“But although we were as happy there as we could be, and Edwin was beginning to overcome the sadness that had blighted his young life, I could not help but notice that not everything at East Harrington was as it should have been.” She paused a moment before continuing. “You will appreciate that I should not under any other circumstances repeat these things. My uncle and aunt seemed, to my surprise, to have little to do with each other. I had been used, I suppose, to the closeness of spirit of my own mother and father, and had imagined that all those who are married enjoy such a degree of intimacy of opinion, taste and so on. I was soon disabused of this notion. My uncle spent much of his time away, in London or at race meetings, and when he was at home he spent more time in the stables than in the house. He spoke little to my aunt, and even that little would perhaps have been better left unsaid, for I saw her often in tears, and came at length to know that this meant they had been ‘having a discussion’, as she referred to it. At last it became very clear that the only time my aunt was truly happy was when my uncle was away.
“A particular circumstance that often caused rifts between them concerned the company my uncle kept. For he would often bring a party of people home with him from London or from his sporting travels. It was clear that my aunt considered that she and they had little of common interest, and her attempts to be sociable to these people gradually diminished as she found that her advances were generally rebuffed. Besides, her husband did not appear to care one way or the other whether she was sociable or not, for when he had guests in the house he paid her no attention whatever. Most frequent among these guests, and perhaps most objectionable, too, was Captain Fitzclarence Legbourne Legge, a racing crony of my uncle’s. Whenever Captain Legbourne Legge was at East Harrington, my uncle would generally spend days on end drinking and playing cards, and shouting abuse at any of the household who had the misfortune to venture near him.
“Captain Legbourne Legge is to me, as I know he was to my aunt, an odious man. He has a fat face, which wobbles when he speaks, and he encourages my uncle in vicious pursuits. His presence always marks a severe deterioration in Mr Hartley Lessingham’s manner, and in the atmosphere of the household generally.”
“Was Miss Rogerson ever present at these social gatherings, while your aunt was at East Harrington?” Holmes enquired.
“I can remember at least one such occasion,” the girl replied, nodding her head. “It was early last December, just after the race meeting at Cantwell Heath. A large party had returned to East Harrington, including Captain Legbourne Legge, Miss Rogerson, Lord Waddle, Sir Arthur Pegge, and several other equally unpleasant people. My uncle had been involved in an unfortunate incident at the meeting, in which another rider had been badly injured.”
“We have heard of that,” Holmes interposed.
“Then perhaps you have also heard that the man, Mr Jackie Weston, may never walk again. Aunt Margaret had had word of this, and approached her husband to suggest that some money be sent to the unfortunate man, but my uncle would not countenance such a suggestion. ‘Certainly not!’ cried he in a tone of indignation. ‘The fool was in my way!’ Then he laughed loudly in her face. I chanced to be present, and it was the most unpleasant scene I have ever witnessed. All my uncle’s cronies joined in the laughter, until the drawing room was filled with the noise of their horrible braying. My aunt went as white as a sheet and I thought she would faint. Then Miss Rogerson stepped forward, with a supercilious smirk upon her face that was hideous to see, and said, ‘You see, Mrs Hartley Lessingham, other men may compete, but your husband wins.’ At which the whole room thereupon burst into further odious laughter, Miss Rogerson foremost among them. My aunt turned on her heel and left the room at once, and I followed her as quickly as I could, for I was very frightened.
“After that, there was no peace in the house. The Christmas season was poisoned by the presence of Captain Legbourne Legge and his friends, and by the constant quarrels that occurred between my aunt and uncle. Then, on New Year’s Eve, following a quarrel of unusual ferocity even for that household, my aunt packed a trunk and declared that she could not bear to remain under the roof of East Harrington Hall for a single night longer. She instructed the servants to pack trunks for Edwin and me, but our uncle stopped us at the door and forbade us to go. Further words ensued between my aunt and uncle, and in the end, with a look of great fear upon her face and tears in her eyes, my aunt departed alone, begging me to forgive her and telling me that she would send for Edwin and me just as soon as she had got herself established somewhere.
“A few days after my aunt had left us, my uncle evidently regretted his sharp words and hasty actions, for he fell into a mood of great depression. For several days he remained in his study and spoke to no one. Eventually he emerged, a chastened look upon his face.
“‘I think,’ said he to me, ‘that the words which passed between your aunt and me have caused much trouble and wounded us both severely. But it may not be too late to redeem the situation. I think I shall go and try to persuade her to return.’
“‘You know her whereabouts, then, Uncle?’ I asked, my hopes rising.
“‘I had a letter from her yesterday morning,’ he replied. ‘She is staying in a hotel in London. You would like her to return, I dare say.’
“‘Indeed,’ I cried. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure!’
“My uncle nodded his head at my words, as if his mind were then made up. He at once ordered the carriage to be got ready, and within the hour he had left for the railway station.”
“Do you know the contents of the letter your uncle received?” interposed Holmes.
Miss Borrow shook her head. “I asked if I might see it, but he informed me that it contained nothing that would be of interest to me, being private matter.”
“Very well. Pray continue.”
