "vinegar upon nitre" of which the Book of Proverbs speaks.

  I am writing this letter, then, for two reasons: First, to express to you the deepest sympathy for the loss of so fine and indeed, I would say advisedly, so noble a character and companion as Miss Throcton (for though I had the pleasure of but a short acquaintance, I had the opportunity of forming the highest estimate of her worth); and, secondly, to ask whether you would not consider coming to stay with me for a few days. It may be that we might turn our minds to those studies which because they deal with the great insights of philosophy need not, and I believe should not, be considered as distractions from sorrow but rather as true anodynes for grief.

  "That which is said three times should not be neglected," was all that the Dean remarked as he put the letter in his pocket.

  He acted, however, with dispatch. A note to the Doctor and another to the Bishop were written, while his orders for his clothes to be packed and a fly engaged to take him to the afternoon express were being carried out. He had still some hours so he went over to the Cathedral to speak to the Canon-in-Resi-dence. He also had a few words with the minor canon who was on duty and with the verger. The big Gothic machine was turning over its cogs efficiently enough, slow but sure, if left to its own pace, like the monster late-medieval clock, whose giant pendulum swung with a soothing cluck to and fro on the west wall of the north transept, winnowing away the spirits of men and letting the 'gross grain of their bodies fall under the dated slabs that paved the Cathedral floor. As he
turned from watching it, where he had paused, crossing die nave to return to the house, young Halliwell came up to him.

  ''Excuse me, Mr. Dean. I wanted personally to offer you my condolences. I delayed writing. I thought I might speak to you. Miss Throcton was. . . "

  "Thank you, thank you."

  The Dean did not offer his hand, and made the slight bow of acknowledgement an opportunity to withdraw.

  "I would like . . ." Halliwell was continuing, but already the elder man had turned his back, his dark figure moving into the shadows of the north aisle. The younger sighed.

  But as far as the Dean could see, and he kept his eyes fixed on the immediate agenda, everything was going with speed and directness, with the kind of rapid foregone completeness that marks a dream in its final stages. Time and again as he walked about making his final dispositions he would glance sharply behind him, but nothing caught his eye. Yet his mood appeared not to be one of relief. His face showed a settled urgency, that was all. Mrs. Binyon, who was motherly and felt herself now to be really the matron of the house, knocked and came in when he had sent his lunch out nearly untasted. He would excuse her, she was sure, but might she put up a little something for him in the train, seeing that he had eaten hardly a crumb all day and it would be late ere the train came to Cambridge? And, might she be so bold, but would he rest a little as there was yet the best part of an hour before the fly would be round?

  Her concern irritated him sufficiently that he could not resist quoting the reply of the Lord Protector Cromwell, as he lay waiting for his call and the attendants asked him to eat something or sleep a little, "I am concerned neither to eat nor to sleep but to be gone."