She smiled and nodded.
I said: “You spoke when I came in. Why do you not speak to me now?”
She merely smiled.
“Gilly,” I said, “were you at the peep in the solarium tonight? Were you watching the dancers?”
She nodded.
“Gilly, say Yes.”
“Yes,” said Gilly.
“You went up there all alone? You weren’t afraid?”
She shook her head and smiled.
“You mean No, don’t you, Gilly? Say No.”
“No.”
“Why weren’t you afraid?”
She opened her mouth and smiled. Then she said: “Not afraid because …”
“Because?” I said eagerly.
“Because,” she repeated.
“Gilly,” I said. “Were you alone up there?”
She smiled and I could get her to say no more.
After a while I kissed her and she returned my kiss. She was fond of me, I knew. I believed that in her mind she confused me with someone else, and I knew who that person was.
Back in my room I did not want to take off my dress. I felt that as long as I wore it, I could still hope for what I knew to be impossible.
So I sat by my window for an hour or so. It was a warm night and I was comfortable with my silk shawl about me.
I heard some of the guests coming out to their carriages. I heard the exchange of good-bys.
And while I was there I heard Lady Treslyn’s voice. Her voice was low and vibrant, but she spoke with such intensity that I caught every syllable and I knew to whom she was speaking.
She said: “Connan, it can’t be long now. It won’t be long.”
Next morning, when Kitty brought my water, she did not come alone. Daisy was with her. I heard their rather raucous voices mingling and, in my half waking state, thought they sounded like the gulls.
“Morning, miss.”
They wanted me to wake up quickly; they had exciting news, I saw that in their faces.
“Miss—” they were both speaking together, both determined to be the one to impart the startling information—“last night … or rather this morning …”
Then Kitty rushed on ahead of her sister: “Sir Thomas Treslyn was taken bad on the way home. He were dead when they got to Treslyn Hall.”
I sat up in bed, looking from one excited face to the other.
One of the guests … dead! I was shocked. But this was no ordinary death, no ordinary death.
I realized, no less than Kitty and Daisy, what such news could mean to Mount Mellyn.
SEVEN
Sir Thomas Treslyn was buried on New Year’s Day. During the preceding week gloom had settled on the house, and it was all the more noticeable because it followed on the heels of the Christmas festivities. All the decorations had been left about the house, and there was divided opinion as to which was the more unlucky—to remove them before Twelfth Night or to leave them up and thereby show a lack of respect.
They all appeared to consider that the death touched us closely. He had died between our house and his own; our table was the last at which he had sat. I realized that the Cornish were a very superstitious people, constantly on the alert for omens, eager to placate supernatural and malignant powers.
Connan was absentminded. I saw very little of him, but when I did he seemed scarcely aware of my presence. I imagined he was considering all that this meant to him. If he and Lady Treslyn had been lovers there was no obstacle now to their regularizing their union. I knew that this thought was in the minds of many, but no one spoke of it. I guessed that Mrs. Polgrey would consider it unlucky to do so until Sir Thomas had been buried for some weeks.
Mrs. Polgrey called me to her room and we had a cup of Earl Grey laced with a spoonful of the whisky I had given her.
“This is a shocking thing,” she said. “Sir Thomas to die on Christmas Day as he did. Although ’tweren’t Christmas Day but Boxing Day morning,” she added in a slightly relieved tone, as though this made the situation a little less shocking. “And to think,” she went on, reverting to her original gloom, “that ours was the last house he rested in, my food were the last that passed his lips! The funeral is a bit soon, do you not think, miss?”
I began to count the days on my fingers. “Seven days,” I said.
“They could have kept him longer, seeing it’s winter.”
“I suppose they feel that the sooner it’s over, the sooner they’ll recover from the shock.”
She herself looked shocked indeed. I think she thought it was disrespectful or unlucky to suggest that anyone would want to recover quickly from his grief.
“I don’t know,” she said, “you hear tales of people being buried alive. I remember years ago, when I was a child, there was a smallpox epidemic. People panicked and buried quick. It was said that some was buried alive.”
“There is surely no doubt that Sir Thomas is dead.”
“Some seem dead and are not, after all. Still, seven days should be long enough to tell. You’ll come to the funeral with me, miss?”
“I?”
“But why not? I think we should show proper respect to the dead.”
“I have no mourning clothes.”
“My dear life, I’ll find a bonnet for ‘ee. I’ll give ’ee a black band to sew on your cloak. Reckon that ‘ud be all right if we was just at the grave. ’Twouldn’t do for ’ee to go into the church like, but then ‘twouldn’t be right either … you being the governess here, and them having so many friends as will attend to fill Mellyn Church to the full.”
So it was agreed that I should accompany Mrs. Polgrey to the churchyard.
I was present when Sir Thomas’s body was lowered into the tomb.
It was an impressive ceremony, for the funeral had been a magnificent one in accordance with the Treslyns’ rank in the duchy. Crowds attended, but Mrs. Polgrey and I hovered only in the distance. I was glad of this; she deplored it.
