The Ballad and the Source

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “And what did she say?”

  “Oh, she saw the forrce of it.” Auntie Mack waved an evasive hand. “She quite saw it. She did not wish to dwell. Naturally she did not, to a stranger. Not that I can consider her in that light. I make so bold as to say she has become a friend. From the fairrst handshake I felt it: heerre is a friend, I said to myself. Robert is at peace now, we must not repine; but I do grieve, I cannot otherrwise, that it was not granted to him to become acquainted with her—and with the Majorr too. It might have meant the worrld to him. He cut himself off so. Oh, he was a lonely fellow!”

  “I am glad she wrote to him before he died, aren’t you?” I said, much affected.

  “Ah, I see you are quite her little confidant,” exclaimed Auntie Mack, rolling a dubious eye at me. “Yes, yes. It was a consolation. Well, poorr fellow, he is in a better place. I for one will not repine.”

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “Maisie’ll stop repining soon.”

  “Maybe,” she said, vague. “Maybe.”

  We emerged from beneath the limes and started across the lawn at an angle again. Jess was still with Malcolm underneath the tree. They were now standing face to face on the swing. Over and over again he crouched low, then drove forward, straightened himself, urging his freight to giddier heights. It looked somehow a joyless, business-like performance. Silently he laboured; and her response seemed utterly silent. I wondered if she felt sick and did not like to tell him so. She would feel that on his last day she must be a sacrifice.

  “We will keep our distance from the terrace,” observed Auntie Mack. “I would not wish their colloquy to be disturbed. We are approaching a milestone in Maisie’s life. All depends upon the approach. One worrd with your mother over the tea-table, and I knew I could depend on herr for that. She is motherrly tact itself.”

  I threw a furtive glance at the french windows, imagining I knew not what portentous confabulation: maternal wings, a couple of pairs of them, spread ominously over Maisie; maternal voices, earnest, benevolent, tolling each its alternate dirge-note in her ears: This school? That school? SOME school. WHICH school? Inexorable chime and counter-chime.

  “D’you know what I think Maisie will do as soon as ever she’s grown up?” I said. “She’ll go off and look for Ian—for her mother.”

  Had I remarked that Maisie planned to go off and run an opium den, the effect upon Auntie Mack could not have been more electrifying. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes winced, then focused suddenly, as if shocked back to attention from years of dream and wanderlust. For the first time she took me in with a full and dwelling look.

  “What makes you think that?” she said, in quite a sharp realistic way.

  “Oh, it seems like the sort of thing she would do,” I said, rather unnerved.

  “Does she speak to you of her mother?”

  “Oh yes. At least she did once. She told me about—you know, about the postcards coming, and then stopping.”

  “Ah, she told you that.”

  “And a few other things.”

  “Pooorr Maisie,” said Auntie Mack softly. “She suffered. Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, how she did carry on! It was the same identical carry-on then. She would not have it. Oh, she was for taking the next train to fetch her back and I don’t know what. I had to watch herr. At her age!—seven or so. Oh, I did have a time! It seemed wisest not to dwell. Least said soonest mended is what I told myself. She seemed to give up after a while. I would answerr as I judged best—I would never refuse her an answerr—but oh, I was thankful when she stopped! And thankful when those postcarrds stopped. They were nothing but cruelty in the cirrcumstances—yet I asked myself: of two cruelties which is the greater?—withhold? or not withhold? … I may have made the wrong decision. I may have. … Then they stopped. Well, maybe they tided them over a wee bit, I thought. Now, Time is the great healer. A child’s sorrows are brief. She looked bonny enough with it, and ate well all through. But, as I told Mrs. Jardine, Maisie’s is not a nature to alterr. Faithful unto death, that’s young Maisie, but it has its awkwarrd side. If she’s got that fixed in her mind still …”

  Seeing that Auntie Mack was off again, I made bold to say:

  “Wouldn’t she be able to find her?”

  “Better she should not. Better far. Far better.”

