She went up the road and through a gate into a field. Once inside, she had to skirt it as it had been freshly ploughed up. Then she was in a grass meadow, and down in the dip at the very end of it lay the barn.
She was running now, lettting the wind carry her right to the very doors. They were closed but not locked.
She pushed against one and it gave way almost a foot, and then it stuck. As she went to squeeze through the narrow aperture her hat caught against the edge of the closed door and pushed it over her eyes. When she pushed it back she was through the door but could go no further for to her amazement she was standing within a few inches of the flanks of a horse, and when it lifted its back leg and struck the rough stone floor she gasped and pressed herself against the inside of the door, then moved along it.
Why had he brought his horse in here? Was he using it as a stable now? Had he got more horses? She blinked in the dimness and peered about her. Then her eyes became wide and fixed, her whole body frozen. She had stepped into her dream of Simon and herself loving, but now the dream was a waking nightmare.
She was looking at him. He was naked except for a pair of white linings, and these hung loose. His body was twisted round and he was supporting himself on one knee. As he grabbed for his coat and pulled it in front of him the woman on the straw raised herself on her elbow. She was completely naked.
She had been laughing, but now her face took on a look of haughty surprise. Yet she made no move to cover herself. But when she exclaimed in a high tone that could have indicated that a servant had come into a room unannounced, "Really! that girl," there erupted from Tilly a long drawn out moan; and now she was squeezing through the door again, and once more her hat was tilted over her eyes. Again she was running and when the wind lifted her skirt up almost around her waist, she paid no attention to it.
She was going through the meadow gate, and when of habit she turned to close it she saw him standing outside the barn she didn't stop to close the gate, nor did she skirt the field, but she ran straight across the furrows, then tumbled over the wall and ran and ran, and didn't stop until she reached the dimness of Billings Flat. There, leaning for support against a tree, she put her arms around it, unheeding now when her hat fell to the ground, and she moaned aloud making unintelligible sounds, for her mind, as yet, was not presenting her with words which would translate her feelings, for it was filled with a picture, a number of pictures. She saw herself standing before the master and he saying, "Wait until he comes for you... ."
He had known. He had known what was going on. And with the same woman, too, who had ruined his life. And the picture of Randy Simmons telling her where she would find his master and the jumbled words when Bill Young must have gone for him, knowing what she would find. And what had she found?
The picture expanded. It covered the tree trunk; it spread over the copse, up the bank, getting wider and wider, the two forms filling it! the man like a baby with his mouth to the breast, the contorted limbs, and then the woman sitting up shameless.
Nowhere in the picture did she see Simon's face clearly, because in this moment she knew she never wanted to see his face again.
Easing herself from the tree, she picked up her hat, then leant her back against the bole. Why wasn't she crying? Her whole being inside was torn to ribbons so why wasn't she crying? She wasn't crying because she mustn't cry. She had to go back and face them all. Mrs Drew would be kind, and Katie and Peg. She mustn't have kindness at this moment, she couldn't bear kindness. Ever since her granny had gone she had longed for kindness; kindness had meant everything to her; but kindness now would break her. What she wanted now was somebody to fight with, to argue with. That was strange, because she had never wanted to fight in her life, nor argue, but she had the desire now to strike at someone and, as if that person was herself, the fool that was in her, the romantic silly fool, a girl, even a child, she took her doubled fist and drove it into her chest, and such was the force of the blow, it brought her shoulders hunching forward.
After a moment she put on her hat, straightened her coat, wiped her wet soil-covered boots by twisting her feet this way and that on the grass, rubbed the mud from the bottom of her skirt; then, her walk slow now, she made her way back to the house.
"You haven't been long, lass," said Biddy, looking at her closely. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"No, thanks."
"The wind's chewed you, you look peaked."
"Yes, it's strong. I'll just go up."
"I'll send you a tray up, lass."
The words had followed her down the kitchen, and without turning, she said, "Thanks. Ta," and went through the hall and up the main staircase, across the gallery, down the landing, and into her room.
She went to flop down on the bed but stopped herself. It was as if a voice, very like her granny's, said, "Don't sit down; you're not strong enough to stand it," so she took off her things, tidied her hair, put on her uniform, and was about to leave the room and go about her duties when Katie knocked on the door and, not waiting for an invitation to enter, opened it, bent down and picked the tray up from the carpet; then coming further hi, she placed it on the little table under the window, saying, "I buttered the scones. Me ma's just made them fresh.
Look"--she turned her head to the side--"is owt wrong with you, Tilly?"
"No."
"Aw, you can't kid me. Can't you tell me?"
"No, no, Katie. Perhaps some other time."
"Is it that Steve lad?"
"Steve? Oh no! No!"
"All right, I'll leave you, but by the way, he, the master, he rang." She jerked her head backwards. "An' Mr Pike was down in the cellar and Phyllis was across in the stables, so me ma sent me up. Oh Lord! he scared the daylights out of me, Tilly. Eeh! I think you're wonderful the way you manage him. The way he looks at you, you feel like a plate of glass."
