Henry looked back at his father; and for the first time in his life felt that he was beginning truly to understand him, to grasp who he was. He began to perceive his father’s limitations, as well as his strengths. His fears, as well as his courage. He loved his father, unquestioningly, and far from being diminished as he grew to see what his father could do and what he couldn’t, his love for him was becoming deeper, less sentimental, more idiosyncratic. He saw his father now as a human being; and he was sensitive enough to realize that he, too, had human weaknesses, and limitations of his own. But he refused to agree with his father’s view of tragedy and fortune. He would accept fortune, certainly; if good luck came his way, he wouldn’t question it. But he would never accept tragedy. Not after Doris’ death. Not after burning down the Whirler.
He took his father’s hand and squeezed it hard, and said, ‘I love you, Dad,’ but even as his father smiled, and nodded, Henry could sense that their closeness would from this morning onwards always be subject to certain qualifications. The different deaths of Margaret and Doris would always be a shadow between them.
At eleven o’clock that morning, smartly dressed in black, with a black tie, Henry presented himself at the front door of Arlington Lodge, the large hundred-year-old house in which the Pierces lived cater-corner from the Carmington church. Wisteria grew heavily over the curved pediments of the porch, and twined itself in and out of the shutters. The garden was softly arranged, with thick borders of forget-me-nots and basket-of-gold; phlox and Johnny-jump-ups. In the early heat of the day, bees swarmed blurrily over the flowers, and the lawns sparkled with evaporating dew. The garden had been planted by Augusta’s mother; and she and Augusta tended it between them, a living testament to the gentleness of their spirits.
The door opened, and Mr Gordon Pierce himself appeared, a big angular man with a big plain face like Augusta’s, and a curly brown moustache. He too was dressed in black, and he came out and took Henry’s arm in a gesture of immediate sympathy.
‘My dear Henry! We were so upset for you when we heard. You come along in. Mulliken—’ he said, calling to the maid, ‘—tell cook that our guest is here, and that we shall want to be seated at the table within the hour.’
Mulliken was a skinny pretty girl with a slightly wild appearance caused by her fixed left eye, which was glass. Henry had spoken to her several times before when the Roberts had visited the Pierces, and each time she had told him a different story of how she had lost her eye: scratched by a cat, poked out by her father in a fit of drunken rage, blinded by tannin at a saddlery. But Augusta had said that at the age of fourteen Mulliken had wanted to be a nun; and when her parents had refused her, she had dug out her own eye with a teaspoon, to give as a gift to God; and that only the sudden intervention of her mother had prevented her from digging out the other eye, as well.
Augusta had said that there was a lesson to be learned from Mulliken’s eye: and that was that you can never judge the strength of anybody else’s devotion by your own.
In the sun-squared parlour, Augusta was sitting with her mother; both of them dressed in black taffeta, with white lace aprons; both wearing white lace bonnets. Augusta’s spectacles flashed like an oval heliograph, a message of expectancy and sorrow.
‘You heard that the Whirler burned down in the night?’ Mr Pierce asked Henry.
Henry nodded. He took Mrs Pierce’s hand, and bowed to her.
‘I for one, am delighted,’ said Mrs Pierce. She was a surprisingly small, bird-boned woman, and seeing her sitting next to Augusta it seemed almost impossible that she had once given birth to such a large daughter. ‘Such contraptions should never be allowed. I had a cousin once, Edward; do you remember Edward, Augusta? No, you wouldn’t you were too young. But Edward lost the tips of two of his fingers on a helter-skelter. Gordon, do get Henry a glass of sherry. Goodness knows how, but Edward always was particularly careless.’
Henry sat down on the opposite end of the sofa on which Augusta was already sitting; his knees together. The parlour was decorated in mild blues and peachy pinks, quite unlike the robust browns and greens which Augusta usually chose for her clothes; and the washed-out watercolour paintings and gilded mirrors that were hung around the walls made it seem even softer.