  I could only have said, “Oh”; and I did not say it. There was that in her voice which brought to mind low hissing conversations through the night nursery door. “So she said: ‘I’d sooner see her dead at my feet, she said he said”; and similar pregnant passages. Crime and passion were, I knew, in question. I said, after a pause:

  “Were you living in the house before—before she went away?”

  “Yes,” said Auntie Mack, speaking with simplicity. “I came at Robert’s request when Cherry was a wee babe in arms. There weren’t many pennies to spare in that household, you know, and my dearr father had just passed on. I had no home ties remaining of my own. Robert offered me a home: on the understanding, of course, that I should take part of the burden of domestic responsibilities off his shoulderrs. Oh, he was bowed down with them!” She broke off, heaved a huge sigh. “Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, they were all at sixes and sevens. He was harrd put to it to know which way to turrn.”

  “I suppose she was too?” I suggested. She looked blank; so I added: “Her—their mother. Hard put to it.”

  “Oh, yes. She would be too. Of courrse.” She was vague. “But there it was. She was not quite able to pull her weight. It all fell on him.”

  “Wasn’t she very well?”

  “Her health was delicate. Cherry was a mistake. Quite a mistake. There was a lot of lying on the sofa, and so forrth. She needed—oh, constant looking afterr.”

  “Who looked after her?”

  “Her husband,” said Auntie Mack, solemn and emphatic. “He looked after her.”

  “He does seem to have had a lot to put up with.”

  “A marrtyrr that man was!” The words burst forth. “A positive marrtyrr. I would beg him to relax, to … to make otherr arrangements—” She broke off, catching her breath in a gasp of horror. The eye I could see rolled frantically, accusing herself. “He would not,” she added, reticent.

  “I suppose he loved her very much?”

  “In all my borrn days,” she declared, emotion claiming her again, “I neverr saw a more beautiful creaturre. Oh, it was nothing but a tragedy! A tragedy, that’s what it was.”

  “Did she love Malcolm and Maisie very much? And Cherry?”

  “Well … She was not the motherr type, if you take my meaning. She loved them, of courrse, afterr her own fashion. It would not be everybody’s fashion. They would get on her nairrves, you know, on her bad days. She would get to be—not quite in control of her nairrves. It would be best to keep them away. But in between times—oh, they’d be clustering round her, you know, just as it might be you and yourr sisterrs round yourr own motherr’s knee.”

  “And my baby brother.”

  “Oh, you have a wee brotherr? Fancy! What a joy! What a joyous day that was forr yourr parents, I’ll be bound! Three little girrls and last the boy. The son and heirr! Just to round off the family. At least—unless—” She caught her breath.

  “They wanted me to be a boy,” I said. “And even more when it came to Sylvia.”

  “Ah well, they will see it as all for the best now. And his sisterrs will train him up in the way he should go.” A sort of jocose whinny developed in her voice. “Oh, I dare swearr they will! There’ll be nothing for the wee man but to walk the straight and narrow path.”

  We wheeled round and started back across the lawn in silence. I was occupied in wondering how to re-direct the conversation when she stopped, laid a hand upon her diaphragm and mildly groaned.

  “Oh dearr, dearr, dearr, this flatulence! I cannot seem to master it. My stomach is positively taut. It strikes me no
w it would be the melon at the midday meal. Always fatal. I should have refrained. Oh, I do ask myself, how will my digestion stand up to the climate at Bude? All that strong airr off the sea, you know—it is bound to be liverish. We must hope forr the best. Oh, the sea!—it is the love of my life. Picture it! To pairrch upon the cliff top at sunset, and just let the wind stream through my hairr …”

  Rapt, she gazed forward into dreamland, beholding illimitable horizons: a battered figurehead, sand-and-salt-streaked, stained with time and the world’s inclement weathers. I gazed at the uncoordinated fantasies of her coiffure and strove to picture it.

  “I expect your hair’s lovely and long when it’s down,” I said.

  “Below my knees, dearr. But oh, I am quite out of conceit with it: it has altogetherr lost its sheen. It was my fatherr’s pride. ‘Flora,’ he would say to me, ‘others may beat you to the winning post forr forrm and featurre, but for a woman’s crowning glory you can knock spots off them all.’ You must excuse me now, dearr. I must positively go in and sip a glass of hot waterr and bicarrb. Why not run and join the others for a jolly swing? Up like a birrd—into the tree-tops!”

