by E A Dineley
Allington said, ‘Why can’t you be an officer of the French? They had some perfectly good ones.’
‘The French put their lances in the wounded, jab, jab, jab,’ he replied, vigorously poking the ground with the stick he had.
The action made Allington wince and for a moment he closed his eyes, for a wound of his own had been administered just so and he felt it. He then said, ‘The Lancers were Polish but that is basically true, though certainly not at all times. It would be unfair to tar them all with the same brush: there was many a good gallant French officer. On the whole, if I were you, I should decline to be the French.’
He made as if to ride on but the boy said, ‘Why have you come here?’ He looked even harder at Allington but then something frightened him. He nervously backed away, turned round and fled.
The trees opened to reveal the house. It was sunny and mellow, made of red brick, possibly Queen Anne, but with a variety of attachments both older and newer, which gave it a misshapen but not unpleasing appearance, a muddled charm. It was not the orderly house of his dreams, but dreams were adaptable. The unkempt lawn swept up to the door and though there was a carriage sweep, weeds had seeded in the gravel. There was a sundial on a plinth, and to the east side of the house a tall, dark square of yew hedge, in which there was nothing but grass and blown leaves.
Without dismounting, Allington rode up to the front door and gave the bell pull a hearty jerk, but all was silent. He imagined somewhere in the depths of a distant kitchen, an elderly retainer, deaf to the summons even had the bell worked, which he doubted.
He turned his back on the house and looked across to the river. He could see the Philosopher’s Tower but all looked asleep in the sun. He wondered if that sprite of a child was the only thing that lived in the place. It had a silence like the fairy-tale castle of the Sleeping Beauty, indolent and heavy. He rode on past the house, the stables and the kitchen gardens, tempted to pause at each but holding himself back. He then saw an orchard, and there, a woman and a little girl busy amongst the apple trees. He made his way in that direction, riding carefully for he was in doubt where garden ended and field or park began. His approach was silent; his long-tailed grey trod the grass softly.
The apple trees were old and crooked, the ground bestrewn with leaves and fruit. The little girl ran about in a pink frock and pinafore, picking the windfalls. A small, pale Italian greyhound, her muzzle grizzled with age, started to bark in a desultory manner, half-turned in the wrong direction, but it made the woman look up.
Allington thought, She is not entirely young but she is not as yet thirty, and after that he noticed she wore, such a detail, a small mourning brooch in black and gold. She had a loose, faded apron over her green gown, the sleeves pushed back, and no hat. Her hair was cut rather short but it was a mass of loose, brown curls. The sun had touched her face with freckles and colour. It was lively, her eyes hazel or green, and she looked at Allington with a certain directness, not shy, no false modesty, but frankly as one person to another, though her gaze was questioning. She would, he knew, not be considered more than quite pretty, past the sweetness of youth with those lines of anxiety about her eyes, but he thought her beautiful and when he looked at her his mind went back to Keats: ‘Thy hair softlifted by the winnowing wind. . .’
The occasion upon which he had met her before sprung to his mind with startling clarity. So vivid was the memory, it was painful, even shocking. He remembered her name, but then Allington did not forget much. There had been no freckles then, no illicit touching of the sun. The sight of him on his grey horse in the middle of the orchard surprised her – troubled her a little, he thought, but no more. There was no recollection in her gaze. She laid her hand on the dog to quiet it.
Allington dismounted. He tied a knot in the reins of the grey and let it graze. He said, ‘I suppose you are expecting me. I rang the bell but got no answer.’
She said, ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work. We have few visitors.’
‘But you were not expecting me?’
‘Not unless you are Captain Allington. I had a letter about a Captain Allington sending horses. It seemed unlikely. I took no particular notice.’
Allington, disturbed, could only think of the need to prolong the moment, to be given time to discern those things he needed to know. He said, in order to contrive this, ‘I could reach quite high into this tree.’
