He had told Mrs. Mullan that Hazel was coming, and rather to his surprise the news had pleased her. “It’s about time you had a bit of company,” she declared, and she had wanted Marcus to ask the whole Morley family to dinner. Marcus, however, had had scruples about this—and besides, it was only Hazel that he wanted.
Mrs. Mullan was now waiting for them in the hall and at the sight of Hazel her good-humoured face became covered with smiles. “Ach sure I know all about ye,” she exclaimed as Marcus introduced her. “Isn’t Mrs. Taggart a friend of me own, and many’s the time I’ve heard her talkin’ of the whole lot of you. It’s a pity your brother’s not down this year he’d make a good companion for Mr. Brownlow. Your father’s a fine man by all accounts. Is he gettin’ much fishin’ the year?”
“He’s out fishing now,” Hazel told her.
They stood talking for ten minutes or so. Then Mrs. Mullan withdrew to the kitchen. “Ye’ll have a cup of tea before you go,” she insisted, “an’ then you’ll see me two daughters. Teresa—that’s me second youngest—has a notion of goin’ to Belfast, an’ she’ll want you to tell her about it.”
When she had gone Marcus led the way to the library. He was a little nervous and he felt that if possible he would rather not take Hazel to the tower. And at first it looked as if she were going to spend the whole evening in the library. She liked the room and spent some time admiring it, and kneeling on the window seat looking out at the view. Then she began to go round the shelves, taking down a book here and there. They came to the section on psychology and she noticed, on a top shelf, the works of Freud. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Those are books I want to read some day. I’ve read Totem and Taboo and The Psychopathology of Everyday Life. I’ve got them in Pelicans.”
“Those are in German,” Marcus said. “Can you read German?”
“A bit,” she answered. “I took it in Senior, not that that means much.”
To Marcus who was bad in languages and bad at exams it seemed to mean a good deal. The books were out of her reach and he asked her which she would like him to get down.
“I want to look at them all,” she said. So Marcus brought her a small step-ladder and mounting to the top she sat down and pulled out Die Traumdeutung.
For a little Marcus stood below watching her. Her untidy hair had fallen over her forehead, and he thought she might have been sitting for a picture of feminine concentration. But she wasn’t posing: she had become completely engrossed in the effort of understanding the German.
“Is there a dictionary?” she enquired absently, and Marcus went to fetch one.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said as he handed it to her. He assured her he didn’t, and it was true. He felt he was seeing a new side of her. He was impressed with her studiousness, and he liked being impressed.
Gradually his eyes drifted away from her face and he found himself, as so often in their short acquaintance, admiring the shape of her legs. Suddenly he realized that the direction of his gaze was tending to become indiscreet. He looked away hastily, with a guilty burning in his cheeks. There was another ladder at the opposite side of the room. He brought it across, and climbing to the top, sat down beside Hazel. She handed him the dictionary.
When Mrs. Mullan came in with tea she burst out laughing. “Well, I declare! Is it birds ye think you are?”
They explained what they were doing. Hazel had been translating out loud. Marcus had been looking up the difficult words.
They had tea sitting side by side on the window-seat with the tea-things on a large oval table, which Mrs. Mullan had pushed over from the middle of the room.
They were very polite in a self-conscious, amused sort of way. Mrs. Mullan had provided fresh pancakes, hot soda buns, and an iced madeira cake. They pressed each other to have more tea, another bun, a little more sugar.
“Goodness!” Hazel said at last. “I can’t eat any more. I don’t usually have such a feed at this time of night. I must say you do yourselves proud.”
“It’s only because you’re here,” Marcus explained. “I usually have just a glass of milk and a biscuit at bed-time. Mr. Burnaby sometimes has tea, and sometimes a glass of whiskey; but if it’s tea he gets it himself. Mrs. Mullan usually goes straight after dinner.”
“You mean she’s stayed because of me?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t ask her to, and I didn’t know she was going to. I think she feels it would be letting the house down if you weren’t offered something to eat.”
“It’s very nice of her anyhow,” Hazel said. “I think we’d better go down and see the daughters and I’ll give my advice about the allurements and pitfalls of life in Belfast. I feel rather like an official of The Girl’s Friendly Society.”
In the kitchen they were met by three smiling faces. There was no doubt that the Mullan family approved of Hazel. They too had been having tea, and it was quite clear that they had not found it any hardship to stay late. Mrs. Mullan explained Teresa’s requirements. “She’d like to go as a house-parlourmaid. She’d do as a general of course, for she can cook as well as I can, but I tell her there’s no use her killin’ herself. Maybe ye’d know of some good place at the Malone end or the Knock—though they say the Malone Road’s the best.”
“I’ll ask Mother,” Hazel said. “She might know of somewhere—but won’t Mr. Burnaby mind?”
“Not a bit of him,” Mrs. Mullan assured them. “Sure it used to be Maggie till she married Willie Trew, and I’ve Susan comin’ on. The Master’ll hardly know a bit of difference. Doesn’t he call Teresa Maggie half times as it is?”
So Mrs. Mullan’s address was written down on a piece of paper and given to Hazel to keep, and they all said “Good night.”