  “I’ll just walk with you as far as the house,” I said politely.

  “Ah, some little girrl has been taught pretty mannerrs!”

  She took my hand again and gave it a squeeze. I simpered. We walked on. I said:

  “Did she ever come back for them after she went away?”

  “Who, dearr?”

  “Ian—their mother. Did she—sort of try to get in and fetch them?”

  Auntie Mack stared at me, dumbfounded at the things children think of.

  “Good gracious me, no! Neverr. Oh, dearr, no.”

  “I suppose he wouldn’t have wanted her to have them.”

  “Indeed he would not have. At least—dearr me—! But there was no question of it, you know. He knew that, poorr man, when—when she finally deparrted from his hearrth and home.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean Mr. Thomson so much. I meant”—I nerved myself—“the other man.”

  “The other—?”

  “That she went away with.”

  Again our progress was arrested. She dropped my hand; she turned on me a face: an inexpressibly shocked grownup’s face.

  “Who told you?” she said rapidly.

  “Who told me what?”

  “That she went away with—with anybody?”

  “Well … Maisie.” I was embarrassed. “At least she thought so. She thought—we thought—people generally do, don’t they?”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “What a terrible thing! People gen— Oh, good gracious me, where do children— A pairrfect sink their minds are, that’s what they are. Perrhaps it is not altogetherr to be wondered at. Little pitchers. … I said so more than once. ‘It will be brought into your verry home one day,’ I said to him. ‘Then what?’ Oh dearr! A bitterr black day it was, but a mairrcy in disguise when—” She gave the wildest gasp yet. “‘Mind,’ he said. ‘Never a hint so long as you live. Swear it.’ I swore it on my mother’s Bible, and he was satisfied. As for them, he called them to him and he said, once and for all, they would all go on loving her, but neverr speak of her together. Never. I don’t know how he put it to them but that was what it came to. And they neverr broke their worrd to him. They were so sorry for him they’d have bit their tongues out rather than— They pitied the man. I saw it,—those mites. Making allowances if he flew out. Oh, it was a morrtal shame! I wonderr now, could Mrs. Jardine be right in saying a dose of the bitterr truth will do no harrm …?”

  “She thinks it does a lot of good,” I interposed.

  “Ah … Well. It is out of my hands now. Let come what must. No,” she added with intensity, turning on me again. “She went away with no man.”

  We began to walk on.

  “She just went away?”

  “She just went away.”

  I pondered. It made it no better, even more mysterious, more cold, more desolating. I thought, if I were Maisie I would feel even worse, thinking of my mother simply wandering away alone. In any case I would not dare to repeat to her this conversation: she might accuse me of plotting, and tear me limb from limb: I was receiving the confidences of one who had quite lost her confidence. Nor could I throw out to her the suggestion with which I had just been visited: that her mother had attacked Mr. Thomson and then bolted. I wondered if he had died with a scar on his brow. I gave up.

  “And to think,” I sighed, “poor Mrs. Jardine doesn’t even know where she is.”

  She made another half turn towards me; checked herself, gasped, but feebly.

  “Ah,” she said, nodding.

  I saw the french windows open. Maisie emerged and came galloping down the terrace towards us. Mrs. Jardine and my mother appeared within the entrance.

  “Come in, Miss Mackenzie, come in,” called Mrs. Jardine, peremptory and gracious. “Rebecca and Maisie will play together now. Come in and join us.”

  “Ah,” murmured Auntie Mack, leaving me, all gratification and alacrity. “Then the bicarrb must wait.”

  “Don’t disappear,” called my mother, smiling. “Fifteen minutes, Rebecca, then we must be getting home.”

  Running at full tilt, Maisie passed Auntie Mack without a glance and slithered to a halt by my side.

  She seemed in an aimless mood. She bit her thumb and stared around her, frowning.