She would probably think him strange. He took off his coat and flung it over the saddle, then rolled back his sleeves. There were scars on his forearms, the sabre cuts he had received from a Frenchman when he had lain wounded, pinned to the ground, and had endeavoured to protect his head. Some irrational part of him, and there was not much irrational about Allington, made him want to tell her of such scars, but there was, of course, no occasion to do so. He realised, from her calmness, that Arthur had written but told her nothing.
The little girl had never ceased to trot about, industriously filling the baskets. The old dog lay down. Allington started to pick the apples that had not fallen. It was as good an occupation as any, under the circumstances.
‘And you were not expecting me,’ he said, but this time it was more statement than question.
‘No, unless you are Captain Allington,’ she replied.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘He never sent anyone here before. He said to expect a Captain Allington, but I didn’t. I didn’t believe him, you see. Are you wishing to stay in this neighbourhood for a while?’ She had wondered how Johnny expected her to entertain a single man in a house containing only herself and the servants.
Allington said, evading the question, ‘I met a little boy on the drive.’
‘Yes, that is Phil and this is Emmy.’
‘He told me his name was Philip Osipher.’
This time she laughed. ‘I am afraid Phil can be like his father. He never knows where a game ends and real life begins. His name is, of course, Philip Arthur.’
At this Allington knew what he wished to know least, that she was Arthur’s wife, but he continued, methodically, to pick apples, while his mind, usually so ordered, ran about in disarray.
She said, ‘I am Mrs Arthur. Did he tell you that? You must be a friend of his.’
‘Of Arthur’s? Of your husband’s? Not exactly. We have inhabited the same lodgings in Half Moon Street for the last eight years.’ He tried, as never before, to will away encroaching sensations in his head, in his vision.
‘Have you come far?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday from London. Today from Salisbury.’
She noted, uneasily, the odd, abrupt change in him. He looked ill. She said, ‘Did you come to see the Philosopher’s Tower?’
He managed, she thought with difficulty, to smile. He said carefully, his voice now strained, ‘It had not been uppermost in my mind.’
His indignation, his fury with Arthur, was combined with a satirical amusement at Arthur’s at last getting the better of him, his ability to wreak his revenge. What was he to do? Who was to tell this woman at his side, who was bidding him leave the apples, who was taking her little girl by the hand, her actual position? And what exactly was that position? He fumbled for the reins of his horse. The low autumn sun was in his eyes. He saw things strangely. The sensations in his head, the dreaded sensations, were not new to him nor induced by the sun, but they were more sudden than usual.
Mrs Arthur wondered if he was going to faint. She certainly did not see how he could get back on his horse. In the distance she saw one of the two boys who worked in the garden. She called out, ‘Sam, come and take this gentleman’s horse. Put it in a stable. Do what is necessary. Call Annie.’
Allington said, ‘I could take the horse . . . I think . . . I’m very sorry but I will have to lie down. Anywhere in the dark will do.’
Mrs Arthur sat in the drawing room at Castle Orchard. She was mending a little tear in her gown with a patch of the same cloth, but the patch was brighter than the gown. The drawing room was long and
low – ill proportioned, she knew. There was a large fireplace, ancient chairs, a sofa and cabinets full of china and bits and pieces. It had a genial untidiness, Emmy’s doll, a cut-out card soldier, a bowl of quinces and another of apples and pears. There was an ancient spinet and a watercolour of the Philosopher’s Tower. The sunny windows looked across the lawn to the river. It was a charming room, full of warmth and pleasing shades, but shabby.
Annie, a redoubtable, indispensable middle-aged feature of her life, put her head round the door. ‘Mr Conway to see you, dearie.’
‘Which Mr Conway, Annie?’
‘Not parson, ma’am.’ Annie slipped unconsciously between affection and formality when addressing her mistress.
A fair-haired, boyish-looking man, though probably forty years old, entered the room. He was inclined to play the brooding lover, to which his physiognomy was not suited, as she told him from time to time. She could not take him seriously, for though he was a widower with two little sons, twins, what was she? She was a married woman, as he knew full well.