Hazel and Marcus went out, and along the passage to the hall. Marcus felt slightly relieved. He knew that Mrs. Mullan would say nothing of Hazel’s visit to Mr. Burnaby. There had been something in her manner that told him as much: it was to be an unmentioned secret between them. He led the way across the hall towards the porch. He was looking forward to seeing Hazel home. Already he could feel the influence of the warm summer evening, and anticipate an atmosphere of romance in their walk back along the shore, with the sound of the waves coming up to them softly through the dusk.
He had his hand on the door into the porch when Hazel enquired, “What about the tower? I haven’t seen the tower yet.”
Marcus’s spirits fell. “Oh there’s nothing to see,” he responded, “just a few bleak rooms and a lot of winding stairs.”
“It’s that that makes it exciting,” Hazel said. “Don’t you think there’s something rather thrilling about winding stairs—they’re stone stairs too, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they’re stone stairs,” Marcus agreed in a flat voice, “but there’s nothing interesting.”
“I just want a peep,” Hazel begged, “just the littlest peep.”
They went up the steps to the tower. Marcus held aside the heavy curtain and they passed through the archway and began to climb the winding stairway. “It’s very quiet,” Hazel said, “very quiet and dark.”
Marcus didn’t answer. The emptiness was oppressive. He was thinking of the first time he had climbed these stairs. It had been a summer night rather like this. It had been later of course, but tonight it was getting dark early. The state of the light was nearly the same.
“I know the windows are small,” Hazel remarked, “but if they were washed and the cobwebs cleared away it would brighten the place up no end. It’s not much of a recommendation for Teresa.”
“It’s not her fault,” Marcus said.
“I don’t care which of them’s responsible; what I mean is it’s not much of an advertisement for the family—I’m afraid I’m being rather rude.”
“It’s not any of their faults. It’s Mr
. Burnaby. He likes spiders. He won’t let Mrs. Mullan dust away their webs. She cleans them away if she thinks he hasn’t noticed them, but there’s an awful row if he finds out. It’s hard luck on the spiders if their webs get bust up,” he added. “They put so much work into them.”
“And it’s hard on the flies if they get caught,” Hazel responded. “I must say you’ve some extraordinary ideas, the two of you.”
“Mr. Burnaby doesn’t like flies: he hates them. I think that’s partly why he’s so friendly to the spiders.”
They reached the first landing and Marcus showed her his own room and the bathroom. “And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to the door of the W.C. He told her and began to lead the way downstairs again.
But Hazel had crossed to the far side of the landing and was staring at the foot of the next flight of stairs. “What’s up here?” she demanded. “I want to go to the top.”
“There’s nothing interesting,” Marcus told her, “—just Mr. Burnaby’s bedroom and the study—the room where we work.”
“But that’s what I want to see most of all,” she declared. “I want to see the room where you work.”
“Oh all right,” Marcus agreed reluctantly, and slowly re-crossed the landing.
“I know of course, I’m being very inquisitive,” Hazel said, “and if I was nice and polite I’d take the hint, but I’m not. I’m just plain curious. All the same I think you’re being very queer. You’d think there was some sort of dreadful bluebeard secret. If you want to stop me the only way is to refuse point-blank to show me any more. I won’t ask to see Mr. Burnaby’s bedroom, but surely you can show me the room where you work?”
Marcus said nothing, and they climbed the stairs to the top in silence. “This is the study,” Marcus announced and opened the door.
Mr. Burnaby was sitting in his usual chair. He looked up when they entered and for a moment the customary, benevolent expression remained on his face. Then it altered. It was replaced by a look of the most terrible anger. His eyes grew dark, and cold, and furious. He gazed at them with the utmost hatred.
“It’s a nice big room,” Hazel was remarking casually, “but it’s very bare. I think if I had it I’d put some sort of cream wash on the walls, something to make it warmer looking. Of course . . . Why, Marcus . . . ?”
Marcus stared at Mr. Burnaby. He couldn’t speak or move. His mouth dropped slowly open. “Oh, oh,” he muttered. “Oh, oh, I didn’t, I didn’t know. . . .”
Mr. Burnaby didn’t speak. He continued to stare and his face was like the day of judgment. Vaguely and from very far away sounded Hazel’s voice, urgent and perplexed, “Marcus! Marcus! What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
Suddenly Mr. Burnaby was no longer there. Marcus began to hear Hazel’s voice. It was as if he were coming to, after having been stunned by a heavy blow. He was shaking all through. He caught her hand and held it tightly. “Come away quickly,” he muttered huskily. “Come away.”
She was completely puzzled, and only a little frightened. “But what’s wrong?” she repeated. She spoke lightly, ready if he chose to turn the incident into a joke. But she didn’t snatch her hand from him, and in his grasp there was no emotion but fear. He let go suddenly and pushed her from the room. “Come on,” he ordered harshly. “We’ll go outside.” They hurried down the stairs again slipping and stumbling, but once they were through the front door he could go no further. He sank down on the steps and crouched there, while Hazel gazed at him in bewilderment. He was sick and panting: there was an icy sweat on his forehead and round his eyes.