Gordon Pierce brought sherry. Outside, in the wide-boarded hallway, Mulliken’s boots tapped and clattered as she took dishes into the dining-room. Henry sipped his drink and suddenly began to feel very tired, from shock and lack of sleep. The drowsiness of the morning affected him, too: a warm Sunday morning in south Vermont in the days when Gettysburg was just a small town in Pennsylvania and secession was nothing more than a troublesome political nightmare; the sort that a Congressman would have after too much toasted cheese.
Mrs Pierce said, ‘I understand that you and Doris had talked of marriage.’
‘Informally, unofficially, yes,’ Henry replied. ‘I hadn’t gone so far as to ask her father. Her father wasn’t too keen on me, as a matter of fact; not as a son-in-law, anyway. He said that being a memorial mason wasn’t exactly the road to riches.’
‘Well, he was always was a windbag, that William Paterson,’ said Mrs Pierce. Then, when her husband frowned at her for being uncharitable, she ruffled herself and said, ‘Well, he was. And still is. I can remember him when he was a clerk for Mr Bunning, and a plumper, inkier, noisier youth I find it hard to think of.’
‘Somebody said the Whirler was burned down deliberately,’ remarked Augusta, in her lispy, flat-toned way. Henry had always felt that even when she was making a statement she was asking a question; and he felt it especially now. She turned to look at him and there was something in her eyes which said: I know you did it, didn’t you?
‘Well, that would be arson,’ said Mr Pierce, unnecessarily.
Henry said, ‘I understand they have quite a lot of accidents on fairgrounds. Fires, especially.’
Augusta reached across and touched his sleeve. ‘Are you very sad? I did try to help you yesterday, but you must have been quite stunned.’
Henry, despite himself, felt a lump rising up in his throat. ‘I still find it hard to believe, as a matter of fact,’ he told Augusta, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I keep thinking that if I went along to the Paterson house, she would still be there; that I could speak to her. I did want to marry her, you know. I loved her. I think really that I always will.’
‘You must have another sherry,’ said Mr Pierce, consolingly. ‘And you must do and say as you please. That is why Augusta asked you here today; so that you could spend a few hours among friends, and be reassured that we care for you, and that we mourn with you. Isn’t that right, Phyllida?’
Mrs Pierce twitched her mouth in a variety of sympathetic positions. Henry took out his handkerchief and quietly blew his nose. That morning, his misery at losing Doris was like a hangover, it came in waves. Sometimes he could almost forget about it altogether; at other times it would take only a fragrance, a movement, a ray of sunlight across the carpet, and he would be reminded so painfully of Doris that he was unable to speak.
‘Dr Bendick said that she couldn’t have felt anything,’ said Augusta.
‘Well, I hope not,’ said Henry, hopelessly.
Shortly after their regulator clock had struck twelve, the Pierces led Henry through to lunch, baked country ham and apples, chicken croquettes, and heaps of creamed potatoes. Mrs Pierce brought out her speciality, ginger and watermelon pickle; and Mr Pierce served his home-made fruit wine. Mulliken served them with one eye on Henry and the other fixed on the sideboard.
Towards the end of the meal, Mrs Pierce said, ‘I lost an uncle once, you know, and I went to see him at the funeral parlour. Uncle Corey, poor fellow, died of inflammation of the ear. But there he was, lying in his casket, and I looked at him, I was only twelve, you know; I looked at him and suddenly his toupee slipped off and I screamed out loud and jumped up and I swear to God that I cannot look at a toupee not to this day without thinking of death. I wouldn’t let
Gordon wear one, not for the world. Better bald than creepy, that’s what I always say.’
They said a grace after they had eaten, and Henry said a short prayer for Doris; to commend her soul to God; and Augusta said a graceful prayer for those left behind, those bewildered by the ways of holy destiny, and those who wept.
Afterwards, when Mr Pierce had gone upstairs to his dressing-room for ‘Biblical study’, which meant lying with his feet up on his leather chaise-longue and snoozing until teatime, Augusta and Henry went for a walk through the garden, and at last sat on a bench underneath a silver birth tree, knee-deep in day lilies, while up above them the fair-weather cumulus sailed through a sky like ink.
