Once Colin learned of the gravity of Emily's condition, he became a resident at the vicarage, resolved to stand by his friend through the crisis. Ten days after the child was born, it was Colin who rode at breakneck speed astride Odin to Cragmoor Village for George Howard. He drove the stallion hard in the face of a cold, drizzling rain fanned by blustery wind squalls, like links in a chain spread wide assaulting the length of the coast.
An hour after the doctor arrived, it was Colin who was summoned to the master bedchamber alone at Emily's request. He pushed past Howard and approached the deathbed with eyes too filled with grief to support the mask. Sinking down on the bed beside her, he took her frail, white hand in his own and clutched it tight. It was cold and dry.
"You knew, didn't you, Colin?” she murmured, stifling a cough. “You knew from the beginning, but you were afraid to make it plain."
"Emily . . ."
"No—no guilt. God knows I've seen what that can do. If the truth be known, I expect I knew it would come to this myself."
"Don't talk, Emily—save your strength."
"I've no more need of strength, Colin. One needs no strength to die—only to live this life. I've betrayed Elliot so horribly, and I love him so. That's why I've asked you to come here now. It is to a cruel purpose that I've called you, and I can do naught but beg your forgiveness over it."
"You haven't a cruel bone in your body—not one."
"Oh, yes I have.” Smiling sadly, she gripped his hand. “I haven't long now, and I am not brave enough to die alone, but neither am I brave enough to suffer Elliot to see me die. I'm going to leave him just like Mary did. I cannot make him watch it all a second time. Stay with me, Colin—please help me spare him?"
"Emily, I cannot bear this. You don't know what it is that you ask."
"If I can bear it, you can bear it."
Colin moaned.
"My dearest friend,” she said, “he loves you so very much, just as if you were his own blood. He worries and frets so over you, and it isn't out of piety, it's out of love. Will you promise me something?"
"Emily . . ."
"No . . . don't turn away. Please, Colin . . . please hear me. Look after him when I'm gone. He will need you awhile you know. Don't shut him out, or turn him away. Don't . . . disappear again and leave him . . . alone. He mustn't be . . . alone."
Watching tears form on her pale lashes, his spilled down. “Emily, please don't do this to me,” he choked.
"Promise me, Colin,” she whispered. “It's such a small thing, and it shan't be for long. He has little Ted for comfort, but it's too soon for that. It's you he needs now. Be with him for me, because though he grieves when I die, he grieves for her still, and no one but you can comfort that. I love him, Colin . . . let me rest."
"I love him, too,” Colin murmured. “You think I don't because I am the way I am. Christ, it is because I love him that I am as I am. I need him—never doubt it, but I have to disassociate myself because I cannot be what he wants me to be, and I cannot stand to see him suffer because of it—I'd sooner suffer myself."
"I know that, Colin, but I have to beg you...please make the sacrifice for him."
"And who will comfort me?"
"I told you it is a cruel thing that I do to you, but it is a crueler thing we both do to him . . . promise me?"
Colin dropped his head down on the hand he gripped and pressed it to his lips. Defeated, he nodded against her cold fingers, and he stiffened at the touch of her other hand tenderly stroking his hair.
"Colin, I love you just as he does,” she said, “and I see in you what he sees. You are so kind to me—you have always been. God bless you for that."
"There is no God,” Colin groaned against her fingers.
Emily coughed again. The hand on his hair stopped stroking. It rested there for several moments and then slipped away. He raised his head and his swollen eyes flashed toward her. She appeared to be sleeping and he would have thought her dreams were pleasant if it hadn't been for the blood seeping through her lips. Moaning her name he gathered her close, but she was dead, limp and still in his arms, and after a moment he pried her fingers loose and laid her back against the pillow.
Staggering to his feet he went to the door and flung it wide. He scarcely felt the rush of air as Rina Banks and the doctor pushed past him. His eyes were trained upon Elliot's gray face, but he was too numb to feel the vicar grip his shoulder as he moved by him also, following Howard and the housekeeper into the room. And no one heard him groan, or saw him stumble down the stairs and stagger out into the howling wind.
