“But Marcus, won’t you even let Daddy run you back in the car? He won’t mind a bit.”
“No, I’ll be all right—thank you very much all the same.”
They stopped and he let go her right hand from the grasp of his left hand. Then he took it again with his own right hand. She realized that he was shaking hands. “Goodnight,” he said, “and I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
“But, but . . .” she stammered in bewilderment.
“He’ll be back, you know,” he told her, “not tomorrow I suppose; he wouldn’t have time.”
“You mean. . . . ”
“I mean Mr. Burnaby’ll come home at once”—he half laughed—“in the ordinary way, so that anyone will be able to see him.” He had difficulty in controlling his voice. He knew it sounded slightly hysterical. “The day after tomorrow, that’s when he’ll arrive.”
“And tomorrow. . . .”
“Tomorrow won’t be worth anything. Tomorrow. . . . Goodnight.” He gave her hand a shake. “And, and I hope you’ll enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
“Goodnight.” The word came out in a whisper, so that he was only just able to hear it.
He wavered. “And, and Hazel, thank you very much. . . .”
“Goodnight,” she repeated. She spoke with determination, but her voice sounded choked. “You’d better go away. The others are coming.”
He turned and left her. He didn’t look round, but he knew she didn’t move till her parents joined her.
Marcus did not return through the village. He took the back road past the chapel. He wanted to avoid meeting anyone who might speak to him. He had deliberately broken his friendship with Hazel but he hoped that it wasn’t broken permanently, that somehow, sometime, circumstances would bring them together again. He wasn’t quite sure of his own motives. He would have liked to think that he had sacrificed his own happiness for a great cause, Hazel’s friendship for the sake of his work. But he didn’t know that that was true. It had been an influence no doubt, but there had been other influences—fear of Mr. Burnaby, fear that if he were to accept Hazel’s plan he would suffer from a perpetual guilty conscience. For a time he tried to work it out, to attribute his behaviour to one cause or the other. If he had acted through cowardice ought he not to go back on his decision? Tomorrow it would not be too late to do what she had suggested. He could still go into Portmallagh and take the first train home to Belfast. Surely if he did she would forgive him. He had hurt her tonight—tonight when she had been so kind and nice to him. . . . It was hateful to have hurt her, when he loved her so much. He hated Mr. Burnaby. Mr. Burnaby had taken advantage of his youth and inexperience, had forced him into a position which was going to make his whole life a misery. All the same, he reflected, finding an unexpected grain of comfort, she must care for him more than she had admitted; otherwise she wouldn’t have been so upset.
He came to the gate in the demesne wall and stopped. He was afraid to go in. He saw the wall as a boundary between two worlds. Outside he might not be safe from Mr. Burnaby, but at least he was free: he could meet him on more or less equal terms. Outside, if he were to explain his case, public opinion would be on his side, on Hazel’s side. Inside it was different: inside there was only one set of values—Mr. Burnaby’s. The very innocence of the dilapidated, wide-open gate was a deception. Once he went in he would be caught, sucked on towards the terrible, dark house. The gate was a sort of valve. He went in, feeling like a solitary Roman adventuring into the country beyond Hadrian’s Wall. But he had none of the elation of the adventurer—only the apprehension of the bewitched child in a fairy tale, wandering alone in the land of the enchanter.
As he went up the drive the rabbits made way for him, as they always did, leaving him in a little moving island of loneliness, resuming their quiet, alert nibbling of the grass when he had passed.
He reached the house, and sitting down on the steps before the door, put his head between his hands. He remained like this, hardly thinking. He was conscious of being very tired and very lonely. He remembered his bed at home, safe in the peaceful, sleeping, suburban house. At last he realized that he was stiff and cold. He got up, and walking out a little way onto the grass turned round and looked at The Garrison. In the semi-darkness it was a vague, greyish white. The windows had a blank, empty expression.