“For two days I heard nothing further. Then, on the evening of the third day, my uncle returned, but he returned alone. His expression was one of bitter resignation. ‘She refused to come back to us,’ was the only answer he would give to my questions. I was disappointed beyond description, and could not help but cry. At this my uncle became very angry. ‘Do not waste your tears,’ said he in a harsh voice. ‘Save them for a worthier cause!’ Then he went into his study and slammed the door shut behind him. From that day on, Edwin and I were forbidden to ever mention Aunt Margaret’s name again.
“That night I cried myself to sleep. After that, I saw nothing before us but patient endurance. We were living in a place that was not our home, with neither friends nor friendly relations, and with a guardian who clearly cared nothing for us. But at least Edwin and I still had each other. I became determined to make the best of the circumstances in which Fate had placed us.
“At that time, of course, Mr Theakston was still our tutor, and I am sure that we benefited greatly from his kind tuition. And if it was a pleasure to us to learn all about Literature and Geography, History and Botany, it appeared an equal pleasure to Mr Theakston to teach us, so that we tried hard – even Edwin – to do nothing that might disappoint him. When he left, in the abrupt circumstances I have described to you, another support was removed from our lonely existence. Miss Rogerson then took upon herself the duties of tutor, as I have mentioned, but it was clear she had no interest whatever in her new post. It thus fell to me to supplement the meagre education Edwin received at her hands. He had so often seen Mr Hartley Lessingham and his friends at cards, at all hours of the day and night, that he had developed a morbid interest in the subject and begged me to teach him some card games. Endeavouring to derive good from bad, I therefore decided to teach him some different types of patience – there is a book in the library at East Harrington, which contains instructions for many such games – in the hope that it might help his understanding of arithmetic and similar subjects.”
“And did it?” queried my wife in a kindly voice as Miss Borrow paused.
“Not very much, to be truthful,” the girl responde
d with a shake of the head, “but it has taught him true patience, at least: to endure, without anger or sorrow, what must be. For some of the games – The Lion and the Unicorn, especially – are very difficult of solution. So far I have taught him twenty-three different types, from Apples and Pears to The Scorpion, and there is not one that does not have its own particular moral lesson, if you look hard enough for it.” She blushed. “At least I think so,” she added in an uncertain tone.
“You are a very resourceful and imaginative young lady,” Holmes interrupted with a smile. “You have discovered that, as Shakespeare says, the uses of adversity may yet be sweet. But come, you have had a miserable time lately, for which you have our sympathy, but what is it that has brought you to the point of seeking our advice? If we are to help you in some way, we must know the most recent developments. Has there been any further communication with your aunt?”
“Six weeks after she left, a letter arrived for Mr Hartley Lessingham, bearing the postmark of Lewes in Sussex. The handwriting on the envelope was not that of my aunt, but I hoped that it might contain some news of her, and I asked my uncle if that were so. At first he would not speak of it and appeared very angry, for his face was white, but later he informed me that it was from Mr Edgar Shepherd, the old friend of my mother and father, and of my aunt, too, informing my guardian that Aunt Margaret was now residing in a cottage on the Shepherd family estate at Tattingham, in Sussex. My uncle told me that he had flung the letter into the fire.
“‘So now you know,’ said he in a bitter tone: ‘your aunt has brought shame upon us by deserting us, and now she has shamed us yet further, by taking up abode on the property of another man.’
“Miss Rogerson had happened to come into the room as we were speaking, and had overheard the tail end of the conversation. Now she spoke.
“‘Yes, Harriet,’ said she, nodding her head in agreement with my uncle’s words, ‘you must pray that you never bring shame upon your family, as your aunt has brought shame upon hers. Woe betide you if the blood in your veins is the shameful blood of your aunt! Now run along to the schoolroom. Edwin wishes to ask you about Queen Elizabeth.’
“‘Yes, ma’am,’ said I politely, but as the library door closed behind me, I confess that I could not stop myself sobbing. I was greatly upset by my aunt’s decision to make her home elsewhere. But she had always been very kind to me, and I knew she was not a bad woman. For my uncle to speak of her in that way was so unjust. Had it not been for his behaviour, she would never have left us. As for that odious woman, Susan Rogerson, with her painted face, vulgar jewellery and her mean and selfish nature, for her to speak of my aunt at all in her own house was the very grossest impertinence; for her to declare that my aunt was the one who had brought shame upon us was an affront to all honesty and decency.
“I had not gone ten steps from the library door when I heard the two of them laughing. At whom or what they were laughing, I knew not, but in my miserable state, their callous, unfeeling laughter struck like thorns in my heart.
“Several weeks passed. One morning I gathered my courage together and asked my guardian if I might write a letter to my aunt. At first he was very angry with me and refused to even speak of the possibility; but I asked him again a few days later, and again a few days after that, and eventually he said that I might, but that he would read the letter before it was posted, to see that I did not say anything foolish in it. I had no objection to this, as I simply wished to convey a little news to Aunt Margaret, in the hope that she would write back to us. This I did, and gave the letter to Mr Hartley Lessingham, who read it without finding anything in it to which he could object, addressed it for me and posted it himself. He would not tell me the address at which my aunt was staying. I think he feared that if I knew it, I would write a more candid letter to her behind his back.