His brother was the rector, the Reverend Hubert Conway. This was Mr Stewart Conway, who had the management of the school. It was to this school Phil went, his mother thought without enthusiasm, every day, to be prepared for entry to Eton or Winchester, though there was not the two hundred pounds required to send him to either of these places for even a single year, a fact constantly on her mind. She thought a tutor would suit Phil better, but there was an awkwardness in having a tutor in the house when one was a woman on one’s own and, just as crucial, no means of paying one.
She disengaged her hand from Mr Conway’s and said, ‘Why are you not in class today?’
‘Because I have sufficient ushers, as you know quite well. Though I hope you think I do my duty, I have at times more pressing engagements than making little boys understand parameters. Shall we take a turn in the garden? It is very mild. Can I ring for Annie to fetch you a hat?’
‘No, I want no hat. If I wanted it I should fetch it myself, for Annie has plenty to do.’
‘I wish you would take more care of yourself.’
‘You mean you wish I would take more care of my complexion.’ She smiled at him, ‘It is the least of my worries.’
‘Could I but share those worries and have the burden of them.’
‘It would be very agreeable if somebody did. However, I think it can’t be you.’
They went outdoors and started to stroll in the direction of the river. The little grey hound walked between them, pressing herself to her mistress’s skirts. She was jealous; she did not care for Mr Conway.
Mrs Arthur said, ‘You look after Phil, and he is one of my worries.’ She immediately wondered if he did look after Phil.
‘He is a worrying child. Could I but say otherwise. If he could be brought to concentrate . . . however, it was not Phil I came here to discuss.’
Mrs Arthur knew exactly what Mr Conway had come to discuss.
He continued, ‘My dear Mrs Arthur, sadly I have no right to care for you, and he who should care for you, whose care of you should be paramount in his heart, shamelessly neglects and misuses you.’
Mrs Arthur, who had heard Mr Conway make similar statements at regular intervals, thought of her husband. He had come down at Michaelmas, gone directly to the agent and this time left her not a single penny. She had a little put by that would pay Annie and Cook and the two lads who worked outdoors. Without the home farm, she thought they would starve.
‘I dare say the care of me is not paramount in his heart,’ Mrs Arthur said, despite herself suppressing a smile at his fanciful use of language.
Mr Conway now said, ‘Your reputation is sacred to me.’
She thought Mr Conway much the most likely person to endanger her reputation, but was glad he was coming to the point of his visit.
‘Dear Mrs Arthur, it is said you have a stranger here, a gentleman, I suppose, though I doubt he can be, for else he would not have inflicted himself on a single woman.’
‘How rumour flies. Yes, I harbour a stranger. How could I not? My husband sent him. It’s not that so much, but more that he’s sick. Also, I believe Johnny deceived him for I had the impression he didn’t previously know of my existence.’
‘All the same, it’s outrageous. Why didn’t he leave immediately? What’s the matter with him?’
‘I believe, from the way his servant speaks, he has a headache.’
‘A headache? I never heard anything so preposterous.’
‘His servant, a little talkative fellow, was touchingly aggrieved at having temporarily lost sight of him.’
‘Why, he is probably escaped from a madhouse and this servant his keeper.’
‘I think him too little to be anyone’s keeper. Captain Allington is a man of average size and though he limps, he looks quite strong.’
‘And what is his appearance?’
Mrs Arthur, who was not above teasing Mr Conway, said, ‘I never saw such a handsome man before, and very civil. He took off his coat and helped Emmy and I pick apples.’
‘Took off his coat?’ Mr Conway expostulated, ‘He can be no gentleman!’
‘He has the manner of a gentleman.’ In order to prevent Mr Conway giving her a dissertation on the impropriety of a gentleman taking off his coat, she continued, ‘But after a bit it was obvious he was unwell. Annie took him upstairs to the Blue Room. She said, he would do everything for himself but he asked her if she would draw the curtains and bring him a bowl. He wanted no dinner, which was as well as I should have been hard put to know what to give him to eat at such short notice. That was the day before yesterday. I haven’t seen him since. Yesterday afternoon he was tracked down by a valet and a groom.’
‘A gentleman of means then, if he travels with two servants. I dare say they are paid to look out to him. Remember, madness is very deceptive. He could appear perfectly sane without being in the least so.’