It was enough for me to see the widow in flowing black draperies, yet looking as beautiful as she ever had. Her lovely face was just visible among the flowing black, which seemed to become her even as green and mauve had on the night of the Christmas ball. She moved with grace and she looked even more slender in her black than in the brilliant colors I had seen her wear—intensely feminine and appealing.
Connan was there, and I thought how elegant and distinguished he looked; I tried to fathom the expression on his face that I might discover his feelings. But he was determined to hide those feelings from the world; and I thought, in the circumstances, that was just as well.
I watched the hearse with the large waving black plumes and I saw the coffin, carried by six bearers and covered with velvet palls of deep purple and black, taken into the church. I saw the banks of flowers and the mourners in their deathly black, the only color being the white handkerchiefs which the women held to their eyes—and they had wide black borders.
A cold wind had swept the mists away and the winter sun shone brightly on the gilt of the coffin as it was lowered into the grave.
There was a deep silence in the churchyard, broken only by the sudden cry of gulls.
It was over and the mourners, Connan, Celestine, and Peter among them, went back to their carriages which wound their way to Treslyn Hall.
Mrs. Polgrey and I returned to Mount Mellyn, where she insisted on the usual cup of tea and its accompaniment.
We sat drinking, and her eyes glittered. I knew she was finding it difficult to restrain her tongue. But she said nothing of the effect this death might have on us all at Mount Mellyn. So great was her respect for the dead.
Sir Thomas was not forgotten. I heard his name mentioned often during the next few weeks. Mrs. Polgrey shook her head significantly when the Treslyns were mentioned, but her eyes were sharp and full of warning.
Daisy and Kitty were less discreet. When they brought my water in the mornings they would linger. I was a little cunning, I think. I longed to know what p
eople were saying but I did not want to ask; yet I managed to draw them out without, I hoped, seeming to do so.
It was true they did not need a lot of encouragement.
“I saw Lady Treslyn yesterday,” Daisy told me one morning. “Her didn’t look like a widow, in spite of the weeds.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“Don’t ’ee ask me, miss. She was quite pale and not smiling, but I could see something in her face … if you do get my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Kit were with me. She said the same. Like as though she were waiting and content because she wouldn’t have to wait long. A year though. Seems a long time to me.”
“A year? What for?” I asked, although I knew very well what for.
Daisy looked at me and giggled.
“’Twon’t do for them to be seeing too much of each other for a bit, will it, miss? After all, him dying here … almost on our doorstep. ‘Twould seem as though they’d almost willed him to it.”
“Oh Daisy, that’s absurd. How could anybody?”
“Well, that’s what you can’t say till you know, ‘twould seem.”
The conversation was getting dangerous. I dismissed her with “I must hurry. I see I’m rather late.”
When she had gone, I thought: So there is talk about them. They are saying he was willed to die.
As long as that’s all they say, that won’t do much harm.
I wondered how careful they were being. I remembered hearing Phillida say that people in love behaved like ostriches. They buried their heads in the sand and thought, because they saw no one, no one saw them.
But they were not two young inexperienced lovers.
No, I thought bitterly, it is clear that both are very experienced. They knew the people among whom they lived. They would be careful.
It was later that day, when I was in the woods, that I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs walking nearby and then I heard Lady Treslyn say: “Connan. Oh, Connan!”
They had met then … and to meet as near the house as this was surely foolish.
In the woods their voices carried. The trees hid me, but snatches of their conversation came to me.
“Linda! You shouldn’t have come.”
“I know … I know …” Her voice fell and I could not hear the rest.
“To send that message …” That was Connan. I could hear him more clearly than her, perhaps because I knew his voice so well. “Your messenger will have been seen by some of the servants. You know how they gossip.”
“I know, but—”
“When did this come … ?”
“This morning. I had to show it to you right away.”
“It’s the first?”
“No, there was one two days ago. That’s why I had to see you, Connan. No matter what … I’m frightened.”
“It’s mischief,” he said. “Ignore it. Forget it.”
“Read it,” she cried. “Read it.”
There was a short silence. Then Connan spoke. “I see. There’s only one thing to be done …”
The horses had begun to move. In a few seconds they might come past the spot where I was. I hurried away through the trees.
I was very uneasy.
That day Connan left Mount Mellyn.
“Called away to Penzance,” Mrs. Polgrey told me. “He said he was unsure how long he would be away.”
I wondered if his sudden departure had anything to do with the disquieting news which Lady Treslyn had brought to him that morning in the woods.
Several days passed. Alvean and I resumed our lessons and Gilly too came to the schoolroom.
I would give Gilly some small task while I worked with Alvean, such as trying to make letters in a tray of sand or on a slate or counting beads on an abacus. She was contented to do this and I believed that she was happy in my company, that from me she drew a certain comfort which had its roots in security. She had trusted Alice and she was transferring that trust to me.