"What did he want?"
"Oh, he just wanted some letters taking out to catch the coach... . Sure you're all right?"
"Yes, Katie, thanks."
"I'll be seein' you then."
"Yes, aye, Katie."
She remained standing while she drank the tea, but she didn't eat any of Biddy's scones; then taking in a long shuddering breath, she went out and along the corridor and into his room, prepared for the questioning.
But the wind was taken completely out of her sails when, after staring at her for some seconds, he made no mention of her having been out, or of the purpose of her errand, but, as if she had just a moment before left the room, he said, "I think I'll go down into the drawing-room tonight, Trotter. You know, at one time I used to play the piano. There's nothing wrong with my hands, is there?" He held them both out and turned them back to front a number of times. "I don't see why I shouldn't have a hobby, do you?"
"No, sir."
"Then tell Leyburn that he'll be needed. And also I think I'll dine downstairs tonight. Yes, yes, I will. It'll be a change. See to it, will you, Trotter?"
"Yes, sir."
She stood outside the door for a moment, her lips held tightly between the thumb and the joint of her first finger. He knew, he knew what she would find... . Yet how could he have known? And why hadn't he said something? Why? because it was likely too delicate a matter for him to bring up. The woman who had been his mistress now
finding her amusement with his tenant. Oh, she was sick, sick. She wished she was miles away.
Nothing good ever came her way; nor would it as long as she remained here. She wished it was bedtime for now she wanted to cry. Oh, how she wanted to cry.
It was as if he was doing it on purpose, it was well past ten and he was still downstairs. They had brought him down at five o'clock and he had played the piano, and every now and again some of them had crept into the hall and listened outside the drawing-room door; and they all said he played "Lovely."
He dined at seven o'clock. Afterwards he again went into the drawing-room but now he played at patience.
Not until half-past ten did he give the o
rder to be taken upstairs and then straight into the closet where he stayed for almost another halfhour.
When he appeared in the bedroom he was changed and ready for bed.
The house was quiet now; the lights were out except for those night lights in the gallery and in the corridor.
The bedclothes were turned back, his night table was set, the fire banked down; and she was now standing some distance from the bed, as she always did, saying, "Have you got everything you require, sir?" and to this he didn't answer as usual, "Yes, thank you, Trotter," but said, "No, no, I haven't; and I'm very tired. And I've made this night last out as long as twenty." And when her eyes widened slightly, he said, "As soon as you came in that door this afternoon you expected to be met by a battery of questions, and what would have been the result? Well, from the look on your face I judged that most surely you would have broken down; and then the whole household would have been aware of your private business. Well now, they're all in bed ... we hope. Anyway"
--he jerked his head upwards--"there's only the two maids upstairs, and they should be asleep by now, so come--" He held out his hand and, his voice dropping to a gentle softness, he said, "Sit down here near me and tell me what happened."
She couldn't move, she could hardly breathe, the avalanche was rising in her, but she mustn't, she mustn't cry; they likely weren't asleep up there, they would hear her.
"Come."
She was moving towards him now and the touch of his hand drained the last strength from her.
"Did you see him?"
Her head was hanging; she was looking down on to the brown velvet of his dressing-gown and to where her hand lay in his on top of his knees.
"Tell me. What happened? What did he say?"
Still she couldn't speak.
It seemed a long while before he said, "He told you he was having an affair with Lady Myton, didn't he?"
When she moved her head from side to side, he said, "Then what happened? You must have found something out?" There was an impatient note in his voice now.
She lifted her face to his. She was gulping in her throat now, the lump there was choking her.
When the tears seemed to spring from every pore in her body and the constriction in her throat was like a knife tearing at her gullet, his arms came about her and he pulled her towards him and smothered her crying in his shoulder, saying, "There, there, my dear. There, there! no one is worth such tears. Ssh! Ssh!
Ssh! Come"--his voice was a whisper"...y don't want to waken the whole house, and after my long, long night of keeping them all at bay."
Long after her paroxysm had passed he held her to him; then when at last she raised her head he took a large white handkerchief and gently wiped her face, and she said, "Oh, sir, I'm ...
I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry for crying; you wouldn't be a woman if you didn't cry. My father had a saying about ladies who cried, he said tears were from a woman's weak kidney."
She did not respond to this with a smile and he, making a little movement with his head, said, "And this is no time to joke. I will ask you just one more question, perhaps two. First, did you talk to him?"
"No."
He drew back from her now, saying, "Then why?"
"Because--" She now drew in a shuddering breath, lowered her gaze for a moment, then lifted her head and looking at him, straight in the face, she said, "I was directed to ...ffthe barn. I saw him there."
"Oh my God!" He turned his head to the side and said quietly, "Both of them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why did you go to the barn?"
"I...I was directed there."
"Who directed you?"
"One of his men, a man called Randy Simmons."
"Cruel swine! Well now, it's over." He put his finger under her chin and pushed her head upwards.
"You remember what you said about being able to hold your head up? Well, you go on doing just that. But I'll ask you another question and then we won't mention the subject again. ... If he were to come tomorrow and beg your forgiveness would you take him?"