He gathered together what little courage was left to him, and returning, pushed open the door as gently as he could. He hated the creaks and squeezed in by the smallest possible aperture. He did not close the door behind him. In the hall he paused to listen. There wasn’t a sound anywhere. It was as if the whole building were tense, ready to pounce. Surely such a silence was unnatural: surely, however still a house might be there were usually rustlings, faint, distant, unexplained footfalls, mysterious thumps? Yet any such noise would have thrown him almost into hysterics.
On no account would he venture into the tower. It was the centre of all, whatever it was, that he dreaded, the special place where Mr. Burnaby’s power was greatest. He tiptoed up the stairs and along the passage to the library. Mrs. Mullan had left a lamp on the table. He lit it and opened the window. It was not far to the ground. If necessary he could leap through the window and so escape at any rate from the house. He sat down on a corner of the window-seat. Before morning he dozed a little from time to time.
CHAPTER XXVIII
AT seven o’clock Marcus stood up and stretched himself. He was no longer on the verge of panic. Weariness had relaxed the tension of his nerves. He felt dirty and sticky, and he would have liked a bath: but he hadn’t the courage to go and take one. He was still afraid to go into the tower, and he was even more afraid of getting into a bath where he would be trapped and naked should Mr. Burnaby appear to him again. He wanted to be able to run away, though there was no refuge he could run to.
He knew, however, that once the Mullan family were in the house he would be less fearful. There was something calming and reassuring about Mrs. Mullan. He felt that when she was present the phantom Mr. Burnaby was not likely to appear. He was dreading the return of the physical Mr. Burnaby, but of the other Mr. Burnaby—the disembodied spirit, the living ghost—he was now blindly terrified. So he went to a window in the passage above the kitchen where he could look out along the back drive and watch for the arrival of the Mullans.
At a quarter to eight he saw them in the distance—Mrs. Mullan in the centre, with Teresa on one side and Kate on the other. He drew back a little, for he did not want them to catch sight of him. He waited till they had almost reached the house and went quickly, almost stealthily, to his own room in the tower. He untidied his bed, rumpled the pillow, and threw back the bed-clothes. Next he went to the bathroom, and without undressing at all, washed his face and hands and shaved. He was careful not to make any noise. He couldn’t rid himself of the notion that Mr. Burnaby was in the room above, listening; ready to appear at the slightest sound.
He still needed to go to the W.C.: but he was afraid of being caught in the closed room, with his trousers down—unable to run away, with Mr. Burnaby perhaps between him and the door. He decided to go outside. He met Kate in the hall. “Good morning, Mr. Brownlow,” she greeted him. “You’re early astir today.”
“I didn’t sleep too well,” he responded. “I want to get a breath of air before breakfast.”
“It’s a grand morning for it,” she told him. “It’d do you good just to see how well everything is after the rain.”
It was true, but the damp freshness and the sunshine did not exhilarate Marcus. It was as if he saw it all through a glass, a picture into which he could not enter. He did what he had to do, and walked for a little beside the sea, stopping here and there on the edge of the rocks to gaze down into it. He couldn’t regard it as impersonal, or as anything but a kind of God. If by plunging into it he could have become pa
rt of it, conscious as he felt it was conscious, he would have done so. Before he returned, he climbed down to a low, sea-weedy ledge, and crouching there filled his hands with water and splashed it over his face and hair.
Mrs. Mullan herself brought in his breakfast. He realized at once that she had done so out of curiosity. “I hear ye had a bad night,” she remarked, as she put down a plate of porridge in front of him.
“I didn’t sleep too well,” Marcus answered shortly. “Must have been the heat or something.”
Mrs. Mullan stepped back and regarded him shrewdly, but benevolently. “Ach ye’re not too bad,” she said reassuringly, “and maybe it wasn’t the heat altogether, and maybe ye’re not the only one didn’t sleep.”
“I’m sure I’m not,” Marcus replied, refusing to acknowledge any deep meaning in the remark.