Augusta in her black dress and her lace apron said, ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘What was me?’
‘You know what I mean. It was you who burned down the Colossal Whirler.’
Henry hesitated for a while, watching her. Then he nodded.
Augusta grasped both of his hands, and held them tightly between hers. ‘Oh, I think you’re so admirable, to have done that. Oh, Henry, what a gesture of love! You’re so brave; I wish there was something I could do to console you, anything!’
‘You’ve done too much for me already.’
‘No, Henry, you’re quite wrong. I could never do too much for you. Don’t you understand?’
Henry did understand, but didn’t want to say it. He gently took his hands out from between Augusta’s; but fearing that he would seem too boorish if he were to let go of her altogether, he laid one hand on top of hers. Her face was flushed and eager, and she. suddenly took off her spectacles, and stared at him with watery, unfocused eyes; her eyebrows thick and brown and unplucked.
‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I have always loved you, ever since I first knew you. When I was small I loved you. I love you now. Not only as a friend, Henry; not only as a companion; but as somebody who cares for you completely, someone who will do anything for you, as a helpmate, as a devoted servant, as a lover, Henry!’
She got down on to her knees amongst the long grass and the day lilies, and clasped his wrists, and her face was so wrung with feeling that Henry could hardly look at her. ‘Augusta,’ he said; and ‘Yes?’ she replied, even more eagerly. ‘Yes?’
‘Augusta....’
‘Henry, I know; I understand. I know you loved Doris, I know that you must love her still, and that your heart has no room in it now for anything but sorrow. But the time will come, Henry, when that sorrow will diminish, and when you will need something fresh and living and full of hope to take its place. Oh, Henry; please let that be my love!’
Henry couldn’t think what to say. He didn’t dislike Augusta. Her manner was pleasant and she was hard-working, and she never complained. During those long spring evenings when they had been waiting for his mother to die, she had sat in their parlour by the fire and talked to him of St Ignatius and the Aboona of Abyssinia and the spirit of Christian forbearance. She was knowledgeable and enthusiastic; if rather too religious; but what kind of a fault was that?
‘Augusta,’ he said, quietly. He stroked her tightly-plaited hair with the palm of his hand. ‘You’ve always been good to me. I owe you much more than I could ever repay.’
‘You don’t have to repay me. I don’t expect it. Henry, I want nothing more than your consideration. Please allow me to help you, to care for you, to stay with you. I won’t ask for anything else.’
He took hold of her arms and tried to raise her up from her knees, but she wouldn’t. ‘You must tell me your answer,’ she said. ‘Henry, I’ve waited so many years for this moment. I must know. If you deny me now, there is nothing ahead of me but loneliness and spinsterhood!’
‘Augusta, you must give me time to think. Augusta, I’m tired. I’m really tired. After everything that happened yesterday—after last night—well, it’s almost impossible for me to see straight.’
‘Then at least say that you’ll consider what I’ve asked you.’
Henry smiled. It was his first smile of the day. Augusta responded to it as if she had seen the first flower of spring opening up in front of her eyes, and she laid her head upon his knees, and held him close. One of her hairpins was digging right into his kneecap, but he didn’t like to tell her to move, not because of that. His hand hovered over her head, over her bright red ear, and then withdrew.
‘I’ll consider it, Augusta, I promise.’
He went home after tea; daffodil cake and hermits. Augusta came to the front gate with him, and he realized that she expected a kiss. He kissed her cheek; she turned her face around and kissed his lips. A wasp zizzed past them, golden in the sunlight. ‘You won’t keep me waiting for too long, will you?’ she asked him, and he said ‘no,’ so quietly that he didn’t even hear it himself.