“But what is the matter?” Hazel demanded again and again.
At last he managed to answer. “He was there. He was sitting in the chair looking at us.”
“You mean he’s come back?”
“No. He’s gone away now. He went away while we were there.”
“But if he was there I’d have seen.”
“No, no: you couldn’t have seen him: nobody could have seen him but me.”
He realized after a time that she thought he was talking nonsense, that she thought he was demented. “But Marcus, he wasn’t there,” she kept repeating. “You only think you saw him.”
He got up and made some attempt to appear more normal. “I’m afraid this is a funny way to see you home,” he said apologetically.
“Oh it doesn’t matter about seeing me home,” she responded impatiently. “It’s you that’s the problem.”
“Oh I’m all right,” he assured her. “It’s just I got rather a shock, and I’m afraid I didn’t put up much of a show, but it’s not what you think. I’m not suffering from hallucinations or anything. I mean I understand perfectly well what happened. It . . . it’s something to do with our work—the work we’re doing.”
He began to walk down the drive and Hazel walked beside him. He knew he was no longer capable of taking her home by the path along the shore: it was too rough and uneven. They would have to go by the road and that would be difficult enough. He felt desperately in need of something to hold on to. Suddenly he found that he had it. Hazel had given him her hand. He grasped it thankfully as if it had been a rail or a banister. He remembered with a faint and distant amusement that this was what he had wanted to do so much—but this was not what he had imagined. He was like a convalescent being helped on his first, brief walk, by the cool hand of a nurse.
After they had walked in silence for some two or three hundred yards Hazel spoke. “Marcus, you mustn’t go back to that house.”
“But I’ve nowhere else to go,” he pointed out, admitting, tacitly at least, that for the moment he dreaded the idea of returning. “Yes, you have,” she told him. “You can come to us for tonight. There’s a spare room at Mrs. Taggart’s—the house where we’re staying, you know. It was being kept for John, my brother. He was to come down at week-ends; only he couldn’t get away.” She was explaining everything, as if to some extent he had lost his memory. “I’ll tell Mother that you’re not well, and that there’s no one at The Garrison to look after you. You could go home in the morning. Daddy would drive you over to Portmallagh in the car. You could catch a train there.”
The offer was very attractive. Marcus considered it in silence for so long that Hazel began to wonder if he had heard her. “It would be no good,” he answered at last. “It would be worse in the end. I couldn’t give up.”
“But you must give up,” she insisted, “give up Mr. Burnaby, I mean. This just proves everything I’ve been saying. It’s bad for you: he’s bad for you. Whatever this work is you’re doing, it’s bad for you. It’s making you queer and mad. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“But he was there,” Marcus expostulated sadly. “I saw him just as clearly as I see you, more clearly”—for they had come to a place where the road was overhung by trees and it was nearly dark. “Besides it was quite possible. There was nothing strange about it—if you only understood. At least if it was strange it was something I understand. It’s all happened before.”
She might have complained that he had given her no chance to understand, but she didn’t, not so much from kindness perhaps, as because she didn’t really believe he was talking rationally. Instead she went on quietly: “You wouldn’t need to go back—ever. You could go to Queen’s. I could help you, you know—at least I think I could—with your prelims. and that sort of thing.”
It was the plan Marcus himself had thought of, when they were on Slieve Pennion. He tried to consider it clearly, but his brain was too confused to grapple with the problem. If only he could do as Hazel suggested, without ever having to think of Mr. Burnaby again, but if he accepted her offer he knew that he would have no peace. He would be haunted by Mr. Burnaby either as a product of his own conscience, or more positively because Mr. Burnaby would not let him go without a struggle.
“I can’t,” he repeated dully.
“You could perfectly well,” she retorted firmly, but not altogether unkindly. “It’s just a matter of will-power. Do it, and you can do it. The trouble is you’ve let Mr. Burnaby get control of your will. It’s not your own will keeping you back; it’s his.”
He wasn’t sure if this were true or not and he did not contest it. “I just can’t,” he said.
“At any rate there’s no reason why you shouldn’t stay with us tonight.”
“No, I’ll have to go back; and besides,” he added feebly, “my pyjamas are there, all my things, my pyjamas and shaving things; all my things are there.”
“That’s just nonsense.” They had been talking very slowly, with long pauses. Now they had reached the beginning of the village and Marcus was walking quite steadily. Outwardly he was completely normal. Hazel withdrew her hand, but when he reached for it she let him take it again.
“Please,” he said. “I won’t, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t like.”
They passed through the village like this, walking ever so slowly without speaking. There was no one about, but when they came near Mrs. Taggart’s they saw Mr. and Mrs. Morley approaching from the opposite direction. Mr. Morley was carrying his rod and Mrs. Morley had a string bag or perhaps a landing net, through the meshes of which could be seen the scaly glint of fish.
“I see your father’s had some luck at last,” Marcus observed. “He should be pleased.”
“Yes, he’ll be pleased,” she answered.
“I think I’ll say good night now,” Marcus said. “I’ll have to go back.”
The Burnaby Experiments Page 24