  “We don’t want to go with them,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at the swing, now at rest, with its occupants idly stretching themselves against the ropes. “We haven’t got to stay out if we don’t want to. We’re not babies to be told to play in the garden. Come on in.”

  We trailed up to her bedroom. She flung herself on the bed, crossed her arms under her head, and whistled up at the ceiling. I said:

  “Have you decided?”

  “I have decided.”

  Her voice made me start. Was it an imitation of Mrs. Jardine?—or her own spirit speaking? It sounded brisk, harsh, matter-of-fact, self-willed. Her eyes were fixed, wide open, on a crack in the ceiling, and nothing gave her away.

  “Where?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t know. You’re not going away to school, are you? Ever. I’m going to see two delightful schools next week; one quite near, one quite a long way away. Your mother’s going to take me—it’s jolly decent of her. I quite like your mother, I must say. But I have already decided.”

  “I do hope you’ll be coming here every holidays.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  She turned her head sharp aside. We were silent. I watched her waggling the toes of one crossed foot. Then I glanced at her face. I thought how pretty it looked. Laid back on the white bedspread, the big hard prominent features fell into relaxed childish lines. Her eyes were two long green-glinting slits, and her thick black lashes met the high, glowing, carnation curve of her cheeks. The pose of her head on the pillow lifted her upper lip and exposed the edge of her regular teeth. Even her springy upstanding mop of hair had lost its aggressiveness and fell down in a soft tumble. I wondered if anybody else had ever had the opportunity to notice how much like a pretty girl she could look.

  She squinted down at her feet and pushed off one gym shoe.

  “Lying on the nice clean bedspread with your dirty shoes on!” she exclaimed. “Will I never learn the manners of a lady?”

  One shoe dropped on to the floor, but she left the other on; and presently she swung herself up violently and hopped over to the dressing-table. Opening a drawer, she fumbled at the back of it and brought out a large white cardboard mount with a photograph pasted on it. She handed it to me.

  It looked queer because one part of it had been cut off. It was the full-length photograph of a solid stocky bald-headed man with a heavy dark moustache and large undistinguished features. He was smiling a bit, and he wore
a tail coat, light grey dress trousers, spats, and a white carnation in his buttonhole. In one hand he carried a top hat. In the crook of the other arm lay a white-gloved hand; but the arm and everything else belonging to the hand had been cut off with a blunt pair of scissors. There seemed a portion of white tent behind him.

  “Is that him?” I said, terrified.

  “That’s him. It’s the only one I could find. It’s not a bit good of him.”

  “He looks frightfully nice.”

  “It was taken out in India. It’s a wedding group. I cut the rest off.”

  We heard Mrs. Jardine calling us from the bottom of the stairs.

  She snatched the photograph from me and stuffed it back into the drawer.

  Part Five

  1

  Next day came a telegram announcing that Mrs. Svoboda had passed peacefully away. We were with my mother when Mossop brought it in. She said: “Girls, poor Tilly is dead.” Then she sat on at her writing desk, holding the orange envelope, looking out of the window with an unfamiliar expression of sorrowful solemnity. We said nothing. I tested myself expectantly for tears; but there were none: not one. I tried to picture the ascent of Tilly into Heaven, the Little Feller scampering to meet her at the Golden Gates; but it seemed more like imagining a black small bird, a crow, say, giving a little croak and a flap of its wings; and, still flapping, go up, up till it faded into a black dot and vanished. There was this crow ascending, and also there was Tilly, her life-like yet already unreal figure, unostentatiously vacating the sewing-room and composing herself in her coffin.

  “I must let Mrs. Jardine know,” said my mother with a sigh.

  She left the room to telephone. We went out into the garden and rode round the lawn on our bicycles, and said never a word about our sad loss. But that night Jess remained longer than usual in prayer by her bedside, and I guessed that she was mentioning Tilly, and felt that my own perfunctory devotions and light-hearted spring-up from the kneeling posture showed lack of proper feeling, and made for invidious comparisons. In bed, I screwed my eyes up and said to myself: “Oh Tilly, I will always remember thee in my heart.” My voice rang hollow in my ears.