* * * *
Elliot sat beside his dead wife murmuring prayer. The doctor looked on blinking tears back from his own tired eyes, while Rina crept silently away.
Outside the rain had stopped for the moment, but a vicious gale had risen in its place. Assailing the windows, the gusts shook them hard in their frames. The howling wind, too, seemed to mourn, rattling the glass with such force that the panes still quivered when it died away between blasts.
"I should have been with her,” the vicar despaired.
"She asked for Chapin to spare you that, my friend,” said the doctor.
The vicar paled, and Howard answered the look in his eyes, “I was going to send Rina for you, Elliot, but she asked me to fetch Chapin first. She knew she was going. She didn't want you to see it. That was quite a lady."
"Oh, but, George, that was wrong,” the vicar said. “I could have stood it so much better than he."
The doctor gave a start. “Chapin?” he barked. “Colin Chapin hasn't a compassionate hair on his lecherous head. He'd like as not spit in death's face—or seduce it. The man's got no emotion in him save lust and foul temper, and you bloody well know it, Elliot."
"No, George, you don't know,” the vicar murmured, “neither did she or she never would have done such a thing."
"Well, either way it's done now. I'm sorry, Elliot. I wish with all my heart that I could have done something to save her."
Elliot studied Emily's still face. “She almost seems to be smiling. Was there much pain, George, do you think?"
"From the look of her I would say no. She seems at peace."
"I've got Colin to thank for that then. God knows how he managed it, I never could have. What this night has doubtless cost him, I know I can never repay."
"Look here, are you all right? I think I'd best check that ticker. You look wretched, Elliot"
"I'm fine, George—really,” the vicar said, waving him off. “I've lived this moment every day since you told me I was going to lose her. The practice hasn't eased the pain or the guilt, but if I haven't dropped down dead before now in all this, I shan't for some time I assure you."
All at once the loud, urgent swish of Rina's skirts turned them both toward the door. Trembling from her small feet to the neat coil of gray hair at the nape of her neck, she burst into the room with a hand on her heaving bosom.
"Oh, sir, forgive me, but you'd best come at once,” she panted. “'Tis Mr. Colin...he's gone mad, sir, I swear it!"
Elliot vaulted to his feet. “Where is he—what's happened?” he demanded.
"He's out in the graveyard in his shirtsleeves in all o’ this—tearin’ it ta pieces, sir. See for yourself outa the window,” she wailed, pointing toward the shivering pane.
Elliot sprang to the window and looked below toward the churchyard. Distant lightning had diluted the darkness to a twilight haze. It lent just enough light to outline Colin's shape kneeling on Mary's grave, where he labored tearing the muddied soil from it with wild hands and flinging it into the wind. Alongside, Sir John's grave had also been defiled, and he could hear Colin's howls above the gale, like the cries of a mortally wounded animal. The bloodcurdling sound pierced him through with cold chills and he gasped, bolting toward the door. The doctor started to follow, but he prevented him with a quick gesture.
"No, George, stay here,” he said, “I'll go to him."
Running on trembling l
egs, Elliot tore down the stairs, out the door, and over the heath with his head bent into the wind to the graveyard. Colin had dug a gaping hole in the sunken ground beside Mary's headstone. Deranged, he clawed like a dog at the wet, oozing earth with all the strength he could summon to hands clearly bent upon reaching the coffin beneath.
The vicar took hold of his shoulders, but the muscles stretching the cambric blouse taut had become so hard that his fingers couldn't make a dent.
"My God, Colin, don't—don't desecrate their graves,” he cried in competition with the wind.
"Get away!” spat the voice of a madman.
"Stop it I say,” the vicar shouted, shaking him hard. Thrown off balance as Colin jerked himself free, Elliot steadied himself against the headstone. “Colin, please don't do this."