“A week passed, and then my guardian informed me one morning that I had received a reply. He handed me the single sheet of paper at the breakfast table, explaining that he had opened the letter himself, although it had been addressed to me, because he wished to be sure that it did not contain anything unpleasant, which might upset me. He had also torn off the top of the sheet, where my aunt had written her address. He certainly did not wish me to be able to write to her in private, without his seeing exactly what I had written.”
“What did the letter say?” enquired Holmes.
“Little enough,” Miss Borrow replied. “To speak candidly, I was a little disappointed at its brevity. However, to have any communication at all from my aunt was like treasure to me in my lonely existence, and I read and reread the letter many times. I explained the lightness and inconsequentiality of it to myself by supposing that she suspected her husband would read it, and had therefore felt unable to reveal very much of her true feelings in it. She thanked me for the letter I had sent, and the news I had conveyed to her, and also for the picture of a cat that Edwin had drawn for her, which I had enclosed.
“She said she was living quietly, in seclusion, and was trying to make the best of her unhappy situation. She said that she sometimes now regretted her hasty decision to leave East Harrington, and wished she could alter what had happened, but could not. She enjoined me to try to be good, and always to do what was right, and to respect Mr Hartley Lessingham and always do as he bade me. She said she would write again when she had any more news, but in the meantime I should not write again – except if I had some matter of particular urgency to relate – for she did not think it quite right to do so, and it might annoy my guardian.
“Since then, I have often wished to write to Aunt Margaret again, but Mr Hartley Lessingham is implacably opposed to the suggestion. There are things I have wished so much to tell her. If she only knew all that has taken place at East Harrington since her departure, I am sure she would swallow her pride and return, even if it were only to pay us a visit.”
“Well, as you cannot tell your aunt,” said Holmes in an encouraging voice, “perhaps you could tell us. What has been happening at East Harrington?”
“I mentioned to you Mr Theakston’s abrupt departure, which was such a loss to us. Another unwelcome development is that Captain Legbourne Legge has spent much more time at East Harrington since my aunt left. He and Mr Hartley Lessingham sometimes ride out late in the evening and do not return until after midnight.”
“Do you know where it is they go?”
Miss Borrow shook her head. “Other things happen at night, too,” she continued. “Edwin has been very frightened by noises he has heard in the night, and by things he has seen.”
“What sort of things?”
“At the rear of East Harrington Hall is a flagged terrace,” Miss Borrow replied after a moment, “at the other side of which is an old-fashioned formal garden. In the very centre of the garden stands an old sundial. My bedroom overlooks this garden, as does Edwin’s. One night, very late, when I had been asleep for some time, Edwin came to my room, trembling with fear. He was in such a state that he could scarcely speak, but gradually, as I calmed him, he managed to tell me what it was that had frightened him so. He told me that he had heard noises outside, and when he had looked out he had seen a witch in the garden, doing something to the sundial. I looked from my window, but it was a very dark night and I could see no sign of anyone there. I told Edwin that he must have imagined it, that he had perhaps had a bad dream, and eventually, a little comforted and calmed, he returned to his own room.
‘‘The following morning, however, it happened that I awoke earlier than usual, and when I rose from my bed and drew back the curtains, my eye was at once drawn to the sundial, for I saw that upon the top of it there lay what appeared to be a piece of paper, held in place by a couple of small stones. I dressed hurriedly and ran downstairs and out into the garden, keen to see what it could be. When I reached the sundial, however, I received a great shock, for there was neither paper nor anything else upon the top of it, nor any sign that there ever had been. My suggestion to Edwin that he ha
d simply imagined those things he thought he had seen was thus turned back upon myself, for it seemed the only explanation was that I must have imagined the paper I thought I had seen upon the sundial. Then I saw that upon the path at my feet were two small stones, larger than the gravel on which they lay, and of a slightly different colour. In an instant I was convinced that these were the stones I had seen upon the paper when I had looked from my bedroom window. Someone, it seemed, had removed the paper from the sundial while I was dressing.
“I did not mention this incident to Edwin, as I did not wish to alarm him, and I knew that he would believe that his ‘witch’ had left some magic spell upon the sundial in the garden, but I determined that I would henceforth keep my eyes and ears open in case there were any repeat of this mysterious incident. For two weeks I neither saw nor heard anything untoward, then one night I was awakened by some noise or other. On a sudden impulse I drew back the bedroom curtain and looked out into the garden. It was a bright, moonlit night, and the ornamental bushes were throwing strong shadows across the lawns. Even as I looked, I saw a figure – an old crone – emerge from the deep shadow of a tall hedge and cross the lawn with a crooked, halting gait, until she reached the sundial. For some time, she remained motionless, her back bent over the sundial. What she was doing there, I could not see. Then, in the same furtive, shuffling manner, she returned whence she had come. I strained my eyes then, to see if any paper had been left upon the sundial, but clouds had now obscured the moon and it was too dark to see.”
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 49