‘Perhaps we all could.’
‘Mrs Arthur, I beg you to take me more seriously. He’s probably hiding from creditors, or worse, the law. You tell me your husband sent him, which I regret is no recommendation. I had better speak to him on your behalf, tell him he must be gone by nightfall. I shall do it immediately.’
Mrs Arthur shook her head. She said, ‘No.’
‘Why not? It would be most inappropriate for you to go up to him yourself if he is skulking in a bedroom.’
‘No. He isn’t well. I thought I’d made that clear. I can’t refuse him hospitality. As for his being a lunatic, his groom is a deaf-mute, at least I think he is, and I am sure I shouldn’t choose one as a minder had a relative of mine been in need of such a person. He has stabled the horses, swept the yard and got in the firewood. One can’t tell him anything so he does what he likes, I suppose.’
‘Oh dear, it is all very odd and peculiar. I should never forgive myself if some harm came to you.’
‘I shall be sure to send Annie to fetch you if I think myself in danger.’
‘Now you are teasing me. It is unkind when you know how much I’m attached to you and how I wish your circumstances different.’
‘Seeing the vulnerability of my position, you shouldn’t express such sentiments. Besides which, you might turn my head, always considered a poorly thing for females.’
Mr Conway accepted the rebuke meekly but he made a last bid to be allowed to at least interview Captain Allington.
‘Have you ever had a megrim, Mr Conway?’ Mrs Arthur asked.
‘Certainly not. It is a thing for the nervous or delicate.’
‘A dear friend of mine when I was a schoolgirl had megrim. She told me it was as if the devil poked red-hot irons in her head.’
‘Dear me, what a thing for a child to say.’
‘It certainly impressed me at the time. Now, be a dear and return to the classroom, even if only to encourage Phil to concentrate.’
Mr Conway took his dismissal in the best spirit he could. When he had gone Mrs Arthur stood a
nd gazed in the river, for they had walked that far. There was an abundance of weed beneath the rush of the water, brilliant green.
Pride reeled under the astonishment of that Mr Arthur downstairs being a married man and not even Mr Emill seeming to know it! Now he waited impatiently, nervously, for Mrs Arthur to come indoors. When she did he approached her and said, ‘Please excuse me, ma’am, but I’m bothered about my master.’
‘Does he need a doctor?’
‘Oh no, ma’am, doctors never do anything for him but make concoctions which he never cares to take. He says doctors don’t know nothing and bleed him till he’s weak as a kitten. He won’t be bled, not ever. They say it’s nerves but my master never did have any of them.’ Pride began to work himself up. ‘Some doctors want his hair thinned, others want it growed. Some want him to take laudanum and henbane in a great big basin of coffee. Laudanum has its point but the coffee would be the end of him. Some say valerian, hartshorn, henbane awashed down with peppermint water. All we does in the end is put a cold rag on his head and wait for it to finish. Anyhows, he couldn’t hold none of it down. A sip of water is too much sometimes. That’s what I was coming to. When he’s getting a bit over it, I give him chicken broth. He’s got to have something, I think, or he starves. Now Master says I’m not to trouble the kitchen or inconvenience anyone, and he says it now when he’s ill and don’t say nothing usually, so he really means it, and if he knowed I’d come to you, I’d get the sharp side of his tongue. I wouldn’t trouble no one and I can make the broth myself.’ Pride looked at her like a dog waiting for a pat or a kick. He added, ‘I never am so bold as when I wants something for him.’
Mrs Arthur said, ‘Of course he can have chicken broth. We will have the chicken boiled for dinner. Has Captain Allington always been so affected?’
‘Oh no, ma’am.’ Pride looked pathetic. ‘Indeed not. It was the wound in his head that did it. The surgeons said he’d never survive it, such a hole as it was; or worse, he’d be simple. I knew he weren’t simple even if he did think we was in Spain when we wasn’t. That bloody battle, begging your pardon, that bloody battle was the worst battle in the world. I wish it had never been, even if it did for Boney.’