Colin's dilated eyes flashed in the lightning glare. “I am going to dig up their bloody bones and grind them to dust in my hands,” he moaned. “I cannot kill them you see—they are already dead, goddamn the pair of them! But I will tear them out of their graves. I will disturb their peaceful sleep while the rest of us dance with the devils they've left us. None of this would be but for them,” he raved, attacking the sod again.
The wind gained momentum raking his hair, and his lips worked in lunatic spasms leaking guttural sounds through teeth so tightly clenched that the vicar could hear them grinding together.
"Colin, for the love of God—please!” Elliot begged.
"That poor gentle creature lies up there dead, and she shouldn't be dead,” Colin thundered, pounding the ground with clenched fists. “And they are dead, God rot their bloody souls, and they shouldn't be dead. I should be dead! Ahhh, Jesus, Elliot, your God is a fiend, and He's made a bloody ghoul of me.” Falling forward in the mud, he clutched his head in his hands.
The vicar gasped. “Do not dare blaspheme against God in this holy place,” he seethed. “Is there not enough come down upon us as it is?"
"Leave me be, Elliot. Let me alone,” said the strange voice again.
"I can't—not like this,” said the vicar. “I know what you've done and I know what it's cost you. George just told me."
Colin burst into blood-chilling laughter. “Oh, Christ, will you just go back inside and leave . . . me . . . alone?” he raved.
The vicar ignored him. “Come away, Colin,” he begged. “I need you just now. Please don't do this. I haven't the strength to stop you, and if you do this thing it will finish me—I swear it."
Colin's posture sagged where he crouched doubled over, and he emptied his lungs. “Leave me alone awhile, Elliot,” he said, “just for a little while, and let me have my comfort from the wind. There is no other way left for me to take it."
After a moment the vicar straightened up from the tombstone and stood on his own. He laid a firm hand on Colin's shoulder, gripping hard, and moved away through the maelstrom toward the graveyard gate, where he watched from a distance.
Rain had begun to fall, drumming hard on a slant out of the northbound wind. Colin scarcely noticed. He crouched there on his knees in the slimy morass he'd made of the graves for nearly an hour before he dragged himself—black with mud and soaked to the skin—back to the vicarage.
* * * *
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Chapter Nineteen
* * * *
One Saturday afternoon a little over a month after the funeral, the vicar paid a call at Cragmoor and found Colin at his desk in the study. He looked up with a smile on his lips as he entered and worked brisk hands together. “Elliot, I was just about to come ‘round and see you,” he said. “I've got good news at last."
Taken aback, the vicar stared. “Good news, Colin?"
"Indeed. Sit down, sit down.” He motioned toward the horsehair sofa and the vicar sank into it, still studying Colin's rare good humor with a tilted head and a quizzical frown.
"How's little Ted?"
"Ted is fine, thank you, Colin."
"He's such a handsome child, Elliot. You must be very proud."
"I am, but I would be more proud if you would consider letting me baptize you, so you could become his Godfather."
Colin's smile dissolved. “Elliot, I told you no. “You know my views on God, and besides, that child hardly deserves the parish scandal for a Godfather."
"Oh, Colin,” admonished the vicar.
"Get somebody else for that, my friend. If you won't think of Ted, I will. It wouldn't do, and you know it."
"I have someone else, but I want you."
"Who have you got?"
"Emily's sister, Virginia, married a short time ago. She and her husband are anxious to become Godparents for Ted, but . . ."
"Good,” Colin interrupted, giving a crisp nod. “Your inlaws will suit far better than I. Now let's make an end to all that nonsense once and for all shall we? Don't let's spoil my good mood. They are so few and far between of late."
The vicar breathed a nasal sigh and looked away.
"Don't you want to hear my news?” said Colin, rekindling the smile.
"What is it?” murmured the vicar emptily.
"We're finally to be rid of the bastard awhile."
"What?” cried Elliot, vaulting forward on the sofa.