Three men were waiting in the front parlour with his father when he arrived home. They were all wearing their churchgoing clothes, dark and severe, and their hats were on their knees, which was a sign that they did not intend to stay for very long. One of them was William Paterson, white-faced, black-eyed, still feverish with rage and unhappiness; the others were Frederick Makepiece, the mayor of Carmington, and John Good, the county sheriff. Frederick was as small and rotund as William Paterson; the two of them looked like matching jugs. John Good was lean and laconic, one of the dreariest men that Henry had ever met, blue-chinned, drably spoken.
Fenchurch was pacing from one side of the parlour to the other, his hands in his pockets, and Henry could tell that he was upset and offended. ‘Henry,’ he said, as soon as Henry came in through the door, ‘these gentlemen have some accusations to make. Accusations which apparently couldn’t wait until Monday. Accusations which had to be made on the Sabbath; the morning after Doris’ death; and the poor girl not even laid out yet.’
‘Now then, Fenchurch,’ said Frederick Makepiece, trying to be conciliatory. ‘No purpose will be served by sarcasm, nor provocative remarks.’
‘You don’t think that your accusations against my son are provocative?’ Fenchurch demanded. ‘You don’t think that every word you have uttered since I allowed you into my house has been insulting and unjustified? My dear Frederick!’
‘Dad,’ said Henry, gently. He walked to the centre of the room, and looked around him. ‘If these gentlemen have anything to say to me, I’m sure that they can say it to my face. Hallo, Mr Paterson. I’m glad to see you. I haven’t yet had the chance to express my regrets to you, nor my condolences.’
Mr Paterson turned away, his jaw steadily masticating with anger and suppressed grief. Mr Makepiece said, ‘This is a serious matter, I’m afraid.’
‘In that case, you’d better tell me all about it,’ replied Henry. ‘Have you been offered some tea? Or something stronger?’
‘We didn’t come here for refreshments, thank you,’ Mr Paterson bristled.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mr Makepiece. ‘We came because Mr Paterson here is convinced that his daughter’s death was not accidental; and that it was your recklessness that was the larger cause of it; and that you wantonly put her life at risk. He is considering an action against you for manslaughter; that is, unless the county decides to prosecute you for manslaughter as a matter of public law.’
Henry said nothing at first. He looked at Mr Paterson, and then at Mr Good, and then turned to his father. All Fenchurch could do was shrug.
‘You have some evidence, I suppose?’ Henry asked Mr Makepiece; although he kept his eyes on Mr Paterson, defying him to return his stare.
‘It is the lack of evidence that supports Mr Paterson’s contention,’ said Mr Makepiece.
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Henry wanted to know.
John Good spoke up now. ‘It was your explanation, wasn’t it, Mr Roberts, that the chain holding Miss Paterson’s seat gave way?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, the fact of the matter is that you were the only person who witnessed the chain breaking; and that several other chains w
ere broken when the Colossal Whirler came to a sudden stop. It was my intention to go to the fairground tomorrow and examine the chains to substantiate your story. Presumably, if you were telling the truth, at least one chain would have been found broken in the manner you described.’
‘What are you saying?’ Fenchurch snapped. ‘Are you trying to accuse my son of lying? Why should he lie? He lost his dearest sweetheart yesterday, the girl he wanted to marry. How can you come here and suggest that he killed her deliberately?’
‘That’s not what we’re saying at all, Fenchurch,’ said Mr Makepiece. ‘What we’re saying is that there might have been some element of carelessness in your son’s behaviour; that he might not have discharged his responsibility to look after Miss Paterson with quite the conscientiousness that he might have done.’
‘Don’t be so mealy-mouthed!’ Fenchurch retorted. ‘You’re suggesting he killed her; aren’t you? Or at least this excuse for an attorney is. What possible grounds do you have for making such charges? And, damn it, how dare you?’
John Good said, ‘Simple criminological deduction, Mr Roberts.’
‘Stop beating the bushes,’ Fenchurch raged. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then out with it.’
‘Very well,’ John Good nodded. ‘The Colossal Whirler was burned down during the night, as you probably know; and we have to ask ourselves why it was burned down, and by whom.’
‘It could have been an accident,’ said Henry, tightly.
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