Mrs. Mullan withdrew. “Ah well,” she concluded, “don’t fret yourself. All’s for the best in the end.”
It was Teresa who brought in the tea and toast. She made no enquiries about his health, but she took a good look at him. It was clear that he was being discussed in the kitchen, that they were each having a peep in turn, and comparing notes. Marcus was slightly irritated, slightly amused. He thought he could imagine pretty well the nature of the conversation.
When he had finished he looked at his watch. It was just a quarter past nine. Well, he could still catch the morning train. It didn’t leave Portmallagh till half-past ten. He could get O’Flynn to run him over in his Ford: he only charged ten shillings. There was plenty of time: in any case the afternoon train at half-past three would do just as well. All that was necessary was to make sure he was safely home before Mr. Burnaby arrived tomorrow morning. He had not the slightest doubt that Mr. Burnaby would return at once. If not already on his way, he would at least be preparing to start. In that case there was no danger now of another visitation like last night’s. To project himself Mr. Burnaby would need absolute solitude—he had explained that often enough. For the time being therefore the whole place was safe. He could go to his own bedroom in the tower and sleep without the slightest fear of being disturbed. He would just have to tell Mrs. Mullan—and he did want to sleep.
All the same he still had a dread of the tower. He would rather sleep somewhere in the open air. Immediately he knew where he would go—to the hollow where he had been lying on the morning he first met Hazel. Perhaps she would come again and find him there. If she did he would treat it as an omen. He would take back what he had said last night. He would catch the afternoon train to Belfast, and know that somehow everything was going to work out right.
He got a waterproof to lie on, in case the ground should still be damp after yesterday’s rain. He set out quite hopefully. It was a relief to have left to Fate the responsibility for his decision. He reached the hollow and found that after all it was quite dry. He lay down and closed his eyes. He would open them to see Hazel standing over him. At once a drowsy feeling of comfort, a satisfying consciousness of the sun, and of the warm air stole over him. In a few minutes he was asleep.
Even before he opened his eyes he knew that Hazel hadn’t come. He was hot, and stiff, and uncomfortable. The arm on which he had been lying had gone to sleep. The sun had got too hot: it was the heat which had awakened him. He looked round, blinking at the too bright scene, the hard, glittering sea. It was all so unkind.
He looked at his watch—a quarter to one, nearly time for lunch. He walked back heavily towards the house. He hated the whole, bare countryside, the glaring whiteness of The Garrison itself.
Kate brought him a telegram and he read it—“Expect me about five-thirty Burnaby.”
“Tell your mother, Mr. Burnaby’ll be back for dinner,” he said.
And after that there was nothing to do but wait. He realized horribly that now he couldn’t go for the train. He had no longer any will of his own.
In the afternoon he mooned about, trailing from the library to the garden, and back to the library. He hadn’t even the energy to bathe, though he knew it was the only thing which might restore his self-possession. His feet dragged wearily, but he couldn’t stay in one place. He wondered what Hazel was doing. He felt sure that at least she was less miserable than himself.
Marcus was waiting on the door-step when a black car, which he had never seen before, drove up. Mr. Burnaby got out. No word of greeting passed between them. Mr. Burnaby paid the driver, and calling Mrs. Mullan, instructed her to prepare him a meal. Then he and Marcus went upstairs together to their workroom in the tower. Each sat down in his usual chair. During all this time Mr. Burnaby had never looked at Marcus. His face was as grim as a headland in a storm.
Marcus, in his hopelessness, had almost reached a state of detachment. Presently he found himself putting a question, which did not interest him particularly, but which, nevertheless, had puzzled him from time to time, since the arrival of the telegram. “How did you get here so soon?” he enquired.
“I engaged an aeroplane,” Mr. Burnaby replied. “I came from Belfast in the taxi you saw. Black is crossing in the boat tonight with the car. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Marcus said. “I didn’t expect you till tomorrow—not till I got your telegram.”