She looked at him steadily for a moment before she said, "No, sir, not after today, I... I couldn't."
After a short silence, he said, "Odd, isn't it; we both have suffered through the one lady. You can see she has practically ruined my life, but that needn't be so in your case, in fact it could be the making of you. Put it behind you, Tilly. You're worthy of something better than the farmer. I've always known that. Go now, go to bed and sleep, and start a new life tomorrow."
She rose from where she had been kneeling by the side of his chair and, drawing in a deep breath, she stood straight, before saying, "Goodnight, sir."
"Good-night, my dear."
As she went out of the door he knew he had missed an opportunity; he could have kept her with him tonight. But he didn't want it that way. There was time enough now.
When eventually he took Tilly she came to him like a mother to a sick child.
It should happen that about three weeks later a tragedy enveloped Mark and spread over the whole house. It came in the form of two letters. Both Mr Burgess and Tilly were in the room at the time he opened them. The first he slit open with a paper knife; he was always meticulous about the way he opened his mail. He often looked at the postmark and the stamp before opening a letter. Now, taking the letter from the envelope, he leaned back in his chair and began to read, and the first line brought him sitting upright. His brows gathered into a deep line above his nose and his lips fell apart for the words he had just read were: It is with great sorrow that I write this, I being Harry's chaplain since first he came to the University. His death will be a loss to many.
He seemed to have stopped breathing, and such was the expression on his face that both Tilly and Mr Burgess stood still and stared at him. Then he was tearing at the other long envelope with his fingers, and when he pulled out the single sheet of paper his hand was already crushing the bottom of it.
My dear Sir,
It is with the deepest regret that I have to inform you that your son, Harry, was knocked down and killed instantaneously yesterday morning by a runaway dray horse in Petty Cury. This news must come as a great and grievous shock to you, as indeed it has to all of us here at the college. Believe me, sir, you have our deepest sympathy.
A coroner's inquest has already been held, at which a verdict of accidental death was returned, and I shall now await your instructions as to the disposal of your son's mortal remains and of his personal effects.
I send you these most unhappy tidings by the mail coach. If you will reply
likewise, I shall personally ensure that your wishes are carried out to the letter and as swiftly as possible.
Again may I offer you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great and grievous bereavement.
I am, my dear sir, Yours very truly, W.
R. Pritchard Dean.
He lay back and looked at the two faces before him. His mouth opened and closed several times; then he moved his head slowly from side to side and when he did speak it was a drawn out whispered syllable.
"Not...o!"
"You have had distressing news, sir?" Mr Burgess was bending over him and for answer Mark lifted the sheet of paper from his knees and handed it to him.
When Mr Burgess had read it he looked at Tilly and she whispered, "What is it?"
"Master Harry."
"Oh no!"
He now handed the letter to her, and when she had read it she gripped the front of her bodice with one hand and, her lips quivering, she stared at Mark. His head was up and tightly pressed against the back of the chair, his eyes directed towards the ceiling. He was so still that for a moment she thought he'd had a seizure; but as she made to go to him his head snapped forward, his shoulders with it, and his knees came up, and now he was gripping them with his hands.
Silently they stood one on each side of him until he made a jerking movement with his head and muttered, "Leave me." And on this they went
from the room.
It was a week later when the coffin arrived. It lay in state in the library for a day before being taken to the cemetery.
The funeral was a quiet affair. Mark sitting alone in the first carriage followed the hearse. Behind him came another carriage holding his mother-in-law, together with Matthew and Luke; following this were various carriages bearing male members of different families. The only
mourners on foot were the male members of the staff, and these were made up mostly of the Drew family.
Both Mark and Mrs Forefoot-Meadows sat in their carriages and watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. Mark, being alone, could cry and he cried as he had never cried in his life before. And in this moment he felt alone as he had never felt alone in his life before. He already knew the feeling of loneliness, but this was a different sort of aloneness: his first-born had gone, just apparently when they were beginning to know each other. After his second marriage the boy had been unfrly, only returning to his old self when Eileen had gone from the house. The last time they had spoken together the boy, or the young man, the young man that he had become, had spoken to him of his affection for the sister of his friend, which explained his frequent visits to France, and he had confessed that he thought his affection was being returned. So now another young heart would also be pining.
When he returned from the cemetery the mourners, realising his predicament, didn't censure the fact that he wasn't present at the meal laid for them in the dining-room and presided over by Mrs ForefootMeadows.
After receiving the usual condolences Mark had ordered that he be taken straight upstairs, and once there he told both Tilly and Mr Burgess that he did not wish to be disturbed, and that he would ring when he needed them. He even refused to see his mother-in-law until the following morning which, needless to say, annoyed Mrs ForefootMeadows.
When they did meet they seemed, at least for a time, as if they had nothing to say to each other. Mark sat stiffly in his chair, his eyes directed towards the window, while Jane Forefoot-Meadows sat as stiffly in hers as if waiting for him to open the conversation, and when he did it was abruptly.
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