Colin laughed. “I dare say that's got attention, has it? You should see your face."
"Well, go on—go on, let's hear this."
"I've just had a letter from St. Simeon's up in Lancashire. They've accepted the bastard to be enrolled there at once."
The vicar's mouth gaped wide. “You're sending Malcolm to an Anglican boys boarding school, Colin? Good God!"
"You know the place, then?"
"I know of it. I've never been there. It's just north of Manchester on the Pennine Chain, isn't it?"
Colin nodded.
"I know the vicar general up there—Andrew Carlisle. He was pastor of Holy Martyrs in London when I was a curate there. He was the vicar I was supposed to replace before your father brought me out here. Andrew was my mentor as it were."
"It was Carlisle whom I approached over it,” said Colin. “The bishop referred me. He seems like a decent enough chap, your mentor."
The vicar clouded. “Look here, are you sure you've thought this through? Anglican boys schools are strictly run, Colin, and there's a good measure of religious education that comes with the curriculum."
Colin shrugged. “So?"
Elliot opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of inciting another theological debate and decided instead upon a less inflammatory direction for the conversation. “How the devil did you ever get them to take him at mid-term?” he said.
Colin laughed again. “It's amazing what money can do,” he said, “and it appears that I've gotten my money's worth out of that Church of yours, my friend. In my pursuit of this outcome I greased a few palms along the way. Need I elaborate?"
The vicar frowned remembering another bribe, but he dared not dwell upon that. He took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, ceremoniously filled his briar, and lit it. “What does Malcolm think of the idea?” he said, around the pipe stem in his teeth.
"I haven't told him yet."
"When is he leaving?"
Colin's smile evaporated again. “That's the only unpleasant part of this whole thing,” he regretted. “I've got to take him up there, and I'd rather sit in a coach for three days with a nest full of puff adders than abide the bastard that long in close quarters. He'll be lucky if he gets there all-of-a-piece."
"I'll take him, Colin."
"You'll take him? How the devil can you take him? What about Ted—and the church?"
"Rina and the nurse will tend Ted. They've got him most of the time as it is, and if we leave right after service tomorrow, I should be back in plenty of time for service next week. I can work on my sermon en route. No doubt Malcolm will inspire me."
Colin gave it thought. “You know, I'm tempted to let you,” he admitted, “but I can't ask it, Elliot, it's too soon after the funeral. Beside,
you don't relish the bastard's company anymore than I do."
"Nonsense. It's true that I don't relish his company, but I could stand to get away for a bit, and I would like to see Andrew again. Our parting was awkward. I've never felt right about deserting him the way I did. Let me take him, Colin. I owe you so much—please let me do this."
"You're not in my debt, Elliot, I'm in yours,” said Colin with a faraway look in his eyes.
"It's settled,” the vicar decreed. “We shall leave tomorrow afternoon and no more said about it."
Colin shook his head flashing a guilty look. “If you insist. I can't spare Harris, and Jacob's down with bronchitis. I'll hire a coach. Thank you, Elliot."
"Don't be ridiculous."
The vicar drew on his pipe through a thoughtful hesitation. “Malcolm isn't going to like this you know, Colin."
"Who in hell cares what he likes?"
The vicar shook his head skeptically. “I sincerely doubt that Christian schooling is the answer—not for the likes of what he is."
"I told you at the outset what the bastard was likely to be. More's the pity he's proven me right."
"George Howard believes we've never given him half a chance to prove you wrong. He thinks we're biased."
"That meddling old reprobate. If he had to deal with the bastard on a daily basis he'd change his tune quickly enough. Perhaps I ought to cancel his enrollment and remand him to the good doctor for edification instead, since he fancies himself an expert.” Studying the vicar's expression he gave a start. “What—you don't agree with Howard?” he said, incredulous. “Don't tell me you're looking to salvage something of Mary from that child? Christ, if that's what you're about, you're demented!"
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