“I thought I had better warn you,” Mr. Burnaby replied drily. “Where is she now, if one might enquire?”
His tone was cold and deliberately provoking. Marcus pretended not to understand him. “Where’s who?” he asked.
“Your girl.”
Marcus flushed. “There’s no need to speak of her that way,” he retorted angrily.
“How would you like me to speak of her? You haven’t told me her name. The young person you had here last night, should I say?—your lady friend?”
“I don’t know what you should say—and I don’t know where she is. She’s with her people, I suppose.”
“At any rate she’s not on the premises. That’s very considerate of you.”
Marcus was silent. For another long period they sat quite still, without speaking. Mr. Burnaby’s eyes remained fixed on the empty fireplace. From time to time Marcus glanced at him, but his glances were not returned. Mr. Burnaby looked old, in a way Marcus had never seen him look before. It was as if he were dead, someone who had been dead a long time, a malignant skeleton determined to revenge himself on the living. Marcus hated him, and at the same time knew that he was very unhappy. He had no wish to make him happy, no wish indeed except that Mr. Burnaby were really dead and gone, so dead as to leave not even a memory alive.
He hardened himself against any feeling of pity. He knew that he had a duty to Mr. Burnaby. He was prepared to carry out that duty. Wasn’t it on that account that he had said goodbye as he did to Hazel last night, letting her know that it was a final goodbye, the end of their friendship? But he wasn’t prepared to tell Mr. Burnaby about that. Mr. Burnaby would treat it as something trivial. He would scoff at it. He could think what he liked.
What was he thinking, Marcus wondered. There was no indication. Mr. Burnaby was unhappy and angry. Let him be unhappy. He would get his way in the end, but he might as well know, that in doing so, he was depriving Marcus of everything that was most pleasant in life. After all, Marcus thought, he had been got hold of in the first place by a sort of trap. He hadn’t realized what he was in for; and Mr. Burnaby must have known that he didn’t realize. It was all very well for Mr. Burnaby to give up the world. It wasn’t as if Mr. Burnaby had been a boy fresh from school. He had had his youth. He had experienced life.
Time went on. It was very trying. Mr. Burnaby remained completely still. Perhaps he had died suddenly, Marcus thought, with a momentary flash of hope; but he hadn’t. Marcus recalled bitterly how fond Mr. Burnaby was of speaking as if he had only a little longer to live. He would go on living for years.
At last there was a knock
at the door. Marcus waited for Mr. Burnaby to answer, but he didn’t. After a pause the knock came again. Marcus cleared his throat. “There’s someone knocking,” he said.
“Tell her to go away,” Mr. Burnaby said, but when the knock came a third time he heard it, and shouted furiously, “Come in, can’t you, and stop that noise.”
Mrs. Mullan put her frightened face round the door. “It’s only me, Sir. I’m sorry to disturb ye, but the dinner’s ready this half hour. It’ll be spoilt if I keep it back any longer.”
“Haven’t I often told you . . .?” Mr. Burnaby began, but he broke off without finishing his sentence. “All right then. We’ll be down directly.”
At the beginning of dinner Marcus made one or two attempts at conversation. He didn’t want the Mullan family to guess that Mr. Burnaby and he had quarrelled, but Mr. Burnaby’s replies were so surly that he was forced to give up. Neither of them ate much, but Marcus soon began to realize, that whatever his own state of misery, Mr. Burnaby’s was very much worse. His hands were trembling and whenever he took a drink of water the glass rattled against his teeth. Marcus began to feel nervous about him.
It was not until the coffee was on the table and Kate had finally withdrawn that he looked straight at Marcus for the first time. Suddenly he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said, “I must know what you intend to do. What are your plans?”
Marcus was taken by surprise. “Plans?” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes, plans. What do you intend to do? Surely that’s simple enough. Can you not even understand words of one syllable?”
“I don’t even know what plans you’re talking about,” Marcus returned. “I don’t intend to do anything in particular.”
The Burnaby Experiments Page 25