Alvean had rebelled at first, but I had pointed out the need to be kind to those less fortunate than ourselves, and at length I had worked on her sympathy so that she accepted Gilly’s presence, although a little sullenly. But I had noticed that now and then she would throw a glance at the child, and I was sure that at least she was very interested in her.
Connan had been away a week and it was a cold February morning when Mrs. Polgrey came into the schoolroom. I was very surprised to see her, for she rarely interrupted lessons; she was holding two letters in her hand and I could see that she was excited.
She made no excuses for her intrusion but said: “I have heard from the master. He wants you to take Miss Alvean down to Penzance at once. Here is a letter for you. No doubt he explains more fully in that.”
She handed me the letter and I was afraid she would see that my hand shook a little as I opened it.
My dear Miss Leigh, [I read]
I shall be here for a few weeks, I think, and I am sure you will
agree that it would be very desirable for Alvean to join me here.
I do not think she should miss her lessons, so I am asking you to
bring her and be prepared to stay for a week or so.
Perhaps you could be ready to leave tomorrow. Get Billy Trehay
to drive you to the station for the 2.30 train.
Connan TreMellyn.
I knew that the color had rushed to my face. I hoped I had not betrayed the extreme joy which took possession of me.
I said: “Alvean, we are to join your father tomorrow.”
Alvean leaped up and threw herself into my arms, a most unusual display, but it moved me deeply to realize how much she cared for him.
This helped me to regain my own composure. I said: “That is for tomorrow. Today we will continue with our lessons.”
“But, miss, there’s our packing to do.”
“We have this afternoon for that,” I said primly. “Now let us return to our work.”
I turned to Mrs. Polgrey. “Yes,” I said, “Mr. TreMellyn wishes me to take Alvean to him.”
She nodded. I could see that she thought it very strange, but this was because he had never before shown such interest in the child.
“And you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes. Billy Trehay is to be given instructions to drive us to the station in time for the two-thirty train.”
She nodded.
When she had gone I sat down in a daze. I could not concentrate any more than Alvean could. It was some time before I remembered Gilly. She was looking at me with that blank expression in her eyes which I had dreamed of banishing.
Gilly understood more than one realized.
She knew that we were going away and that she would be left behind.
I could scarcely wait to begin my packing. Alvean and I had luncheon together in the schoolroom but neither of us was interested in food, and immediately after the meal we went to our rooms to do the packing.
I had very little to pack. My gray and lavender dresses were clean, for which I was thankful, and I would wear my gray merino. It was not very becoming but it would be too difficult to pack.
I took out the green silk dress which I had worn at the Christmas ball. Should I take it? Why not? I had rarely possessed anything so becoming, and who knew, there might be an occasion when I could wear it.
I took out my comb and shawl, stuck the comb in my hair and let the shawl fall negligently about my shoulders.
I thought of the Christmas ball—that moment when Peter had taken my hand and had drawn me into the “Furry Dance.” I heard the tune in my head and began to dance, for the moment really feeling I was in the ballroom and that it was Christmas night again.
I had not heard Gilly come in, and I was startled to see her standing watching me. Really, the child did move too silently about the house.
I stopped dancing, flushing with embarrassment to have been caught in such silly behavior. Gilly was regarding me solemnly.
&n
bsp; She looked at the bag on my bed and the folded clothes beside it, and immediately my pleasure left me, for I understood that Gilly was going to be very unhappy if we went away.
I stooped down and put my arms about her. “It’ll only be for a little while, Gilly.”
She screwed her eyes up tightly and would not look at me.
“Gilly,” I said, “listen. We’ll soon be back, you know.”
She shook her head and I saw tears squeeze themselves out of her eyes.
“Then,” I went on, “we’ll have our lessons. You shall draw me more letters in the sand, and soon you will be writing your name.”
But I could see that she refused to be comforted.
She tore herself from me and ran to the bed and began pulling the things out of my trunk.
“No, Gilly, no,” I said. I lifted her up in my arms and went to a chair. I sat for a while rocking her. I went on: “I’m coming back, you know, Gilly. In less than no time I’ll be here. It will seem as though I’ve never been away.”
She spoke then: “You won’t come back. She … she …”
“Yes, Gilly, yes?”
“She … went.”
For the moment I forgot even the fact that I was going to Connan, because I was certain now that Gilly knew something, and what she knew might throw some light on the mystery of Alice.
“Gilly,” I said, “did she say good-by to you before she went?”
Gilly shook her head vehemently, and I thought she was going to burst into tears.
“Gilly,” I pleaded, “try to talk to me, try to tell me … . Did you see her go?”
Gilly threw herself at me and buried her face against my bodice. I held her tenderly for a moment, then withdrew myself and looked into her face; but her eyes were tightly shut.
She ran back to the bed and again started to pull the things out of my trunk.
“No!” she cried. “No … no …”
Swiftly I went to her. “Look, Gilly,” I said, “I’m coming back. I’ll only be away a short time.”
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